Thorne had never imagined he would spend an afternoon testing magical trinkets until his brain felt numb.

Yet here he was, perched on a low stool in the storeroom of Argessa's shop, his back sore from leaning over crates and his fingertips faintly prickling with lingering aether.

He held the calibration crystal in his left hand, a steady, quiet pulse of power that never wavered, and a slim wand of polished yew in his right.

A deep, controlled breath.

He let a trickle of aether seep into the wand.

The lattice inside accepted the flow easily, its channels lighting with pale amber glow.

Carefully, he added more, feeling the resonance build toward the threshold Argessa's aide had shown him. The wand began to vibrate in his grip, the power within shivering like a coiled spring.

He stopped precisely at the calibrated resonance, holding it steady for a slow count of five.

Then he pulled back, letting the energy subside.

He set the wand aside and picked up his ledger, jotting a note in cramped script:

Yew Wand (amber lattice): Stable to threshold. Slight overcharge, no fracture. Suitable for mid-tier spellwork.

He rubbed the side of his hand across his brow, exhaling.

Only thirty-seven more to go.

I hate this, he thought, glancing over the crates. This is tedium wearing a pretty face.

But even as the irritation coiled in his chest, he couldn't deny he was…learning.

Every time he reached for the aether, his core was ready. Not just ready, eager.

The power waited like a living thing behind his ribs, thrumming with a restless hunger. If he ever stopped paying attention, it would pour itself into whatever focus he held, heedless of thresholds or limits.

Once, early on, he'd slipped.

A polished staff of white ash had accepted his touch for a heartbeat, then cracked from end to end with a sound like a snapping bone.

The memory made his jaw tighten.

He shifted his grip, lifting the next item, a delicate grimoire bound in pale leather.

It was embossed with faint runes that shimmered when he turned it in the light.

He took a moment to study it. This one was more intricate than most, a mesh of minor spell-seals layered through the cover and spine.

He placed his palm flat against the cover and drew in a slow breath.

Carefully, he reminded himself.

He let a thread of aether slip into the book.

It accepted it readily. Too readily.

He could feel something inside the grimoire unfurling, probing back along the line of energy, testing the connection like a cautious hand feeling for warmth.

For an instant, he felt it try to latch onto his core, like a hook catching fabric.

But the moment that contact sparked, his core shuddered, the ferocity of it rising in a cold wave.

No, it said without words.

The connection collapsed.

The grimoire gave a soft crackle, the light inside guttering.

Ashthorn, resting on the bench beside him, vibrated as if in rebuke.

Almost…possessive.

Thorne exhaled and noted the result.

White leather grimoire: Bond attempt detected, rejected by primary focus. Lattice stable. Potential hazard if used improperly.

He set it aside.

The next was a wand of dark ironwood. He lifted it, feeling the faint tingle of its stored charge.

"Here we go again," he muttered.

Hours passed like that.

Each focus demanded patience, delicacy, discipline. Some accepted his power docilely up to the calibrated threshold. A few simply flickered and died, cheap or flawed beyond repair.

And some, too many, tried to bond with him.

Again and again, he felt those invisible hooks reach toward his core. Again and again, his core rejected them, sometimes gently, sometimes with a backlash that nearly seared his skin.

Twice, a wand exploded in his grip in a burst of shards and acrid smoke.

Both times he had to stop, breathing through the sudden adrenaline, reminding himself he hadn't slipped.

Not really.

I'm getting better, he told himself. More precise.

And it was true.

The hundredth time he let the aether trickle out, it was smoother. His hand steadier. His senses clearer.

Somewhere past the sixth or seventh hour, he realized that, despite how tedious it was, he didn't hate the work as much as he pretended.

Not entirely.

Because each time he balanced a focus on that knife-edge, felt the lattice straining and didn't let it break, he proved to himself that he could control the thing inside him.

That it didn't control him.

A soft knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.

He looked up as the woman in the slate-gray apron entered, carrying a small tray.

"Lady Argessa instructed you be provided something," she said crisply.

She set the tray down: a small pot of fragrant tea, still steaming, and a plate of flatbread spread with spiced hummus.

Thorne blinked.

"…Thank you," he said after a moment.

