Garridan looked at Rowenna, his frown deepening.

"What do you mean," he asked slowly, "the killings have begun?"

Rowenna lifted her gaze from her book, blinking at him like he was particularly dense.

"I mean," she said in that calm, clipped tone of hers, "that you're all pretending this is surprising when it isn't."

Garridan scowled. "Pretending?"

She closed her book with a soft thump and set it carefully on the table.

"This school," she went on, sweeping her eyes across them, "hosts students from every kingdom, dominion, enclave, and tribe you can name and some you can't."

Her voice didn't rise, but something in it hardened.

"You think the rulers of those nations send their heirs and promising scions here out of kindness? Out of respect for tradition? They send them because Aetherhold is a crucible. Because it's the easiest place in the world to remove threats while pretending it was an accident."

Lucien's brows drew together.

"That's a little dramatic, don't you think?"

Rowenna ignored him.

"Every kingdom wants influence. Every dynasty wants their bloodline to ascend. And every aspiring mage wants to prove themselves. Espionage is common. Poisonings happen every year. Spells slipped into study materials, rituals sabotaged, training exercises that turn fatal."

Her eyes flicked to Isadora.

"You know I'm right."

Isadora shifted uncomfortably, her mouth tightening.

"And it isn't just other students," Rowenna continued, her voice softening but losing none of its certainty. "Sometimes the faculty have their own agendas. Sometimes the patrons funding a student decide they're no longer worth the investment."

She folded her hands in her lap.

"So yes," she finished quietly, "the killings have begun."

Isadora was staring at her now, frowning so hard a line formed between her brows.

"That's…a lot to know," she said carefully. "It's one thing for me to hear it. My parents studied here. They still have contacts in half the guilds associated with Aetherhold. But you..."

She trailed off, her frown deepening.

Rowenna's composure flickered, just for a heartbeat.

Isadora tilted her head, her voice suddenly sharper.

"Who are your parents, Rowenna?"

Rowenna's eyes widened. "That's none of your..."

"It's a fair question," Isadora pressed, her tone still deceptively light. "If you know so much about what goes on in here, more than most first years should, maybe you'd like to explain why."

For the first time since Thorne had met her, Rowenna looked truly rattled.

She stood abruptly, gathering her books with fast, precise motions.

"I don't have to justify anything to you," she snapped. "I'm not going to be late because you want to gossip."

She turned without another word and strode away, her braid snapping over her shoulder like a banner.

The three of them, Thorne, Isadora, Lucien, watched her go.

Garridan was scowling, his expression thoughtful.

Thorne leaned back in his chair, feeling the oddest tug of curiosity.

An enigma, he thought. An enigma I haven't bothered to crack.

Only because he hadn't cared enough to try.

Or because it hadn't seemed imperative.

Maybe it was time to change that.

Beside him, Isadora exhaled and leaned closer, lowering her voice.

"Mark my words," she whispered, her tone unusually serious. "That girl…she either has a very, and I mean very, powerful sponsor, or she comes from a line of mages so old they've forgotten half their names."

Thorne hummed, his gaze still fixed on the doorway where Rowenna had vanished.

"Probably," he murmured.

Garridan shifted in his seat, the ever-coiled tension in him wound even tighter.

He looked like a man waiting for an attack at any moment.

"So," he said finally, "we need to watch our backs. All of us."

He rubbed the back of his neck, frowning so hard the creases nearly swallowed his eyes.

"I might have to send a letter to my father," he went on, voice grim. "Have him send my family sword."

Lucien snorted, stuffing a bite of bread in his mouth.

"A sword?" he mumbled around the mouthful. "You think that's going to protect you here?"

Garridan scowled. "It's better than nothing."

Lucien swallowed and smirked.

"You might want to master a spell or two before you start waving steel around. Maybe Thorne can tutor you."

Thorne's eyes flicked to Lucien, flat and unimpressed.

Lucien's grin widened.

Garridan ignored them both, his gaze sweeping the hall as more students drifted toward the exits, heading to their morning lessons.

