Thorne slid the stack of gold coins across the polished counter, each one leaving a faint metallic scrape that sounded far too loud in his ears. He did it grudgingly, as though the very act of payment offended him on some primal level.

Eighteen coins an hour. Four hours. Seventy-two gold pieces gone in the blink of an eye.

He ground his teeth, jaw tight, as the cheerful attendant, far too chipper for someone legally robbing him, counted the coins into a neat pile and began slipping them into the collection box.

"Quite the session, Lord Thorne!" the attendant said brightly, voice the sort of manufactured pleasantness that made Thorne's left eye twitch. "You've been in there nearly four hours. Time really does fly when you're working hard, doesn't it?"

Thorne arched an eyebrow but didn't answer. He didn't need to be reminded how long he'd been in there, or how much it had cost him.

The attendant, either immune to social cues or determined to test his patience, carried on with more pleasant small talk about the weather over Aetherhold, how business had been "simply booming" lately, and how the evening duels promised to be "quite the spectacle."

Thorne offered nothing more than a curt nod before walking out, letting the conversation die an unceremonious death.

Outside, the sun still hung high, a molten coin in the sky pouring heat over the sprawling marble-and-sandstone expanse of the Arcanum Ring. The air shimmered faintly, not from heat haze alone, but from the subtle shimmer of ward-lines woven into the very stone beneath his feet.

He still had hours before sunset.

And yet, somehow, it didn't feel like enough.

A million things pulled at his attention, unfinished assignments waiting in his quarters, the Lux spell that still refused to bend to his will, sigil patterns for Marian's class he had yet to memorize. Not to mention the alchemy paper he owed, something about the stability of volatile aether-reactive compounds under lunar phases… or was it aether crystal purity in different climates?

He couldn't even remember.

And yet, instead of doing any of that, his feet carried him aimlessly along the inner walkway of the Arcanum Ring.

The great circular colonnades rose high above him, casting long, cool shadows across the sand-floored arenas. The faint tang of scorched stone and ozone hung in the air, the signature scent of spells being cast and detonated in quick succession.

Students filled the open-air spaces, their robes and uniforms marked with House crests or personal insignia. Some moved with crisp precision under the watchful eyes of instructors, practicing formation spellwork for their Battle Magic class. Groups stood in tight rings, calling out incantations in unison, shields flaring bright as they braced against staged attacks.

Others worked alone, sweat beading on their foreheads as they hurled bolts of raw power at conjured targets or shaped intricate constructs in the air, their hands dancing through patterns like weavers at a loom.

And then there were the duelists, pairs locked in friendly (or not so friendly) sparring matches. The clash of magic was almost rhythmic: the sharp crack of force impacts, the hiss of elemental projectiles dissolving against counterspells, the flare of a shield breaking under too much pressure.

Everywhere he looked, the Arcanum Ring breathed magic. It was in the air, in the stone, in the quiet hum beneath his boots.

Thorne's steps slowed as he passed a trio of younger students locked in a heated three-way duel. One of them misjudged the timing on a barrier and took a windblast to the chest, sending him sprawling in the sand. His friends burst into laughter as the boy groaned, rolling to his feet.

Thorne almost smirked. Almost.

His hands flexed at his sides, the phantom echo of his Flame Needle still fresh in his mind. The urge to test it again, to see just how far he could push now that the breakthrough had happened, whispered at him.

But for the moment, he just kept walking, letting the sounds of spellfire and laughter, the smell of dust and aether, wrap around him like a familiar cloak.

The sound hit him first, a deep, resonant boom that rolled through the Arcanum Ring like thunder. It rattled the air in his lungs and sent a scattering of fine dust from the sandstone columns overhead.

Thorne turned toward the source and found the crowd before he saw the duel itself. Students were packed shoulder-to-shoulder along the railings of one of the larger arenas, their voices a low, eager hum that swelled every time another flash of magic erupted from within.

