Isadora glanced around the table, clearly savoring the moment.

"You won't believe it," she said again, breathless. "I just heard the most insane news..."

She paused for effect, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

"The King of Caledris," she began, voice dropping conspiratorially, "apparently… has a second son." She shook her head, clearly aggrieved. "I can't believe Rhealan never told me!"

The reaction was immediate.

Lucien's head snapped up so fast Thorne half-expected to hear something crack. Vivienne made a startled noise, her fork slipping from her fingers. Garridan leaned forward, brows knitting in disbelief.

Even Rowenna, who had been meticulously annotating a leather-bound treatise, stilled, her quill hovering motionless above the page.

Thorne, for his part, just blinked.

"…Who?" he asked, picking up a fresh roll.

Isadora gave him a look like he'd grown a second head. "The King of Caledris," she repeated slowly, as if speaking to a dim child. "You know. High King Aranth. Father of Crown Prince Rhealan?"

Thorne paused mid-bite. "You're assuming I have any idea who that is."

Lucien looked vaguely appalled. "How can you not know Rhealan? He's..."

"Famous," Isadora finished for him, rolling her eyes. "The heir. He's practically the face of Caledris. Every noble house in three kingdoms has been tripping over themselves to curry favor with him since he was born."

Thorne shrugged. "That sounds exhausting."

"You have no sense of history," Lucien muttered, rubbing his temples.

"But," Garridan cut in, squinting at Isadora, "I've never heard a word about a brother. Not once."

"That's the point!" Isadora threw up her hands, her bracelets clinking. "Nobody has. Not me, not any of you. And I'm good friends with Rhealan. He never mentioned it."

Ronan, who had been sulking in sullen silence, finally spoke up, voice low. "What makes you so sure this isn't just more court gossip?"

Isadora lifted her chin, her expression suddenly fierce. "Because my source is trustworthy. He knows everything that happens in the inner circle."

Lucien looked unconvinced. "Who exactly is this source?"

Isadora hesitated, then cleared her throat delicately. "Well… let's just say he has excellent ears. And what he told me next will blow your minds."

She leaned in, voice dropping to a hush so low they all had to lean closer to hear.

"The prince," she whispered, "is here. In Aetherhold."

The effect was like a spell being cast.

Lucien's mouth fell open.

Vivienne inhaled sharply, her eyes going bright with calculation.

Rowenna set her quill down with exaggerated care and finally looked up.

Garridan actually gaped.

Thorne tore off a piece of bread and chewed it, unimpressed.

Lucien found his voice first. "Wait, wait, here? As in, studying here? In our year?"

Isadora nodded solemnly.

"But… how? Why?" Lucien sounded almost offended. "I've attended the same balls as Rhealan for years. If there was a second heir, I would have heard something..."

"That's what I said," Isadora agreed, gesturing emphatically. "It makes no sense. Why hide him? Why send him here?"

Vivienne was practically vibrating. "Isadora who told you this? Be honest."

Isadora sighed, sinking onto the bench and snagging Thorne's untouched drink. She took a long sip, only to pull a face of deep disappointment.

"There's no alcohol in this," she accused, glaring at Thorne.

Thorne spread his hands. "Tragic."

Rolling her eyes, Isadora set the cup down and finally looked back at Vivienne. Her voice cooled noticeably, and Thorne didn't miss the edge in it. He'd pieced together over the last few weeks that she barely tolerated Vivienne, likely viewing her as an ambitious climber sniffing after every scrap of noble gossip.

"My source," she said carefully, "overheard it directly from his father. And he is not the sort of man who would get something like this wrong."

She paused, then added almost reluctantly, "It was Ser Lorian Crestfall."

Lucien swore under his breath. "Damn. Then it's true."

Garridan was still frowning, trying to piece it together. "But why keep the prince hidden? What could possibly be worth the risk?"

Vivienne leaned forward, her expression avid. "Yes, why? There has to be a reason. If you had another heir, someone with royal blood, you wouldn't hide him unless…"

She trailed off, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

Isadora picked up Thorne's cup again, realized it was still empty of anything interesting, and set it down with a little clink.

