The water construct loomed before Thorne, its semi-translucent form shifting with every ripple of the waves behind it. It didn’t move like a person but flowed, liquid yet somehow held together by an invisible force. The intricate threads of aether wove through its form, making it shimmer like a star refracting through water. Thorne swallowed hard, his throat dry, as the strange figure spoke again.

  “Thorne Silverbane,” the voice repeated, resonant and far away, as if carried from another world. “You are summoned to attend Aetherhold Academy.”

  Thorne’s chest tightened. For a moment, his thoughts tangled in disbelief. Aetherhold? The most exclusive academy in the world, a fortress of knowledge, and the crown jewel of the realm’s magical elite.

  “Summoned?” he echoed, his voice hoarse. “Why?”

  The construct didn’t respond, its head tilting slightly as though it didn’t even hear him.

  The voice continued, unwavering, as though reciting a prepared message:

  “The High Circle of Aetherhold has extended this invitation to you, Thorne Silverbane, recognizing your exceptional potential. Your attendance is required one month hence. Aetherhold will provide transport. Be prepared.”

  It paused, the glowing threads of its body swirling more violently as it shifted slightly closer. Then, with a fluid movement, it extended its hand. A small orb of shimmering energy floated above its palm before expanding into an intricate scroll, one unlike anything Thorne had ever seen.

  The scroll unfurled in midair, the golden edges glowing faintly, and it hovered before Thorne, pulsing with quiet energy.

  The letters seemed alive, written in a language he didn’t fully understand yet comprehended instinctively. Each word shimmered briefly before settling into its place:

  By decree of the High Circle, Aetherhold Academy extends its most exclusive invitation to Thorne Silverbane.

  You have been identified as a candidate of extraordinary talent, with the potential to rise to the highest echelons of magical mastery. Your journey begins in one month’s time. Upon acceptance, you will gain access to unparalleled knowledge, skills, and opportunities, should you prove worthy.

  Transportation has been arranged. Present yourself at the coordinates provided when the moon is full. The path will reveal itself.

  Fail to appear, and the opportunity will be forfeited.

  Thorne stared at the glowing script, his pulse hammering in his ears. The scroll seemed to hum, resonating faintly with his core. It wasn’t just words; it was imbued with aether, carrying authority that weighed heavily in the air around him.

  As Thorne reached for the scroll, the construct’s other hand rose. From within its shimmering form emerged a crystal, oblong and intricately carved, its edges laced with filigrees of aether that pulsed in synchrony with the threads holding the construct together. It hovered in the air, rotating slowly, casting fragmented rainbows onto the wet ground below.

  “This,” the construct intoned, “will serve as your mark of acceptance. Present it, alongside the scroll, to the representatives of Aetherhold at the appointed time. Guard it well, for it is irreplaceable.”

  Thorne hesitated for a moment, then reached out. The crystal was cool to the touch, vibrating faintly as though alive. It fit neatly in his palm, the pulsing threads seeping into his fingers and resonating with his core. The sensation sent a jolt through him, momentarily aligning him with the ambient aether around him in a way that felt both exhilarating and terrifying.

  “Why now?” he demanded, his voice rising as he stepped toward the figure. “Who sent this? Why me?!”

  But the construct remained silent, the glow in its body dimming slightly as it began to dissolve, water droplets falling to the rocky ground.

  “No!” Thorne shouted, stepping forward as if to catch it, but his hands passed through the liquid form. “Answer me!”

  The construct ignored his outburst, its voice speaking once more, softer this time, as its form faded.

  “Aetherhold awaits…”

  And with that, the construct was gone. The scroll and the crystal remained, glowing faintly in the fading light, their quiet power undeniable.

  Thorne sat on the rocky ground, his fingers brushing over the smooth surface of the crystal. It pulsed faintly in time with his heartbeat, the light refracting like liquid moonlight trapped in a cage of delicate aether threads. He placed the scroll beside him, its glow illuminating the jagged stones around him like a lantern in the fading dusk.

  He couldn’t stop staring at the objects. They felt like they didn’t belong in his hands, like they should have been meant for someone else. Someone noble. Someone deserving.

  But they were meant for him. The crystal’s resonance was unmistakable, tethered to his core as if it had been waiting for him all along.