He drifted closer, pulled as much by the collective energy as by curiosity.

Then he saw them.

Two older students, fourth-years by the look of their uniforms, stood at opposite ends of the sand-floored ring. Their stances screamed experience: feet braced wide, shoulders loose but ready, eyes locked on each other with predator's focus.

One was a tall, broad-shouldered man with skin the color of burnished bronze and close-cropped black hair. His uniform sleeves were rolled back to the elbow, revealing forearms traced with faint, glowing runes. Power clung to him like heat off stone.

The other was a lean young woman with sharp features and a waterfall of silver-blonde hair bound high. She held her wand low, angled like a duelist's blade, every line of her body coiled for speed rather than strength.

A shimmer of heat warped the air between them.

Without warning, the man struck first, slamming his palm forward and unleashing a molten arc of flame that roared across the sand like a breaking wave.

The girl didn't flinch. She swept her wand in a tight, spiraling pattern, and the air in front of her solidified into a wall of rippling water, cool mist spilling from its surface. The flame smashed into it, erupting into a hiss of steam that rolled outward in a blinding fog.

The crowd whooped in appreciation.

Shapes moved in the mist.

A flash, white-hot, and the woman staggered back, her shield breaking apart in shards of liquid light. The man stepped through the dissipating fog, already calling another spell, his runes flaring brighter with each heartbeat.

But she was faster.

Her wand darted up, the tip flaring sapphire blue, and a jagged bolt of lightning cracked across the arena. It struck the sand between them, exploding into a shower of glassy shards that caught the sunlight and rained down in glittering arcs.

Thorne felt his pulse pick up. There was no hesitation between attacks, no wasted movement. Every spell bled into the next, every counter was instantaneous.

The man snarled something under his breath, slamming his foot into the sand. The ground beneath the woman rippled like a disturbed pond, then split. A jagged spear of stone erupted upward, forcing her to twist and leap aside, robes snapping in the heat still lingering in the air.

She landed low, swept her wand in a vicious arc, and the spear shattered into shards that she sent hurtling back at him.

He crossed his arms over his chest, the runes along his skin flaring as the shards struck an invisible barrier with a sound like rain on glass. Each impact sent ripples across the shield, but it held firm.

A single heartbeat of stillness followed.

Then both moved at once.

Spells collided mid-air, flame meeting frost, lightning twisting with stone, turning the space between them into a churning storm of raw magic.

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The crowd roared.

Thorne barely noticed he was leaning forward, eyes locked on the exchange, every sense drinking in the flow of the duel: the timing, the precision, the sheer control.

This wasn't just power. This was mastery.

And he couldn't look away.

The two broke apart, boots skidding on the packed arena sand.

The taller of the pair, the man, raised his left hand. The runes etched into his skin pulsed once… then began to move. Thorne blinked, leaning forward instinctively. The ink didn't stay fixed, it slid beneath his skin in twisting patterns, forming new shapes along his arm. Even from here, Thorne could tell each new configuration meant a different spell primed and ready.

The crowd murmured, dynamic runework wasn't unheard of, but it was difficult, fussy magic. Most mages took minutes to reconfigure their arrays. He'd just done it in seconds.

His opponent, the woman with a duelist's stance so rigid it could've been carved in marble, didn't flinch. She flicked her wand in a sharp arc, sending a volley of red-gold bolts darting toward him. They weren't fire, more like compressed bursts of heat, each one sizzling as it tore through the air.

He swept his hand up, and a shimmering hexagonal shield sprang to life. The bolts burst harmlessly against it, scattering embers across the arena floor.

Before the last spark had even died, she switched tactics. Her wand snapped down, tapping the ground once, and the sand beneath his boots rippled. The arena floor erupted upward in a twisting column of grit, blinding him.

The crowd gasped.

But the runes along his forearm flared again, and a gust of wind shot outward, blasting the sand away in a perfect sphere around him.