The woman inclined her head and turned to go.

He watched her close the door behind her, then looked down at the simple meal.

His stomach growled, reminding him he hadn't eaten since morning.

He set the calibration crystal aside and took a careful sip of the tea.

Warmth spread through his chest, calming in a way that felt almost undeserved.

For a few precious minutes, he let himself stop.

Just sit there, alone with the quiet and the fading scent of incense, surrounded by tools and unfinished work.

And when he picked up the next focus, an iron-bound grimoire with a scarlet sigil burned into its cover, he felt ready to begin again.

Thorne had lost track of time.

The storeroom's air had grown heavy with the mingled scents of aether residue and candle wax. His head felt stuffed with cotton, his fingers cramped from hours of delicate channeling.

He was halfway through testing a slender wand of pale ash when he felt it, a faint ripple in the air.

A presence.

He looked up.

Lady Argessa stood framed in the doorway.

For a moment, he almost didn't recognize her without the hood she'd worn during their first meeting. Her silver hair was braided into an elegant crown around her head. An embroidered mantle in deep cerulean hung from her shoulders.

And in one hand, she held a staff, taller than she was, its haft wrapped in polished leather. The faceted crystal caged at the top glowed with a gentle, steady radiance.

Her sharp eyes swept the piles of crates, the ledger on the workbench, and finally settled on him.

"Don't stop," she said before he could speak. "You've work left."

Thorne dipped his head in a small nod.

"Yes, Lady Argessa."

She lifted her staff. A shimmer of pale light spread from its tip across the bare floorboards beside him.

In the space where nothing had been, a plush armchair materialized, upholstered in dark green velvet.

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She settled into it with the comfortable assurance of someone who always belonged exactly where she chose to sit.

With a flick of her fingers, a steaming porcelain cup appeared in her grasp.

She sipped delicately, watching him over the rim.

Thorne hesitated a moment longer, then turned back to the wand in his hands.

The calibration crystal pulsed gently beside him, reminding him of the limits he dared not exceed.

He inhaled, drew a thread of aether from his core, just enough, and fed it into the lattice.

Even now, when he was too tired to think, his power responded eagerly. A restless presence behind his ribs, waiting to spill out and fill the room.

He had to choke it back, restrain it every time.

A drop, not a flood.

He counted out the seconds, then set the wand aside, reaching for the ledger. His handwriting was deteriorating to a narrow, spiky scrawl.

Three more, he told himself. Then I'm done.

He picked up the next focus.

Behind him, Argessa sipped her tea in silence.

He could feel her watching him, not like a hawk, but something closer to an old hound that had seen too many would-be thieves try their luck.

He tested one last grimoire, the etched sigils faintly pulsing against his palm.

When he set it down, he realized she hadn't spoken a word.

He braced himself to continue, but her voice stopped him.

"That's enough for today," she said gently. "My apprentices will finish the rest."

Thorne closed his eyes, exhaling. Relief crashed over him in a warm, tired wave.

"Thank the dead gods," he muttered before he could help himself.

He felt more than saw her smile.

"You look half-starved."

"I feel it," he admitted.

Argessa studied him for a moment, her gaze thoughtful.

"How many foci did you destroy?"

He flipped open the ledger, skimming the tally columns with a dull sense of dread.

"Fourteen," he said finally.

She raised one pale brow. "And how many of those were due to your inability to control your core?"

Thorne hesitated.

He glanced down at the ledger again, feeling his mouth tighten.

"…Seven."

She nodded once, no disappointment in her expression.

"That's less than I expected."

He looked up, startled.

"That is good," she continued, swirling the tea in her cup. "It means you are learning."

Thorne didn't quite know what to say to that, so he inclined his head.

Argessa set her cup down on the armrest.

"And Ashthorn," she asked, her voice softer, "how has it been treating you?"

He considered.

"At first," he admitted, "it was…difficult. Overwhelming."

He picked up the wand from the bench, feeling the familiar, low thrum against his skin.

"It always wanted to overtake me. Like it was trying to flood every spell with more power than I could hold."

She inclined her head, listening intently.

"But," he went on, "lately it's…different. It feels like it listens. Like it can sense my intention before I even start channeling."

