The quill hovered before his eyes, its nib trembling in the air.

Ashthorn vibrated faintly against his palm, a quiet hum that should have been reassuring.

But none of that mattered.

Because something was happening in his core.

He felt it first as a ripple, small but profound. A disturbance so deep it was almost easy to miss, like the way a single drop could send circles spreading across a still pond.

His breath caught.

Around him, the classroom shifted as they all felt the ripple.

It wasn't anything visible, not really. Just an almost imperceptible hush, as if every mote of aether in the chamber had turned to listen.

Students looked up from their primers, brows furrowing. A few exchanged confused glances, glancing around as though expecting someone to speak.

But no one did.

Because Professor Vorr was watching him.

Her sightless eyes were fixed on him with unblinking focus.

His core quaked again, deeper this time.

It wasn't like when he'd leveled a skill, that bright, clean flare of certainty. It wasn't like when he'd gained a trait, that sudden rush of understanding.

It was quieter.

More like a sigh.

A sigh that echoed through his bones and settled behind his ribs with a weight that felt… inevitable.

He couldn't have described it if he tried. Only that something was being added to him.

A small brick laid on the invisible wall he carried inside.

Something foreign but somehow his.

Something that made the core stronger.

More complete.

He swallowed hard, realizing only then that his hand was shaking.

He cocked his head, trying to understand it.

What was this?

What had changed?

The quill still hung in the air, perfectly steady.

And without him noticing, Vorr had moved.

She stood beside his desk now, close enough that he could see the fine tracery of aether lines running across her robes like veins.

Her face was carved from calm. But her eyes…

Her eyes were locked on the quill.

And then on him.

Her expression didn't shift, but somehow he felt it anyway: that same hunting stillness he'd seen once before.

The sense that she was watching something she didn't fully understand.

And had every intention of understanding it soon.

Thorne exhaled slowly, trying to steady his pulse.

He moved his wand.

The quill followed.

It felt…easy. Effortless, almost. As if the connection between his will and the object was already forged, and all he had to do was give it the smallest nudge.

He let the aether go.

The quill dropped, landing with a faint tap against the desk.

"Again," Vorr said.

Thorne hesitated. He wasn't sure he wanted to feel that ripple in his core again, whatever it had been. But her tone left no room for argument.

He lifted his wand.

"Vir Ascend," he intoned, the words already warm in his mouth, their shape perfectly familiar.

He traced the sigils, so clean, so precise it almost startled him. They weren't just lines he was remembering. It was as if they'd been carved into the very structure of his mind, a groove the aether rushed to fill without hesitation.

Ashthorn thrummed, eager.

The quill rose, smooth as breath.

No flicker of imbalance. No drift.

Just perfect, unthinking control.

He became aware, all at once, that the entire class was watching him.

A hush had fallen again. Half the faces turned toward him were wide-eyed with awe. The other half were narrowed in confusion or envy.

"Can you move the quill to the window?" Vorr asked.

He looked at her, gauging whether this was some trick question, but she only inclined her chin.

Thorne shrugged once.

He shifted his wand to the side, and the quill glided through the air, drifting past Elias's shoulder toward the tall windows that overlooked the Convergence Courtyard.

It felt no more difficult than lifting a hand.

Vorr nodded. "That is enough."

He guided the quill gently back to his desk, lowering it with care until it rested neatly beside his primer.

Her eyes were still on him.

No, he realized a second later, on Ashthorn.

"Was that your first time casting this spell?" she asked, her voice as calm as ever, though there was something sharper beneath it now, a note like the edge of a drawn blade.

Thorne cleared his throat. "Yes, madame."

"You have no previous training in structured spellcasting?"

He shook his head. "No, madame."

"I see," she murmured, almost to herself.

She lingered a moment longer, gaze fixed somewhere between the wand and his face.

Then, with a sweep of her robe, she turned away.

She walked slowly back to her platform, descending in one smooth motion.

Her voice carried easily to every corner of the room.

"What you have just witnessed," she announced, "is the mastery of a spell."

Thorne blinked.

Mastery?

His eyebrows shot up, nearly to his hairline.

He looked at the quill, then back at Vorr.