He didn't give her time to recover, his wand swept forward in a whip-crack motion, and three streaks of shimmering blue light shot toward her like javelins.

She ducked the first, twisted past the second, but the third curved mid-flight, catching her in the side. It didn't knock her down, but she grunted, stumbling a half-step.

Her eyes narrowed.

One fluid motion, and a beam of pale light burst from her wand, so bright it carved an afterimage into Thorne's vision. The man crossed his arms over his face just in time, the beam striking his bracer and sparking like lightning against metal.

The shield shimmered, and the sound of crackling energy filled the air. He pushed outward, forcing the beam aside, then pivoted and fired a spiraling ball of white sparks toward her.

It burst at her feet, not with an explosion, but with a deafening crack, a shockwave of sound that sent her skidding backward and rattled the audience's teeth.

Even Thorne winced.

She shook her head quickly, steadying herself, and answered with a spell so fast he barely caught the movement. A ribbon of water coiled from her wand, snapping forward like a whip. He caught it on a ward, but droplets sprayed outward, hissing where they hit the hot sand.

The air in the arena was alive now, heat shimmer, grit hanging in the sunlight, the sharp tang of charged aether.

Neither had landed a decisive blow, but the rhythm of the duel was shifting. The exchanges were faster. Each movement was sharper.

And the crowd… had gone silent.

Everyone knew this was no longer just sparring. This was pride. Skill. Reputation.

And Thorne found himself leaning forward without realizing it, his pulse matching the tempo of the fight.

The woman moved first, snapping her wand upward. A chain of glowing runes unfurled in the air between them, spinning like the links of a wheel.

The runed man slammed his boot into the ground. A ripple of force traveled outward, shattering the first few links, but the rest surged forward, wrapping toward him like a living snare.

He ducked low, sweeping his arm across his runed forearm. The symbols slid again, rearranging in a blur, and then his palm struck the air.

The runic chain burst into motes of light, only for those motes to swirl, reform, and streak right back at her. She swore under her breath, flipping backward in a motion so clean it almost looked rehearsed.

The crowd was leaning forward now, breaths held.

Her feet touched the ground, and she lunged. At the same instant, his wand came up.

A burst of bright white light filled the arena. For a heartbeat, Thorne saw nothing but searing glare. Then the light broke into dozens of floating orbs, each one humming with crackling energy.

They moved together, he guided half, she guided half, until the air above them was a shifting constellation of tiny suns. The orbs zipped and darted like fireflies, weaving through one another so quickly the audience couldn't tell which belonged to who.

And then, at the same moment, they clapped their hands together.

The orbs collided midair in a single, thunderous crack, a shockwave of harmless but blinding aetheric light washing over the stands. Students shielded their eyes, laughing and cheering as the flare dimmed and the two duelists stood across from each other, grinning now instead of glaring.

The applause was instant and deafening. Several students scrambled down from the stands to slap them on the shoulders or shout congratulations.

Thorne blinked, watching their sudden shift from razor-focused combatants to… well, siblings.

"Your footwork still stinks," she teased, poking him in the ribs with her wand.

"And you still telegraph your shield breaks," he shot back, smirking. "Lucky I wasn't trying."

"Lucky you didn't trip over your own ego."

They laughed, the tension of the match melting into easy familiarity. Someone from the crowd shouted their names, apparently they were well known here, and they waved as if basking in the attention.

Thorne leaned on the railing, still processing what he'd seen. He'd expected rivals, maybe even bitter ones.

But the truth was obvious in the way they bumped shoulders and smirked at each other.

They weren't just talented.

They were siblings.

Thorne lingered at the edge of the arena until the crowd finally began to thin, the lingering hum of excited chatter trailing away with them. The siblings were still there, packing their wands and gear into lacquered cases, their conversation a steady volley of good-natured insults.

"Your stance was crooked," the man was saying.

