Argessa sat quietly for a time, her fingers tightening around the head of her staff, as if it were the only thing keeping her thoughts from spiraling into fury. The candlelight caught the lines of her face in sharp relief, deep shadows under her eyes, a tension in her jaw that hadn't been there moments ago.

"You need to understand something, Thorne," she said at last. Her voice was softer now, but it carried weight, like the calm before a landslide.

"The Empire isn't just powerful. It is cunning. Patient. And absolutely ruthless. It is a beast with too many heads to count and no heart to stab. You do not make deals with such a thing. You only survive it… if you're very, very lucky."

Thorne swallowed, then leaned back slightly in the conjured chair, watching her. "I get it. They're dangerous."

"No," she said sharply, pointing her staff at him like a finger. "You don't get it. You can't. They don't just conquer. They erase. They rewrite history to suit their narrative. They dissolve bloodlines. They absorb knowledge and make it proprietary, stolen truths, hoarded and buried."

She stood again, pacing now, her long robes whispering over the floor. "The continent they devoured, Karethul..." she spat the name like it tasted bitter "... was a place of wonders. Do you know they had an academy older than Aetherhold? It was turned into an imperial training camp within a month of the conquest. The Archmagister vanished. The ruling family 'abdicated.' And no one's heard a whisper of them since."

Thorne stared at her, saying nothing.

"They outlawed entire branches of magic that didn't conform to their doctrine. Spirit channelers were branded heretics. The Altheri druids, they used to keep the World Tree blooming year-round, burned alive in a public square."

She turned, fire blazing in her eyes. "And now they're here. Sponsoring students. Making friends."

Thorne licked his lips. "So… has anyone from the Empire actually approached students before?"

She narrowed her eyes. "Why? Has someone come to you?"

He hesitated.

"Thorne," she said, voice dropping low and sharp, "don't you dare lie to me now."

He looked away, jaw clenched. "There's someone. A man named Varo."

The reaction was instant and explosive.

Argessa's staff slammed into the floor with such force the wooden planks cracked beneath them. "VARO?!"

Thorne flinched, not from the shout, but from the name itself.

Varo. Elderborn.

The revelation still twisted like a blade in his gut. He hadn't told anyone, not even hinted at it. Not that he owed them the truth. And certainly not Argessa, sharp as she was. But as she raged and sputtered about what kind of creature Varo might be, all Thorne could think was: he's one of us.

One of the lost. The broken. The unmade.

"By the shattered gods, you didn't think to lead with that?"

"I didn't know who he was!" Thorne snapped back, more defensively than he intended. "He just… summoned me one day. Said he was interested in me."

Argessa began pacing again, faster this time, muttering in a language Thorne didn't recognize, sharp, fluid syllables that made the air feel heavier.

"Varo is not just someone," she hissed. "He's the Third Flame of the Empire. A war criminal. A sadist. A prodigy with aether who rose through the ranks like wildfire through a dry forest. Some say he's older than he looks, if he even is mortal anymore."

Thorne kept his face carefully blank, but a tremor worked through his chest.

Not mortal...

She didn't even realize how close she was to the truth. How right her guess was.

Varo wasn't human. Not in the way she meant. Not in the way any of them were.

He was Elderborn. Like Thorne. But older. Sharper. Sharpened into something cruel and precise, proof of what their kind might become if left in the fire too long.

Thorne suppressed a shiver.

She paused in front of him, her expression twisted in disbelief.

"They call him the Architect of Unmaking. He once collapsed an entire border city just to flush out a single rebel sympathizer. Fifteen thousand people. Gone. Buried in their own homes."

Thorne's blood went cold.

"During the siege of Lorthan's Reach, he didn't breach the walls. No. He sent a construct into the water supply, an aether parasite. It drove half the city mad within a week. The other half begged to be let in."

Thorne's thoughts spiraled.

If Varo had the same gift, the same connection to the aether, raw and primal, then what he had done to that city... was just the beginning.

Was this what Elderborn could become, if they embraced the empire? If they were polished and broken into the perfect weapon?

Is that why they want me?

A chill seeped into his bones that had nothing to do with the cold.

Argessa's voice shook now, not with fear, but rage.

"And he's here. Here. Watching you."

Thorne's mouth was dry. He tried to speak, but no words came.

She sank back into the chair again, her energy seeming to deflate.

"You're truly, utterly screwed," she muttered. "They've marked you. You've attracted the attention of a man who delights in breaking souls like toys. And if Varo's taken a liking to you…"

She didn't finish the sentence.