Thorne noticed he was watching every face. Measuring every gesture.

Not so much the man ready to draw a blade, more like the man expecting to need it.

"Well," Isadora said brightly, as if to chase off the heavy mood, "you'd better get used to it. Every year, the students who can't keep up, who don't have the affinity to progress, are sent home."

She popped a cherry into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully.

"And a lot of them don't make it home at all."

Garridan's frown deepened.

"You're just saying that," he muttered.

Isadora shook her head, smiling faintly.

"I'm not. Later years…they aren't like this. The classes aren't safe anymore. The instructors expect you to already know how to protect yourself."

Her gaze drifted toward the far end of the hall.

"There are expeditions," she said softly. "Training in the field. Complex rituals that go wrong. And of course…the end-of-year tournament."

Lucien perked up, his curiosity warring with caution.

"What about it?"

Isadora shrugged. "There's no rule against killing your opponent. Never has been."

She looked back at them, her expression unsettlingly serene.

"It's a convenient way to settle grudges."

Garridan pressed a hand over his face.

"Great," he muttered into his palm.

Thorne's hearing, sharp as ever, caught the second, quieter words he whispered after:

"Great. And I can't even trace a single sigil, let alone an entire spell."

Thorne watched him for a moment, then looked back down at his plate.

The bread had gone cold.

And somehow, he wasn't hungry anymore.

If Thorne was honest, The Theory of Magical Constructs had quickly become one of the few classes he actually looked forward to.

Not because the lectures were simple, if anything, the subject was labyrinthine, but because it was the only place where he could watch grown mages make self-satisfied pronouncements about how to bind aether into form, only to have their own constructs spontaneously combust or develop homicidal tendencies halfway through the demonstration.

Today was no exception.

The vaulted chamber where the class met was lit by tall, arched windows and a forest of hovering lanterns, some bright as day, others a ghostly blue. The long workbenches were already cluttered with reference tomes, etched brass measuring rods, and half-finished student experiments.

He arrived early enough to claim a stool near the back. Rowenna sat to his left, already scribbling notes in her compact, looping hand. Elias dropped into the seat on Thorne's right a moment later, leaning his staff against the table with a theatrical sigh.

"Remind me again why I thought it was a good idea to take this class," Elias muttered, rubbing his temples.

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"Because you wanted to impress that fourth-year with the tattooed arms," Rowenna said without looking up.

"That was one time," Elias protested. "And she gave me her rune sequence."

"She gave you a warded rejection," Rowenna corrected. "I saw it glow."

Thorne smirked, propping his chin on his fist. "Charming as ever."

Elias threw up his hands. "This is why I don't confide in you people."

"Oh, don't pout," Rowenna sighed. "It's undignified."

Before Elias could retort, the classroom door swung open, and Professor Helisar swept in.

Helisar looked precisely as a master constructomancer ought: old enough to have seen four wars, thin as a willow switch, and wrapped in indigo robes stitched with so many runes they practically glowed. A brass monocle gleamed in his right eye, rotating with a faint clicking noise as he surveyed the room.

"Good afternoon," he said, voice soft but carrying perfectly to every corner. "Today we will be building on the foundational principles of aether binding, which you should have reviewed in your assigned readings."

He paused, letting his gaze drift over the students.

"I expect," he added mildly, "that you have actually done the readings."

Elias immediately bent to rummage in his satchel, trying to look industrious.

Rowenna clicked her tongue.

Thorne only lifted a brow.

Helisar turned and gestured to a large table near the front, where a cloth-draped shape waited.

"Recall that a magical construct is any object or form that sustains aetheric motion without continuous input," he went on. "This can range from a humble cleaning automaton..."

He flicked the cloth away with a flourish, revealing a knee-high brass sphere with six spindly legs.

"... to something rather more…ambitious."

The brass sphere made a soft clicking sound and unfolded, revealing tiny articulated arms tipped with delicate pincers.

It waved cheerfully at the class.

Several students laughed or leaned forward in fascination.