"That," she murmured, "is precisely why higher-tier foci are so coveted."

He looked up at her.

"They learn," she continued. "They adapt. They become an extension of the mage's will. In time, you won't even have to think the shape of a spell."

She smiled faintly.

"Your wand will already be casting."

Thorne turned the wand slowly in his hand, feeling something unfamiliar. Not exactly affection, but maybe the first hint of respect.

Silence fell for a few breaths.

Then Argessa lifted her gaze, studying him.

"And school?" she asked. "How is it treating you?"

He blinked.

"It's…fine."

Her eyes glimmered with dry amusement. "That is the most unconvincing lie I've heard in a decade."

Thorne sighed.

He felt like he was being interviewed. But somehow, he didn't mind as much as he thought he would.

"It's a lot," he admitted. "More than I expected."

She waited, giving him space to find the words.

"I like Arcane Fundamentals," he said slowly. "And Constructs. Learning to shape things with aether. To make something real out of it."

Argessa's expression softened, the lines at the corners of her eyes crinkling.

"That," she said quietly, "was always my favorite, too."

He glanced down at his hands, flexing them as if to reassure himself they were still steady.

"It's exhausting," he admitted. "But…worth it."

Argessa nodded, as if she'd expected no less.

"Good," she murmured. "That's all I wanted to hear."

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Argessa sipped her tea again, studying him over the rim with that same patient, measuring look.

"You've adjusted better than most," she said eventually.

Thorne tilted his head, feeling the edge of a smile. "That sounds suspiciously like praise."

"Don't get used to it," she deadpanned, though her eyes were warm.

He chuckled softly, then scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to shake off the lingering exhaustion.

"You look like you're about to fall over," she remarked.

"I feel like I already did."

"That happens," Argessa said lightly. "Especially here. Aetherhold devours the unprepared. The arrogant."

She set her empty cup on the arm of the conjured chair.

"But it has a way of making survivors out of those too stubborn to break."

He didn't answer.

She inclined her head toward Ashthorn, still resting in his grip.

"Keep listening to it," she said. "And keep teaching it to listen to you. That is the foundation of every great mage."

Thorne nodded slowly.

He didn't know if he'd ever think of himself as a "great mage." But he could feel something shifting, like a door he'd never noticed was quietly creaking open.

Argessa rose with the same smooth grace she'd carried in every movement since he'd met her.

The chair vanished the instant she stood, dissolving into a whisper of aether.

Her staff tapped the floor once, sending a faint ripple of pressure through the air.

"I have other matters to see to," she said. "But you've done well. Far better than I expected."

Thorne lifted a brow. "You keep saying that."

"I do," she agreed, not quite smiling. "Because it's true."

He watched her cross the threshold.

She paused in the doorway, turning back to face him one last time.

"Keep your wits about you, Thorne," she said, her voice softer. "These halls aren't kind."

His gaze held hers.

"Neither am I."

For a heartbeat, something flickered in her expression, a look he couldn't name, equal parts approval and sorrow.

"Good," she said finally.

She turned to leave.

And before he could think better of it, the question slipped out.

"What do you know about the Empire of the First Sun?"

Her steps paused at the threshold.

The quiet stretched, heavy as lead.

Thorne swallowed, feeling a strange tightness in his chest. He hadn't planned to ask. Not here, not now. But ever since that letter had landed on his desk, it had been a splinter lodged under his skin.

He'd meant to find Marian, but she'd vanished as if the castle itself had swallowed her.

And Argessa…

Argessa felt like a vault of knowledge he hadn't even begun to pry open.

She turned slowly to face him, one white brow arched.

"Why do you ask?"

Thorne shrugged, trying for nonchalance. "I just heard about it. Got curious."

Argessa's gaze narrowed, her eyes sharp as carving knives.

"Remember what we discussed the first day you walked into my shop?" she asked softly.

He winced. He did.

"Trust," she went on, "is something I don't expect. Not from anyone. Trust is earned."

She took a single step back into the room, her staff tapping the floor with a decisive clack.

"But honesty?" Her voice cooled, losing any pretense of gentleness. "That is our bargain. No half-truths. No spill, boy."

Thorne bit the inside of his cheek.