Thorne stared at his hands.

"I didn't ask for this," he said quietly.

"No one does," Argessa replied. "But you need to understand, you don't get to ignore this. You don't get to pretend it'll go away. The Empire doesn't offer things. It claims them. Varo doesn't watch people unless he's already decided they belong to him."

The silence that followed stretched too long.

Finally, Thorne asked, almost against his will, "Is there anything I can do?"

Argessa gave a bitter laugh.

"Run. Hide. Die and come back under a new name."

She sobered.

"Or… you survive. Learn faster than they expect. Grow sharper than they want. Make yourself impossible to shape."

She fixed him with a hard stare.

"But make no mistake, boy. The moment you accept their offer, you are no longer a free man. You become a tool. And tools get used… until they break."

Thorne leaned back, the stiffness in his spine warring with the storm in his chest. Argessa's warnings echoed like bells of doom inside his mind, every word slamming into him with the force of a warhammer.

The Empire of the First Light.

A monstrous force.

A gilded cage with golden chains.

He had already escaped one tyrant. One master. One monster.

Uncle.

He still remembered the way the man's voice turned honeyed when he offered comfort, promises. The way that same voice turned to razors when Thorne failed a task. The bruises. The punishments. The carefully cultivated affection that twisted into control.

And the moment he'd realized he was nothing but a tool.

He had broken his chains once. He would not put them back on.

Not for some emperor across the sea.

Not for power. Not for safety. Not for anything.

He clenched his jaw, a muscle ticking in his cheek.

"So what do I do then?" he asked quietly, surprising himself. The words came out ragged, like torn cloth. No mask of charm, no veil of composure. Just raw, exposed desperation. "If they have their eye on me already... What am I supposed to do, Argessa?"

The old mage regarded him for a long moment, her eyes tired, her posture uncharacteristically slumped. Her fingers tapped once, twice, on her staff. "I already told you, boy. Once the Empire sets its eyes on something... they don't let go. Not without blood. Not without fire."

"There has to be a way out."

"No one escapes the First Light."

Thorne's fingers dug into his thighs. His skin crawled with heat.

He'd rather die than be shackled again.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Argessa watched him, and something in her gaze softened. "There is... one thing," she said slowly. "A slim chance. Not a promise. Not even a plan. But there is something."

He shot upright in his seat, leaning toward her, hope lighting in his chest. "What is it?"

"It's... customary," she said, choosing her words carefully, "for a student's homeland to be given the first right to extend a formal offer. It is not an official rule, mind you, but a tradition. A matter of honor, among the kingdoms. A student shows promise, the kingdom of their birth has the right to recruit them first."

Thorne's face went cold.

"No."

Argessa frowned. "What?"

"No," he said again, harsher. More final. "That's not an option."

"Boy, you didn't even let me finish..."

"Because it doesn't matter," he snapped, standing so fast his chair scraped loudly against the floor. His glowing eyes flared brighter, like twin moons ignited from within. If I have to choose between being a mindless soldier for the Empire, or bending knee to the man who murdered my family, then I choose neither.

Neither!

Argessa went still. Her staff slowly tilted upright, her knuckles white around its length.

"Explain."

"No."

"Thorne."

"No, Argessa."

His voice shook, not from fear, but from the barely contained inferno inside him. Aether hissed at his fingertips, called to the surface by the force of his rage.

"You speak of the Empire as if it's a monster. And it is. But my homeland? It's not some shining sanctuary either. It took everything from me. Everything. Burned it all down for nothing... For power..."

"Who are you really, boy?" Argessa asked, voice soft now, dangerous. She studied him, not with curiosity, but with wariness. "What kingdom do you come from that your hate burns so deep it outshines even fear of the Empire?"

Thorne turned away, unwilling to meet her eyes.

"Thank you," he said, voice clipped. "For your knowledge. For your time."

"Thorne..."

"I should go."

He walked toward the exit, every step stiff and mechanical.

Behind him, Argessa didn't try to stop him. But her gaze followed his retreating form, and in her ancient eyes, something far colder than disapproval settled.

Suspicion.

Worry.

Maybe even fear.

***

The courtyard where Battle Magic & Spell Augmentation was held wasn't like any other classroom in Aetherhold.

This part of the academy, known to most students simply as The Rings, was open to the sky, a marvel of arched marble columns and tiered balconies where professors sometimes watched practice from above. Fountains hummed with slow-circulating aether, casting ripples of glowing mist into the air. Polished sand covered the dueling arena in the center, marked with intricate sigils and reinforced rings to contain wild spellwork. Statues of warriors and archmages, chipped from age but still humming faintly with enchantment, lined the perimeter like silent judges.