Elias leaned closer to Thorne and whispered, "I'd pay a month's stipend to see that thing try to clean your room."

"Why?" Thorne murmured. "It would die of despair."

Rowenna's quill stopped scratching just long enough for her to mutter, "You two are idiots."

Helisar didn't seem to notice.

"Recall," he continued, "that constructs require three essential components: a stable aether lattice, a power source, and a governing script."

He tapped the brass creature lightly, and it froze, all limbs locking in place.

"Fail to balance these components, and your creation will degrade or..."

He snapped his fingers.

The brass sphere convulsed and collapsed into a pile of inert parts.

"... fail."

Elias winced. "That's…comforting."

Helisar paused, letting the hush of the classroom settle, and lifted a hand in a small beckoning gesture.

From behind a tall cabinet, a tall figure stepped into view.

Gasps rippled through the benches.

At first glance, it looked like one of the aether constructs that roamed the academy, those featureless, obedient figures that delivered letters and fetched supplies.

But this one was different.

Its face was a masterpiece of detail, molded with inhuman precision into the likeness of a stern man with sharp cheekbones, a high brow, and narrow, assessing eyes that glowed faintly blue.

It wore real clothing: a tailored indigo coat buttoned over a crisp linen shirt, dark trousers tucked into polished boots.

And unlike the courier constructs, its movements were smooth, eerie in how natural they seemed.

Helisar rested a hand lightly on its shoulder.

"This," he said, his voice tinged with something close to pride, "is Althiron."

The construct inclined its head in a formal nod.

"He is what your studies may one day allow you to create: a fully autonomous construct, capable of executing complex commands, responding to novel situations, and even engaging in conversation."

He let that sink in.

"Althiron was constructed entirely without enchanted metal or pre-inscribed focus gems," Helisar went on, his gaze sweeping the rows of rapt faces. "He is shaped solely from raw aether bound to material components by my own hand."

He paused, the faintest smile tugging his mouth.

"Which is, of course, exponentially more difficult. You will not attempt such work this year or even the next. But you will begin to study the principles that make it possible."

The construct stood perfectly still under their scrutiny, watching them with its unnervingly lifelike eyes.

"Remember," Helisar murmured, almost to himself, "true mastery of constructs is not about brute power. It is about elegance. Precision. And the patience to fail a thousand times without abandoning the work."

Helisar turned back to face them.

"Today, you will attempt to create a basic autonomous function," he announced. "Your assignment is to construct a small object capable of locomotion or simple manipulation."

He gestured, and a second cloth lifted, revealing a selection of half-finished student attempts.

One looked like a wooden bird with an articulated beak. Another was a lopsided iron spider. A third was nothing more than a bundle of rune-marked twine that emitted a low, unsettling hum.

"Your own work," Helisar said with a thin smile, "may take…many iterations."

Thorne raised a brow.

Elias looked like he was considering running.

"So," Thorne said under his breath, "we're supposed to make a pet?"

"Or a weapon," Rowenna replied absently, already jotting down calculations.

"I'm starting with a pet," Elias muttered. "If it tries to strangle me, I'll upgrade it to a weapon."

Rowenna didn't dignify that with a response.

Helisar raised his hands, and thin lines of aether shimmered around his fingers.

"To illustrate," he said, "observe."

He closed his hand around nothing and then uncurled it.

In his palm, a tiny figure stood, a miniature armored knight, no taller than Thorne's thumb. Its helmet gleamed, and it held a sword no bigger than a sewing needle.

Helisar extended his arm.

"Fetch."

The tiny knight saluted with impeccable form and marched briskly across the tabletop. It reached a stray quill, hefted it onto one shoulder like a log, and carried it back to him.

The class erupted into applause.

Thorne couldn't help it, he actually smiled.

Now this, he thought, is worth learning.

Elias nudged him, smirking. "Think you can make one of those?"

Thorne leaned back, considering.

"I could try," he said. "But knowing my luck, it would decide to stab someone."