"Maybe…" she began, voice hesitant. "I don't know. Maybe he's like his father. Powerful. Maybe the king sent him here to study. A secret weapon against the Thal Dorei, or… or someone else."

She shrugged, exasperated. "I'm just guessing."

The table fell into uneasy silence, everyone turning the possibilities over in their minds.

Every pair of eyes, almost every pair, swung toward Thorne.

He swallowed his bread, looking back at them blandly.

"What?" he asked. "Don't look at me. I don't even know which kingdom we're in half the time."

For a long moment, nobody spoke.

Thorne looked between the lot of them, Lucien, Garridan, Vivienne, even Rowenna, and let out a short, incredulous laugh.

"You can't be serious," he said, though he suspected they very much were.

Lucien folded his arms. "We're just… considering the possibility."

Thorne arched a brow. "That I'm the hidden prince of Caledris?"

Isadora nodded earnestly. "Well, you do have a certain noble bearing."

Thorne snorted. "A noble bearing?"

She pointed her fork at him. "Yes. You walk like you're about to give orders to someone twice your age. And maybe you showed up in those awful clothes the first day to throw us off."

He rolled his eyes, but Isadora wasn't finished.

"And," she added archly, "on the off chance you are the prince… I am officially extending an offer of my hand in marriage. You know, just in case."

Thorne pressed a hand dramatically over his heart. "How touching."

"I'm serious," she insisted, though her mouth twitched. "I'm very eligible."

"I'll consider it," he said gravely, "but I'm keeping my options open."

Her laugh made even Rowenna smile, though it didn't last.

Because when Thorne looked around again, he realized most of them weren't smiling.

Ronan, especially, looked like he might choke on his own bile. He was glaring at Thorne with an intensity usually reserved for lifelong enemies.

Garridan and Lucien, on the other hand, were suddenly very interested in him.

"So," Lucien began, leaning forward, "where did you grow up again?"

Garridan nodded, pretending at nonchalance. "Yes, and your parents, what was their station?"

Vivienne was watching him too, her expression bright and calculating, like a hawk tracking a wounded rabbit.

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Thorne sighed, rubbing a hand over his face.

Rowenna's voice cut through before he could answer, dry and scornful.

"You're all idiots," she announced. "Even if he were the hidden heir, which he isn't, the king would never let him run around Aetherhold befriending an elf."

Thorne snapped his fingers, pointing at her with exaggerated relief. "Yes. Thank you. Good argument, Rowenna."

He looked back at the others, spreading his hands.

"Also, I've never set foot in the capital or met any noble there. Ever."

Vivienne tilted her head.

Her eyes locked onto his, bright as coin under a jeweler's lamp. He felt the subtle brush of aether across his awareness, soft as a fingertip against his thoughts.

Lie detection, he guessed, or something close to it.

Fine. Let her look.

He held her gaze unblinking, and after a moment, she blinked, her mouth tightening in frustration.

"I'm not the prince," Thorne said with finality.

He stood, slinging his satchel over his shoulder.

"And now, if you'll excuse me, I'd very much like to go get some sleep."

He paused, looking over the collection of stunned, skeptical faces.

"You're free to make your wild conjectures," he added, "but I'm going to bed."

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked out of the Astral Hall, leaving the murmur of speculation rising behind him.

Thorne walked the dim halls, the soft echo of his boots marking the only sound.

A few students lingered here and there, pairs of older boys murmuring over folded parchments, a lone girl gliding past with her books drifting obediently in the air behind her. None of them paid him any mind.

He didn't mind that.

He was still replaying the absurdity of it all.

The hidden prince, he thought, shaking his head. Me.

As if he'd ever belonged to any lineage that wasn't a curse.

He snorted under his breath. The idea was almost insulting.

But then…

His steps slowed.

A new thought slid in behind the irritation, quiet, sharp, and cold.

The hidden prince.