Thorne barely registered any of it.

His muscles were taut, his jaw clenched, and Ashthorn thrummed in his hand like an angry hornet.

He was paired with none other than Cassian, the golden-haired, sharp-jawed crown prince of Rivenwald, a student most classmates treated with thinly veiled reverence.

They weren't so subtle about their expectations now. As soon as Thorne took his position opposite the prince, he felt the weight of every stare in the room settle on him like a cloak. Pull your punches, those gazes said. He's royalty. Respect the line.

Thorne might've obeyed on any other day.

But not today. Not after last night's conversation with Argessa. Not after hearing there was no way out of the Empire's grasp. Not after being reminded that even now, he didn't belong to himself. Not truly.

So no, he wasn't in the mood to be polite.

Apparently, the prince had no idea who he was facing.

"You're that guy," Cassian said, twirling his ornate wand lazily in one hand. "The one who nearly set half his classmates on fire in spellcasting class."

Thorne didn't reply.

Cassian's smirk deepened. "This'll be fun."

Professor Verrian, who was overseeing the exercise from a carved pedestal at the edge of the arena, raised his aether-crafted left hand, glowing faintly blue, humming with quiet power. His matching aether leg clicked as he stepped forward.

"Shield drills only. You will rotate offensive and defensive roles. I expect control, not theatrics. Understood?"

The class chorused a halfhearted "Yes, Professor."

Verrian's gaze swept over the gathered students, eighteen of them today, split into nine pairs. Most were already lined up across from each other, nervously clutching their foci. Wands were most common, but a few students wielded small orbs or carved staves. No one was casting full spells yet, no fireballs or lightning. Only basic attacks: bursts of raw aether, lightly aspected to their element of affinity.

Cassian's was fire, of course. His wand shimmered with a red-orange glow even at rest.

Thorne took his position, suppressing a sigh. The irony of practicing defense in front of nobleborn peers while his entire life was under siege wasn't lost on him.

He was still reeling from Argessa's words the night before.

There is no way out, boy. Not once they set their eyes on you.

No way out, except one.

To kneel.

To return to the kingdom that slaughtered his parents. To smile politely, bow respectfully, and sell his soul to the man who burned his home and ripped his world apart.

He ground his teeth. No.

"Begin!" Verrian barked.

Cassian wasted no time. He raised his wand and unleashed a basic fire-aspected pulse, a streak of orange spiraling toward Thorne.

Thorne raised his wand, whispering the shield incantation, tracing the sigils in practiced motion but his thoughts were elsewhere. Aether surged up from his core, but the ambient motes clinging to the air swirled too close, drawn by his volatile emotions.

His shield formed but it was jagged, overpowered.

The fire pulse collided and rebounded violently. Not enough to hurt anyone, but enough to earn a sharp glance from Professor Verrian.

"Focus, Umbra," Verrian called. "Control. Again."

Thorne exhaled and nodded stiffly. He was next to attack. His aether flared automatically through Ashthorn, too eager, too wild. He tried to hold back, tried to release only a basic pulse, but the wand spat out a piercing burst, fast and sharp like a needle of force.

Cassian managed to dodge it. Just barely.

"Whoa," the prince said, brushing dust from his sleeve. "Bit of a temper, aren't you?"

Thorne didn't respond.

He was already back on defense.

Cassian raised his wand again, unleashing another basic pulse. Thorne began the shield motion again, lips forming the incantation. The motes stirred.

Damn it, not again.

The ambient aether once more tried to fuse with his spell. Thorne instinctively adjusted his flow, throttling his core, reshaping the shield mid-cast.

It held. Barely.

"Good," Verrian called. "But I can see the instability. Again."

The next few exchanges followed a similar pattern. Other students around the arena struggled too. A girl from Thal'Dorei kept misaligning her sigils. A boy from the Emerald Sands was visibly sweating as he failed to raise his shield quickly enough. Most of the class had trouble regulating the timing or getting their aether to flow smoothly. The basics were not easy.

But Thorne wasn't failing in the normal way.

He had too much power, not too little. His core overflowed, and the ambient motes loved him. They swarmed him every time he so much as thought of casting, eager to be used, to serve.

And it was ruining his control.

He tried again, this time casting the shield as Cassian attacked.

Snap. the barrier formed, too dense again, shimmering blue-white. It rippled with barely leashed force, causing the prince's attack to dissolve too early.