"Probably me," Elias sighed.

"Probably," Rowenna agreed without looking up.

Elias groaned.

"Why do I sit with you two?"

Thorne reached for his primer, feeling something unfamiliar as he opened it.

A flicker of anticipation.

The next hour slipped by in a blur of chalk dust, muttered instructions, and the faint metallic clink of tools being passed from hand to hand.

Professor Helisar had given them each a thick primer bound in cracked leather. Even the simplest construct, he insisted, required meticulous preparation before so much as a single thread of aether was shaped.

"Recall," he droned from the front of the room, "that no lattice can sustain itself without adequate stabilization. Even a toy automaton must be prepared with the correct junction points, else you will create nothing more than a disappointing puff of sparks."

He gestured to the shelves along the walls, each stacked high with brass rods, glass vials of powdered flux, runic stencils, and other components Thorne couldn't yet name.

"Choose your materials carefully," Helisar continued, "and consider how the inherent properties of your chosen vessel will influence the behavior of your construct."

Most of the students groaned.

Thorne didn't.

He moved around the benches in measured steps, gathering brass fittings and a simple etched crystal that, according to the primer, could be used as an anchor for aether flow. He set them out in a tidy line on the workbench.

Rowenna worked with brisk efficiency beside him, already sketching out the first draft of her design.

Elias, predictably, was less organized. He kept picking up pieces only to squint at them like they were written in an unfamiliar language.

"I swear," Elias muttered, "half these things are just junk Helisar dredged out of the cellar."

Rowenna didn't look up. "That's because you don't read."

"I read," Elias said, sounding deeply offended. "I just…prefer practical instruction."

Rowenna's sigh was as long-suffering as it was eloquent.

Thorne ignored them, turning the crystal over in his palm.

He felt oddly engrossed.

He didn't care much about learning to cobble together a little brass toy, but the deeper principles, how you could shape intention into a form that endured, felt close to something he did care about.

If you could create a construct out of metal and glass…

Why not one of pure aether?

The thought made something tighten behind his ribs.

"Thorne."

He didn't look up. "Hm."

"What do you think?" Elias asked.

"About what?"

Elias blinked. "Have you been listening to anything I said?"

"No," Thorne said truthfully, setting the crystal in a brass collar.

Elias sighed in exasperation. "I was saying, we should go to the mixer tonight. It's for first-years. Some of the older students organized it."

Thorne finally looked at him. "A mixer."

"Yes," Elias said, brightening. "There will be music, drinks and more importantly, some girls from Aegis House."

Rowenna made a disgusted noise without looking up.

Elias ignored her and leaned closer, his expression conspiratorial. "You could come too, Rowenna. Who knows? Some poor bastard might finally wipe that permanent scowl off your face."

Rowenna's hand darted out. A moment later, a metal fitting bounced off Elias's forehead with a satisfying clink.

"Ow," he complained, rubbing the spot. "You're proving my point."

Thorne suppressed a smile and shifted his attention back to aligning the etched brass fittings.

"I can't," he said after a moment.

Elias squinted at him. "Why not?"

"I have to go to Evermist."

Rowenna glanced up sharply. "Evermist? What for?"

"Work."

Rowenna frowned. "Work?"

Thorne flexed his fingers, checking the alignment of the delicate rune channels.

"I made a deal with Argessa," he said evenly. "Every once in a while, I do work for her to pay off my debt."

"Debt?" Elias echoed.

Rowenna's eyes narrowed. "Debt for what?"

Thorne tapped Ashthorn, resting across the table beside him.

"For my wand."

Rowenna studied the wand for a long moment.

Then she tilted her head, her expression utterly incredulous.

"That?" she said, her tone slicing. "That looks like something a beggar wouldn't bother picking out of the gutter."

"That's harsh," Thorne drawled. "Appearances can be deceiving."

He lifted his gaze to her, letting his voice cool a fraction.

"You should know a thing or two about that," he added, each word precise.

Rowenna froze.

Her fingers curled around her quill, knuckles whitening.