"My stance won," his sister shot back, looping the strap of her satchel over one shoulder.

"Barely," he muttered, but there was a smile in it.

Thorne hesitated only a heartbeat before stepping forward. His boots scuffed against the ward-etched stone, drawing both of their gazes.

Their matching frowns could've been cut from the same mold.

"Can we help you?" the brother asked, his tone already leaning toward dismissal.

"I was wondering," Thorne said evenly, "if one of you would like to duel me." His tone polite but carrying just enough challenge to make refusal feel… small.

The man's scoff was immediate. "You're a first-year." His grin was broad, dismissive. "I'd blow you across the ring with my weakest spell." His sister didn't laugh. Her eyes stayed fixed on him, weighing him.

Maris, tilted her head, when suddenly her eyes narrowed. "You're the one the Empire's been sniffing around, aren't you?"

Thorne arched an eyebrow. "Word travels fast."

Her brother's head snapped toward her. "That's the guy?" His gaze traveled up and down Thorne like he was assessing a half-collapsed fence post. "Doesn't look like much."

The woman gave him a mild swat on the arm. "Don't be rude."

"I'm being honest," he said, then stuck out a hand to Thorne. "Tavric."

Thorne took it, feeling the man's grip, firm, but a little too eager to assert dominance.

"Maris," the sister said, offering her own hand. Her shake was brisk, businesslike.

"Thorne."

Kieran hooked his thumbs into his belt. "So, what's the game here? You want to make a fool of yourself in front of half the Arcanum?"

Thorne smiled faintly. "I just mastered my first battle spell," Thorne told them, letting a touch of self-deprecation into his voice, as though to disarm them. "I want to test it in real conditions. Not in some cushioned classroom."

Tavric laughed. "One spell? You won't last two seconds against either of us."

"That's why I'll be using my skills, too." Thorne let the corner of his mouth curve into a private, knowing smile.

Maris's frown deepened. "We're not training to be enforcers. We're battle mages. Skills aren't part of the curriculum for a reason. It's supposed to be about discipline, not gutting each other. This isn't about tricks."

Thorne gave a small shrug, deliberately casual. "Tricks? I suppose. But then, battles aren't fair either, are they?"

He saw it then, Tavric's body language shifting forward, that telltale gleam in his eye. The brother was competitive, eager for a fight. Maris was the more cautious one, the anchor. Which meant he only needed to unbalance her enough that Tavric's enthusiasm would carry the rest.

"I understand," Thorne continued, keeping his tone respectful but slipping in a thread of challenge. "I'm sure you're both far too advanced to waste your time on me. It's just… you're the only duel I've seen today that impressed me. I'd hoped to test myself against the best."

Tavric straightened, preening at the compliment even as he tried to hide it. "Well, I am the best."

Maris shot her brother a look, but Thorne caught the faint twitch at the corner of her mouth.

He pressed the advantage, voice dropping slightly, inviting them into the conspiracy. "Besides, no one has to know. You wipe the floor with me, it's just another spar. But if I give you even a little trouble…" He let the thought trail off, smiling as if he'd already imagined the whispers spreading.

Maris arched a brow. "You're trying to bait us."

"Is it working?" Thorne asked.

Tavric barked a laugh. "Oh, it's working. I'll duel you right now."

Maris folded her arms, considering. Thorne met her gaze, holding it just long enough to suggest he wasn't afraid of her verdict.

Finally, she sighed. "Fine. I'll take him. You'd just charge in blind."

Tavric grinned at Thorne. "Try not to embarrass yourself, first-year."

Thorne only smiled back, feeling that old, familiar spark of satisfaction. They thought he had one spell and raw nerve. They didn't know about the ashthorn wand at his side, tuned perfectly to his aether. They didn't know how the wild aether sometimes whispered to him mid-cast, turning the unexpected into an advantage.

And they definitely didn't know how many fights he'd already won before ever throwing the first blow.

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