The second son.

The son of the man who killed my family.

He stopped walking.

His mind sketched the image unbidden: a young man with the King's auburn hair and cold eyes, draped in silks and sigils of a kingdom built on stolen blood.

If the rumors were true…

If that boy was here…

He could find him.

He could look him in the eye.

And he could take from the King what the King had taken from him.

How poetic.

The thought slid through him like a blade sheathed in velvet.

He felt something inside him go still, a dangerous kind of stillness.

And then, slowly, a smile curved his mouth.

A bloodthirsty smile.

Yes, he thought, his pulse quickening. How very poetic.

He didn't see the strike coming.

One moment he was standing there, lost in the gleam of his own hunger.

The next...

Something hit him square in the chest.

A blunt, silent impact that sent a jolt through his spine.

Cold flooded outward from the point of contact, so cold it felt like the world had stopped breathing.

His limbs went numb in an instant.

He tried to draw a breath, to shout, to do something, but nothing answered.

For half a second he stood there, frozen.

Then his legs buckled, and he toppled forward face-first into the darkness.

Somewhere beyond the fog of cold in his limbs, Thorne heard footsteps.

Soft, confident steps, moving at an unhurried pace.

He tried to twitch a finger, to blink, anything. Nothing responded. The spell had locked every muscle rigid.

A low voice muttered something he couldn't catch. Then hands seized his arms, rough, unkind, and began dragging him backward.

He couldn't even grit his teeth.

The ceiling blurred past overhead, lanterns swimming in and out of view as they veered off the main hallway.

A door creaked open.

Darkness closed around him, thick and absolute.

Then he was dropped.

He hit the floor with a dull thud, landing on his side like discarded garbage.

For a moment, all he could do was stare blankly at the floorboards, unable even to lift his head.

Boots moved into his line of sight, three pairs.

He recognized two of them immediately: the Ignis students from earlier, the ones who'd been glaring at him when he left Vorr's class.

The third pair belonged to someone taller, broader-shouldered, wearing the same Aetherhold sky blue but trimmed in elaborate red stitching that marked him as an Ignis scion.

The older student looked down at him with an expression that was all polished disdain.

"So," he said softly, "this is the upstart everyone is whispering about."

His voice was smooth, but the hatred in it was old, like something he'd been waiting a long time to spit.

Thorne stared back, unable to do anything but listen. He had no idea who this arrogant little tyrant was or why he was so invested in picking this fight.

The man moved closer, the lanternlight glinting on his rings.

And kicked him square in the gut.

Thorne felt the impact as a dull pressure rather than pain, likely his higher attributes, or maybe the Resilience trait cushioning the worst of it.

Still, it was irritating.

Irritating, and above all, insulting.

Around the leader, the other two Ignis students were smirking. One folded his arms and leaned against the wall like this was the most entertaining show in the world.

The leader crouched, meeting Thorne's blank stare with a cold smile.

"Don't mind us," he said, voice soft and patronizing. "We're just here to teach you a lesson."

He rose and paced in a slow half-circle, hands clasped behind his back.

"You might have mastered your first spell, but you're still nothing," he went on. "There's always someone stronger in these halls."

He stopped directly above Thorne and tapped a finger against his own chest.

"And in this room? That would be me."

Thorne wanted desperately to roll his eyes.

Instead, he settled for studying the spell locking him in place.

His perception skated along the bindings, tight cords of shaped aether woven over his limbs, layered with reinforcing sigils.

More robust by far than the clumsy entanglement Percy Veyne had used on him that day in Valewind.

Breaking it wouldn't be as simple as teasing the weave apart. He could, maybe, overload it with a burst of raw aether, if he could muster enough to rupture the lines without shattering something vital inside himself.

Or he could try expanding a barrier from within, forcing the strands to unravel under pressure.

He didn't like how speculative both options were.

While he measured possibilities, the older boy kept talking, voice dripping with the self-importance Thorne was rapidly recognizing as a plague among Aetherhold's most mediocre nobility.