Elias glanced between them, bewildered.

"Did I miss something?" he asked brightly.

Rowenna's quill snapped in her grip.

"No, elf," she said coldly. "You haven't."

She gathered her things with short, furious motions and bent over her design, determinedly ignoring them both.

Thorne watched her for a moment, the smallest smile tugging at the edge of his mouth.

An enigma, indeed.

The streets of Evermist were alive with color and motion.

Even this late in the afternoon, hundreds of people crowded the thoroughfares, merchants hawking everything from charmed ink to living glass, students in house colors bartering over secondhand tomes, and grim-faced couriers threading between them with rune-sealed letters tucked under their arms.

Above it all, the floating sigils of the city's wards glimmered against the sky, rotating slowly like a clock whose language only mages could read.

Thorne slipped between a group of passing apprentices and ducked under a string of levitating lanterns. He'd walked this route twice before, and it hadn't gotten any less strange.

At least in the warrens where he'd grown up, nothing pretended to be anything it wasn't.

Here, even the bricks murmured to themselves when you stepped on them.

He turned onto a quieter side street and found the familiar sign: Argessa's Aetherworks

He pushed open the door, and the low chime of the ward bell echoed overhead.

Inside, the shop smelled of polished wood and faintly metallic incense. Glass tubes hung overhead, filled with drifting runes that rotated slowly like fish in an aquarium. Every so often, a puff of colored light burst in the air, followed by either laughter or a muttered curse.

Wands, staves, and grimoires sat on pedestals under shifting veils of enchantment. Floating text proclaimed in bright letters.

Mages and students wove between the aisles, voices rising and falling in a constant, eager din.

A young woman in a slate-gray apron glanced up from the counter.

Her expression shifted the instant she saw him.

"Thorne Silverbane?" she asked, her voice brisk.

"That's me."

"Lady Argessa left instructions," the woman said. "Follow me, please."

Before he could reply, she was already stepping out from behind the counter.

Thorne sighed and fell into step behind her.

They passed through a narrow archway curtained in hanging strips of aether-warded silk. Beyond, the air felt cooler, tinged with a faint electric charge.

The corridor was dim, lined with sealed crates and packages that hummed gently in the quiet.

The woman led him to a heavy oaken door set into the side wall and pushed it open.

"Here."

Thorne stepped inside and stopped.

The storeroom was packed nearly to the ceiling with parcels. Wooden crates were stacked three deep. Canvas-wrapped bundles sat in neat rows, each tagged with a tiny sigil that pulsed softly in the gloom.

He counted at least fifty. Maybe more.

The woman turned and offered him a small crystalline rod, no longer than his palm.

It pulsed against her gloved hand, emitting a steady, thrumming note of power.

"This is your calibration crystal," she said crisply. "You will study it carefully. The resonance you feel is the maximum aether quantity you are to use on each focus."

Thorne frowned down at it. "Maximum?"

"Any item that fails when channeled below that threshold," she continued, ignoring his interruption, "is substandard and will be marked for return."

She fixed him with a look that was not unkind but entirely without pity.

"If you exceed that threshold..." she lifted her chin, as if daring him to argue, "any damages incurred will be deducted from your compensation."

Thorne stared at her.

"I'm not getting paid," he pointed out flatly.

Her expression didn't change.

"Then it will be added to the debt you owe."

He opened his mouth to retort, then shut it again with a soft exhale.

The woman placed the crystal in his hand and stepped back.

"Instructions are posted on the wall," she added, gesturing to a vellum notice nailed near the door. "When you are finished, record your results in the ledger."

She inclined her head, turned, and left him alone.

The door clicked shut behind her with a quiet finality.

Thorne looked around at the mountain of packages.

The faint hum of stored aether thrummed at the edge of his senses, an entire afternoon's worth of tedium condensed into one oppressive space.

He sighed.

That's going to take…some time, he thought, pinching the bridge of his nose.

He set the crystal carefully on the nearest crate, rolled his shoulders, and prepared to get to work.

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