"That," she said, her tone calm and precise, "is how you know when you have truly learned a spell. When the act of casting leaves an echo in your core. A mark that cannot be unmade."

She let the silence stretch, her gaze sweeping the rows of students, their attention fully locked on her.

"Anyone can learn a spell," Vorr continued. "With enough time, enough repetition, enough raw power, you can force it into shape and produce an effect. But that is not mastery. That is mimicry. Recitation. The magical equivalent of parroting someone else's words."

She gestured briefly to the quill still hovering in place.

"Until you've mastered a spell, its effect will always be fixed, unchanging. You won't be able to strengthen or weaken it. You won't be able to shape it or refine it, not truly. You can only cast it as it was taught, rigid and limited."

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Vorr turned back to Thorne.

"But once it is mastered, when it imprints into your core, everything changes."

Her voice softened, but carried more weight.

"You won't need to think. The sigils, the incantation, the wand movements, they'll come to you as naturally as breathing. Spell failure becomes almost impossible. And more than that…" her eyes glinted, "you gain freedom. You can adjust your magic to your needs. Change the shape, the scale, the purpose of a spell, as long as your core can sustain it. The only limits will be the ones set by your capabilities, your stamina, your control, your will."

She looked to the rest of the class again.

"That is what mastery offers. Not just certainty… but control. Adaptation. True power."

Finally, her gaze settled on Thorne one last time.

"Mr. Silverbane has taken his first step toward that. The rest of you would do well to follow."

Dozens of eyes landed on him at once.

He tried not to squirm under their weight.

Beside him, Elias cleared his throat delicately. "So," he whispered, "is this where you reveal you're actually seventy years old and pretending to be a first-year to make us all look incompetent?"

Thorne shot him a look that was half exasperation, half amusement.

"Now," Vorr said crisply, her tone returning to business, "the rest of you will continue. Mastery is not achieved in a single morning. You will require practice. Focus."

A ripple of shuffling and resigned sighs followed as students turned back to their primers and began their attempts anew.

Thorne sat there, the quill resting innocently on the wood. He felt…strange. Unsettled, yes, but also, he couldn't deny it, thrilled.

He hadn't expected this.

He hadn't expected that a simple beginner's spell would feel so different from raw aether manipulation.

He raised Ashthorn again, whispering the incantation almost without thinking.

This time he aimed at his book.

The heavy volume lifted, drifting up to eye level with no effort at all.

He moved his wrist experimentally, and the book glided to the left, then right, following as obediently as a trained hound.

It shouldn't have felt so satisfying.

After all, he could move far heavier things with raw aether, he'd dragged entire stone doors aside, thrown men across rooms.

But this was different.

This was elegant. Nuanced.

Steady.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before he could stop it.

He flicked his wrist again, and the book hovered a little higher, just above Elias's head.

Elias didn't look up, too intent on the careful, halting gestures of his staff.

Tempting, Thorne thought.

He tilted the wand.

The book dropped just low enough to bump Elias's hair.

Elias flinched, scowling up at the floating tome.

"Really?"

Thorne feigned innocence.

He returned the book to its spot and let it settle.

But five seconds later, he was already lifting Elias's quill.

It floated up, spun twice, and tapped Elias gently on the nose.

Elias batted it away, muttering curses in three different languages.

Vorr's voice rang out, cool and precise.

"Mr. Silverbane."

He straightened, wand lowering reflexively.

"Yes, madame?"

She regarded him with that same unsettling calm.

"This is a prestigious institution of study," she said. "Not a nursery. Conduct yourself appropriately."

"Yes, madame."

Elias shot him a triumphant look, lifting his chin.

Thorne considered being mature.

Briefly.

Then he flicked his wand again.

Elias's staff jerked upward, yanked cleanly from his hands and hovering overhead.

Thorne held it there, letting the suspense build for half a heartbeat.

And then he let it drop.

The staff landed with a loud thunk right on Elias's head.

"Ow!" Elias clutched his scalp, glaring murder at him.

"Mr. Silverbane!" Vorr's voice cracked like a whip across the room.

Thorne sighed, already regretting nothing.

The class passed by quickly enough after that.