"...You're really bad at this," Cassian said cheerfully. "But in a scary kind of way."

Thorne's eyes narrowed.

Bad at this?

He wasn't bad. He was bleeding fury. The aether listened too well, too fast.

"You alright?" Cassian asked. "You look like someone kicked your puppy."

Thorne didn't answer. He was watching the swirling motes in the air, the way they clustered close even when he tried to push them away.

They wanted to help.

They wanted to obey.

They wanted a master.

And the only one they'd obey more than him… was him. Varo.

That name hadn't left his thoughts since last night.

Third in the hierarchy of the Empire of the First Sun.

Possibly not even mortal.

An Elderborn, like Thorne himself.

He'd escaped Uncle. He wouldn't serve another monster.

"Mr. Silverbane!" Professor Verrian's voice cut through his thoughts.

Thorne blinked, realizing too late that he had once again overcast his shield, this one pulsed outward slightly from his position, brushing the sand in small, radiating gusts.

"Your spellcasting is aggressive and unstable. If I see another uncontrolled backlash, you will sit out the rest of the session."

Thorne bowed his head. "Understood, Professor."

The wand pulsed eagerly, hungry. It wanted more.

Cassian, to his credit, just chuckled. "You always this excitable in the mornings?"

Thorne glared at him but said nothing. He tried to calm his breathing, to focus, to contain the storm that wanted to erupt out of him.

Another round.

Cassian was clearly enjoying himself now, weaving attacks, one after the other. Thorne barely kept his mind in the moment. Every time he raised his shield, the spell warped, either flaring with too much power or fizzling into fragments. Not because he lacked the skill, no, it was because he couldn't focus.

He was too angry.

Angry at Varo, at Argessa's hopeless tone. Angry at his cursed blood, at the Empire, at the world for cornering him again and again.

And the worst part?

He could feel the class watching him. Not as a classmate. Not as a peer. But as a threat. Or worse, a curiosity. Like he was just another anomaly in this magic-slick palace, something to be examined or feared or used.

Cassian scratched the back of his neck, looking genuinely curious now. "Hey, uh... you okay?"

"No," Thorne muttered. "I'm not."

Cassian blinked. "Cool. Just checking."

Thorne gave a small nod. He raised his own wand. His shield sigils surged to life, bright and harsh.

The prince fired first, a volley of controlled flame bolts, textbook-perfect.

Thorne's shield spell snapped up, too aggressive, too wild. The ambient aether had gathered around him again, unbidden, always too eager. His core pumped power like a broken dam and the ambient aether fused with the shield just as it formed.

The result: a dazzling silver-blue wall of force exploded out in front of him. It absorbed the fire bolts with a shimmering crackle and then spat back a burst of raw energy that knocked Cassian a step back on his heels.

Gasps echoed.

Cassian's grin widened. "Well now. That's not regulation."

Thorne didn't answer. He'd barely been paying attention. His heart was thudding, his eyes narrowed not at his opponent but inward, thoughts spinning like blades.

They own you. There's no escape. No freedom. Not really.

Cassian struck again, this time his wand weaving in the air, unleashing one bolt after the other.

Thorne's shield flared again, strong, reactive, too much. The ambient aether had spiked again, feeding the spell, making it unpredictable. The fire aspected bolt rebounded, cracking against a side wall, eliciting a sharp curse from a nearby student.

"Mr. Silverbane!" Verrian's voice thundered again, storm-wrath and disbelief intermingled. "Do I look amused?"

"No, Professor," Thorne said dryly.

The professor stalked toward him. "Do you think your unpredictability makes you impressive? Because all it makes you is dangerous, to yourself and your classmates. Control your aura, or I will suspend your combat privileges."

Thorne lowered his head. "Understood."

He was trying. He was. But his mind wasn't in the room.

Not when his future belonged to someone else.

Not when his freedom was slipping through his fingers like smoke.

As the professor turned away with a huff, Thorne risked a glance at his peers.

Many of them were whispering.

A few were staring.

And Cassian? Cassian looked thoughtful.

Like he'd just watched something far more interesting than a sparring session.

The round ended. They swapped roles again.

Thorne resumed his assault, holding back as best he could.

But the storm inside his head refused to quiet. And the truth of it all made his gut churn.

Serve the Empire, and become a weapon.

Serve Caledris, and bow to the man who orphaned him.

Either way, he was someone else's tool.

No.

There had to be another path. Something else. He'd make one if he had to.

As he readied his next spell, Ashthorn pulsed softly, as if echoing his resolve.

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