She waited.

He looked down at his hands, flexing them once. The words gathered behind his teeth like a storm.

Finally, he lifted his head and blurted it out.

"I got a sponsorship from them."

Argessa's lips parted, but no sound came out.

"The Empire," he clarified, as if she might have misunderstood. "They offered me…something. And the way the letter was worded, it didn't feel like I had much of a choice."

For a heartbeat, Argessa just stared.

Then, with startling speed, she crossed the room and clonked him on the side of the head with her staff.

Thorne yelped, clutching the spot.

"What was that for?" he demanded, scowling.

"You idiot!" she snapped. "You should have told me that before I dispelled my armchair!"

She turned in a huff, flicked her staff, and conjured another one in a bloom of pale light.

It appeared with an audible pop, upholstered in the same dark green velvet. She sat down heavily, her staff settling across her knees.

Thorne rubbed the sore spot on his temple, muttering under his breath.

Argessa ignored him, studying him with an intensity that made him feel like she was peeling back his skin to see the bones underneath.

"You're in over your head, boy," she said quietly.

He looked at her, surprised at the note of…not anger, exactly, but something close to exasperated worry.

"You don't even know what you've been offered," she went on. "What it means. What it costs."

"That's why I'm asking," he shot back, sharper than he intended.

Her eyes narrowed further, but she didn't rebuke him.

Instead, she folded her hands over the carved haft of her staff.

Instead, she folded her hands over the carved haft of her staff, eyes darkening with weighty memory.

"The Empire of the First Light," she began, her voice quiet but layered with years, "isn't like the other kingdoms you've heard about. It's a relatively new power, yes, but in the span of just a few decades, it conquered the entire continent of Karethul."

She let that hang in the air.

"Entire kingdoms, some that stood for over a thousand years, reduced to vassal states or rubble. Cities of ancient tradition, cultures that weathered every calamity the world had to offer… gone. Absorbed. Swallowed."

Thorne shifted in his seat but said nothing.

Argessa's tone took on a harder edge.

"The Emperor of Light is a phantom," she said. "No one knows where he came from. Some say he was once a wandering mage from the east. Others whisper he is something else entirely. Not man. Not mortal."

Thorne raised an eyebrow.

"He's said to be the most powerful man alive," she added, tone dry. "But that's likely rumor."

She gestured vaguely with one hand. "Still. He's sharp, sharp enough to gather a cadre of the world's most dangerous people around him. Each one a warlord in their own right. They lead his armies. Enforce his will. While he sits silent on his throne in the capital, Solmere, the City of Dawn."

Thorne couldn't help himself. "So what you're saying is I've been offered a sponsorship by a very powerful faction."

The sharp tap of her staff striking the floor made him wince.

"Stay quiet, boy," she snapped.

He shut his mouth.

"The Empire," she continued coldly, "is not just powerful. It is ravenous. It does not stop. It will not stop. It conquers not to govern, but to consume. Every piece of land, every new magic it unearths, every culture it stamps out, it does so to fuel the emperor's endless ambitions."

She leaned forward now, her gaze pinning him like a knife.

"They've repurposed sacred aether wells into factories. Turned spirit trees into war furnaces. Bound ancient sentient constructs to their warbands. They took the floating monastery of the Sahn and melted it down to forge a floating fortress. That is the Empire you're dealing with."

Thorne swallowed.

"And the fact that you were singled out," she said slowly, "chosen…"

Her face tightened.

"It is not a good thing, boy."

She stood abruptly, her voice rising in restrained fury.

"The Empire will not nurture you. It will not elevate you. It will shape you. Shave you down. Hollow you out and fill the void with chains that glitter like gold. It will erase who you are to remake you in its image."

He stared at her, heart thudding.

"And the worst part?" she said, her voice low again. "Now that they've seen you, now that they've marked you, there is no way out."

She turned, gaze shadowed, and looked at him with something he hadn't expected.

Pity.

It sent a chill down his spine.

"But…" he croaked, then cleared his throat and tried again. "But there must be a way."

Argessa didn't answer immediately. She looked at him for a long moment, something weighing behind her eyes, something she wasn't ready to say.

Then she finally murmured:

"If there is… I haven't found it."

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