Despite the awkward start, most of the students settled into quiet concentration. Quills and small tomes wobbled and jostled in the air, occasionally clattering to the floor in a flurry of embarrassed curses.

Rowenna made steady progress, her quill rising in brief, shaky arcs before drooping like a tired bird. Elias's attempts were a little more dramatic, his staff kept tilting at odd angles, once nearly smacking the Aegis girl in front of him.

By the time Vorr called the lesson to an end, neither of them had managed to hold the levitation for more than a few seconds at a time.

Still, they looked determined as they gathered their things.

Thorne stood, stretching the stiffness from his shoulders.

Rowenna fixed him with a narrow-eyed stare, her book clasped against her chest.

"I don't buy it," she announced, her voice flat. "You've had practice."

Thorne blinked at her, feigning innocence. "Practice?"

She gave him a look as if she could see straight through his skull. "Nobody masters a spell their first time. Not even prodigies."

He shrugged, slinging his satchel over one shoulder. "What can I say? I'm gifted."

Her mouth flattened into a thin line of suspicion.

Elias interjected before she could retort, stepping between them with his staff balanced across his shoulders like a yoke. He hooked both arms over it, giving her his most infuriating smile.

"Psst," he said, leaning closer, "so he mastered the spell. Big deal. Did you see my quill? It actually lifted off the desk this time. By next class, I'll have it mastered."

Rowenna's brows climbed so high they nearly vanished into her hair.

"Oh, I saw," she said sweetly. "Your attempts were about as graceful as a drunk goblin. And about as fragrant."

Elias's smirk froze. "Excuse me?"

She stepped closer, lowering her voice to a poisonous whisper. "Your hygiene is as poor as your technique."

With that, she pivoted sharply on her heel and stalked off down the aisle, her dark braid swinging like a whip behind her.

Thorne watched her go, fighting a grin.

Elias looked stricken.

"Do I really smell?" he asked, sniffing theatrically at the collar of his uniform. "I bathed the day before yesterday."

Thorne clapped him on the shoulder as they started toward the exit. "Relax. You smell like roses."

Elias straightened, visibly relieved, until Thorne added, voice dry as bone, "Roses planted in manure."

Elias stopped dead, scandalized. "Really?!"

Before Thorne could answer, a voice cut across the aisle.

"Mr. Silverbane."

He turned, finding Vorr standing at the edge of her platform, her expression as unreadable as ever.

"A moment."

Elias shot him a look of mock pity and edged discreetly toward the door.

Thorne stepped closer, keeping his face carefully neutral.

Vorr inclined her head slightly. "Astonishing work today."

His throat felt unexpectedly dry. "Thank you, madame."

Her sightless eyes seemed to look straight through him. "I expect great things from you in this discipline. And I will be watching your progress closely."

He managed a nod, though something about the way she said watching made the back of his neck prickle.

As she turned away, Thorne felt a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye.

Two Ignis students stood just beyond the threshold, half-concealed by the archway. Both wore red-trimmed uniforms and identical expressions of thinly veiled scorn.

One of them, tall, pale, with hair the color of burnt copper, locked eyes with him.

For a heartbeat, the look between them was sharp enough to draw blood.

Then the Ignis boy snorted softly, turned, and walked away without a word.

Thorne exhaled, the tension in his chest loosening by a fraction.

He turned and found Elias watching him expectantly, one brow raised.

"Well?" the elf asked, "Did she give you a medal? Or just the keys to the whole damn school?"

Thorne shook his head, already stepping past him into the corridor.

"Neither," he muttered. "But she's definitely keeping score."

Thorne was late.

He trudged across the darkened arcade, steps echoing between columns etched with silver script. The day had wrung him dry, physically, mentally, whatever else he had left to give.

The rest of his classes had been considerably less triumphant than Arcane Fundamentals. Two had ended with him scribbling hurried apologies on smoldering parchment. The third had assigned four separate essays due by the end of the week.

By the time he escaped the last lesson, his brain felt like half-set mortar.

He'd spent another hour poring over assignments, filling page after page until the candle guttered low. When the ink finally dried, he'd gathered what remained of his energy to stalk the steps of Marian's tower, only to find her absent.