  Aetherhold Academy.

  The name itself carried a weight that pressed down on his chest. It wasn’t just a school; it was the school. The pinnacle of magical education and influence. The scions of kings and queens, the heirs to great houses, and the prodigies of magical bloodlines all walked its hallowed halls. It wasn’t simply a place to learn spells and theory; it was a crucible where alliances were forged, rivalries solidified, and the future of entire kingdoms decided.

  But to Thorne, it was something far more personal.

  Bea.

  Hope surged, fragile and fleeting, as his mind drifted to Bea. His sister’s laughter, her elegant hand in his, the way she used to hum when she thought no one was listening, it all came flooding back with painful clarity. Aetherhold was his last, best chance to find her.

  The elder races were taken there; that much he knew. If there was any possibility she was alive, if her presence could still be traced to that place, then he had to go.

  He had to.

  But then came the memory of losing her, ripped away along with his mother’s lifeless body, the blood staining the ground... It was a pain that had never dulled, a wound that had never closed.

  He’d scoured every rumor, chased every fragment of information about the elder races. Everything he’d learned led back to Aetherhold. The academy wasn’t just a place for the elite to study; it was a research facility, a prison. People like him, like Bea, were taken there, studied like specimens under glass. Their cores were dissected, cut open for their secrets.

  Thorne’s fists clenched, his nails digging into his palms as he stared at the crystal. It pulsed faintly, its light reflecting the swirling storm in his aetheric eyes. This invitation was his chance, a thread to follow after all these years of searching. But the thread was tangled, knotted with dangers he couldn’t yet see.

  As the thought solidified, doubts gnawed at him like a persistent whisper in the back of his mind.

  Why now?

  The timing was too convenient, too precise. Aetherhold had existed for centuries, its gates closed to all but the elite. The idea that he, a street rat raised in Uncle’s shadow would be invited was absurd.

  He frowned, gripping the crystal tighter.

  Who had orchestrated this?

  Uncle’s face loomed in his thoughts, his calculating smile and piercing eyes, always watching, always ten steps ahead. Thorne couldn’t shake the feeling that his invitation had strings attached, invisible but binding.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  But then again… Uncle would never let him go. The man thrived on control, on keeping Thorne firmly within his grasp. If he had orchestrated this, it would have been to serve his own agenda. Yet this didn’t feel like Uncle. Not entirely.

  Then who?

  Another thought struck him, cold and sharp. What if someone else had learned the truth? What if his glowing eyes and the display of raw aether had drawn attention from beyond Alvar? Attention from people who would want to use him, or worse, destroy him for what he was?

  He shuddered, the memory of Sid’s warnings echoing in his mind. The idea of leaving Uncle’s reach had always felt like trading one cage for another. Was this what that cage looked like? A golden opportunity, gilded with lies and danger?

  Thorne’s gaze fell to the scroll again. Its faint hum of power was reassuring, yet it felt like a weight pressing on his chest. Aetherhold was his dream. His salvation. But it could just as easily be his undoing.

  The crystal in his hand pulsed once more, as if sensing his hesitation, its glow intensifying for a brief moment before dimming. The rhythmic vibration felt like an invitation. A promise.

  Thorne took a deep breath, his mind churning.

  Aetherhold wasn’t just a place of power; it was a place of scrutiny. The people there didn’t just use aether, they studied it, dissected its every nuance. And his powers, his connection to aether, were different. He didn’t need incantations, sigils, or wands. He didn’t even need ambient aether to cast spells, his core did the work for him, channeling raw energy with nothing more than his will.

  That difference wouldn’t go unnoticed.

  Thorne swallowed hard, the memory of the ball in Valewind flashing through his mind. The red-haired noblewoman, her sharp eyes catching the flicker of his power. She had noticed. It had been a fleeting moment, but it was enough to remind him how vulnerable he was.

  And now, at Aetherhold, he would be surrounded by people who made their lives studying aether. They would see through him in an instant if he wasn’t careful. One mistake, one slip, and the truth would be laid bare.

  He exhaled sharply, the air hissing through his teeth. The crystal’s glow seemed to dim for a moment, as though sensing his turmoil.

  Could he even afford to go?

  The crystal pulsed again, its rhythm steady, calming. Thorne’s jaw tightened.