"And to think," he drawled, "you rejected my aunt's offer. Who do you think you are, worm?"

He lifted his wand in a slow, theatrical arc.

"Let me show you your place."

The tip flared with red-gold light.

A strand of aether burst forth, thickening as it stretched across the space between them. It slithered and twisted, growing more substantial by the second until it formed a coiled serpent as long as Thorne's arm.

The snake flicked an ethereal tongue, its eyes gleaming with mean intelligence.

It dropped onto Thorne's chest, cold and heavy, and began to wind around him.

Coiling.

Tightening.

The pressure increased with each slow revolution.

This is not good, he thought, feeling the first real pulse of apprehension.

If he didn't break free soon, he wouldn't have the breath left to try.

The snake wound tighter around his chest, its cold coils pressing against his ribs until each shallow breath felt like an effort.

Then it began to bite.

He felt the first puncture, a sharp, needling pain just below his collarbone.

Ouch, he thought, his mind curiously detached. That…actually hurts. Kinda...

It wasn't agony, more like an unpleasant pinch, amplified by the fact that he couldn't even flinch away.

The second bite landed on his forearm, a cold, precise puncture.

The serpent's jaws retracted, leaving a dull, throbbing ache that spread up his shoulder.

He glanced, slowly, because that was all he could manage, at the three Ignis students watching him.

Their expressions were identical.

Smug. Self-satisfied.

Utterly convinced of their own importance.

And somehow, that stung more than the aether serpent's fangs.

You pathetic little insects, he thought, anger flickering to life in the hollow under his sternum. You think this makes you powerful? You think this makes you worthy of anything but my contempt?

Another bite. Another small surge of pain.

He breathed in, measured as best he could, and considered his options.

Two paths.

First, he could use his aether. Subtle, precise. Unravel the binding lines woven around his limbs and spine. He doubted any of them would notice until too late.

Second…

He could simply kill them.

It would be easy. Childishly so.

No more biting snake.

No more sneering faces.

And the satisfying knowledge that at least tonight, the darkness inside him had been fed.

His pulse was steady, unnervingly so.

He could feel the ambient aether gathering, ready to answer whichever choice he made.

Decide, he told himself, as the serpent struck again.

Decide now.

And he chose to do both.

He didn't bother shaping it carefully.

Didn't need to.

The ambient aether flooded to him the moment he called, swirling around his pinned body in eager currents, bright and cold and limitless.

A storm gathering in the span of a heartbeat.

He didn't even have to focus that hard. Just draw them close... and release.

The bindings holding his limbs detonated.

A rippling shockwave burst outward from his skin, a crack of disintegrating sigilcraft so loud it rattled the walls.

The three Ignis students staggered back, shielding their faces as if from a blast of heat. One of them fell against the door with a strangled curse.

The snake, still coiled around Thorne's ribs, writhed, its fangs sinking one last time into his shoulder.

He turned all his attention on it.

And made the aether inside it explode.

The construct burst in a spray of red-gold motes, its illusion failing in a bright flash that left only the faint scorch of its presence on his uniform.

"What the hell?!" The ring leader exclaimed in shock.

Slowly, deliberately, Thorne pushed himself upright.

He dusted the ash and residue from his shoulders, flexing his newly freed fingers.

The three boys stared at him in mute horror, their smug certainty dissolving into wide-eyed apprehension.

Thorne lifted his gaze to the ringleader, the tall one who'd dared to put his boot in Thorne's ribs.

He tilted his head, studying him with a curiosity that felt almost clinical.

"That," he said, his voice calm and conversational, "was incredibly rude."

He smiled then.

BIG.

His eyes flared with cold, delighted light, the gleam of someone who had stopped pretending to be harmless.

"And," he continued, taking a single step forward, "fatally stupid."

The man's throat bobbed as he swallowed, but no words came out.

Thorne's grin widened.

"Now."

He let the syllables fall, deliberate and quiet as a blade sliding free of a sheath.

"It's. My. Turn."

And he inhaled.

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