He'd waited, watching the shadows lengthen. He'd even climbed the crystal staircase and knocked on her door, but no answer came.

Defeated, he'd called it quits.

His stomach had started to protest halfway back across the causeway, reminding him he'd eaten nothing since morning.

So now he walked into the Astral Hall, weary and half-starved, intent on salvaging what was left of the evening.

To his surprise, the place was still crowded.

Dozens of students lingered at the long tables, talking, eating, and watching the floating silver lanterns drift overhead. A few heads turned as he entered, more than he liked. He ignored the stares, heading for the Caledris table where Lucien and Garridan were deep in conversation.

He scanned for Elias but didn't see the elf anywhere.

With no better options, he sank onto the bench beside Lucien.

Lucien barely glanced up, too engrossed in whatever war tactics he was dissecting with Garridan.

"Where's Isadora?" Thorne asked, stabbing a glazed potato and popping it into his mouth.

Lucien flicked a hand upwards. "Some upperclassmen invited her to the balconies," he said, voice distracted. "She went up there."

Thorne lifted his gaze.

High above, along the sweeping arc of mezzanine galleries, older students lounged at small, ornate tables, laughing and drinking. He squinted, searching for her face among the shadows, but couldn't spot her.

He was about to return to his plate when a low growl reached him.

"You got a problem, Silverbane?"

Thorne lowered his fork, blinking slowly. Ronan glared at him from across the table, red-faced and bristling.

"Do you have a problem?" Thorne asked blandly.

Ronan's lip curled. "I heard you're the first to master a spell."

Thorne shrugged. "And?"

Ronan leaned forward, trying for menace and landing somewhere closer to petulant. "Don't let it get to your head," he said. "It's still early. By the end of the year, I'll have you beat."

He paused, eyes gleaming.

"You better pray I leave you alive."

His smile was slow and ugly, full of the petty poison that always leaked out when boys like him felt threatened.

"Besides," Ronan added softly, "you're a nobody. Even if I kill you, there's no one who'll care. No one to avenge you."

Thorne sighed.

He was so very, very tired of this.

He let his fork clatter onto the plate with a loud clink. The sudden noise drew every eye along the bench. Even Rowenna looked up, blinking, as though surfacing from deep concentration.

Thorne leaned back in his seat, arms folding across his chest.

"Let's get something straight," he said, voice quiet enough that they had to lean in to hear.

"I have dealt with dozens of arrogant, delusional little boys exactly like you. Do you know what happened to them?"

He tilted his head, almost thoughtful.

"They died. Horribly."

Silence.

He wanted, almost needed, to pull one of his knives, to spin it lazily between his fingers, to remind them what real danger looked like. But he'd used them all in the vault. Another thing to replace.

I'll need to see Brennak tomorrow.

Lucien frowned, his brows drawing tight. "You can't be serious."

Thorne looked at him.

And whatever Lucien saw in Thorne's eyes, those strange, pale-glowing eyes, made the words catch in his throat. His skin went grayish, as if he'd glimpsed something he hadn't expected to find.

Thorne turned his attention back to Ronan, who had gone very still.

"I'm warning you," Thorne continued, his voice still soft. "Next time you threaten me, you'd better have the strength to back it up."

He let the silence stretch, let it bite.

"Otherwise," he finished, smiling faintly, "your parents will be receiving six small boxes with pieces of you inside."

Ronan opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

The longer he stared, the paler he got.

Around them, the table shifted, students easing back, finding excuses to turn away, suddenly very interested in their plates.

Thorne felt something cold and wild rise under his skin, and for one dangerous moment, he almost welcomed it.

Hurried footsteps clicked against the floor.

"You won't believe it! I have the biggest news ever!"

Isadora skidded to a stop beside him, her braid askew, her cheeks flushed. She looked around at the frozen table, frowning.

"What's wrong? Did someone die?"

Thorne smirked, turning just enough to look at Ronan.

"Not yet," he said, his voice almost cheerful.

Ronan recoiled as if he'd been slapped.

Isadora blinked, looking from one face to the next.

"Oookay," she said slowly. "Well, whatever it is, you all look like you need a drink. Or maybe ten."

She turned to Thorne, expression brightening again.

"But seriously, wait until you hear this."

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