  He didn’t have a choice.

  The risks were monumental, the dangers obvious, but this was his last chance. Years of searching, years of burying his hope under layers of bitterness and cynicism, all led to this moment. Bea was out there. He could feel it in his core, a faint pull that whispered her name like a promise.

  But this wasn’t just about Bea.

  It was about him. About what he had become, what he could become. The academy was the perfect place to learn more about aether, to master his powers, to understand the depths of his core and the limits of his abilities.

  If he could survive.

  He shook his head, trying to dispel the doubts. He wasn’t that scared boy anymore, cowering under Uncle’s gaze, hiding from the world. He had faced death, fought monsters born of pure aether, and come out alive. He was strong now. Strong enough to carve his own path.

  His gaze drifted back to the glowing scroll. The words on its surface shimmered faintly, the promise of a future just within reach. But promises were dangerous things.

  He would go. He had to. But he wouldn’t go blindly.

  Thorne’s lips curled into a grim smile, his fingers tightening around the crystal. Aetherhold would either be his salvation or his doom. Either way, he would be ready.

  And if it was a trap?

  His eyes narrowed, the aether stirring faintly around him as if responding to his resolve.

  If it was a trap, then they had no idea who they were dealing with.

  Thorne climbed the steep cliffside, his fingers gripping the jagged rocks, his boots scraping against the uneven surface. Each pull, each step, was an outlet for his tangled thoughts. The exertion cleared his mind, but it couldn’t entirely chase away the unease that gnawed at him. He couldn't shake the feeling that this invitation was a trap. A beautifully crafted snare, baited with the thing he desired most, answers.

  And yet, knowing that, he was still willing to walk right into it.

  The thought sent a bitter chuckle past his lips as he hoisted himself over the final ledge, breathing hard. The lighthouse loomed ahead, its familiar silhouette cutting through the horizon. Thorne straightened and wiped his hands on his trousers, his gaze locked on his safe haven.

  I have to be ready, he thought. If I’m doing this, I’ll need more than strength. I’ll need resources, plans, contingencies.

  When he entered the lighthouse, he moved quickly, his mind focused on the task at hand. He crouched in the corner of the room where a loose brick rested in the wall, worn smooth from years of being shifted. Thorne pried it loose, revealing the hidden stash he’d spent years building.

  Inside were pouches of coins, gold, silver, and copper, each neatly tied and tucked into the small hollow. Gems gleamed in the dim light, their facets throwing faint rainbows onto the walls. A few small artifacts rested alongside them, their purposes long forgotten but their value unquestionable.

  Thorne’s fingers ran over the hoard as he quickly calculated its worth. It was an impressive sum, amassed through years of thievery, guild missions, and careful savings. He couldn’t help but feel a grim satisfaction at how well he’d prepared for the day he would need to leave Alvar.

  But was it enough?

  His thoughts turned to Jonah. The man still owed him, a hefty sum, enough to live like a king through the winter. Thorne would collect. He pushed the brick back into place, concealing the stash once more.

  As he stood and dusted off his hands, his thoughts shifted to Sid. The man who had once been his cruel trainer had grown into something like a mentor, even a protector. Over the years, Sid had proven his loyalty in countless ways, keeping Thorne’s secrets, guiding him through dangerous waters.

  And yet, Sid wasn’t without his own secrets. Thorne could see it in the shadowed looks, the careful silences. Those secrets might conflict with his own plans, and Thorne couldn’t afford obstacles, not Sid, not Uncle, not anyone.

  No, he decided, I won’t tell him about the invitation.

  Thorne left the lighthouse, his mind a storm of thoughts as he walked back toward the city. The rhythmic crunch of his boots on the dirt road was almost soothing, though it did little to untangle the web in his head.

  The city gates loomed ahead, and he slipped through with practiced ease, barely noticing the guards or the startled gazes of those who caught sight of his strange, glowing eyes. His feet carried him on autopilot, his mind circling endlessly around his next steps, until he found himself standing in front of Jonah’s shop.

  The windows glowed faintly with light. Thorne pushed the door open and stepped inside, the faint chime of the bell announcing his arrival.

  The shop was quiet, the front counter empty. Shelves were lined with dried herbs, jars of powders, and small, carefully labeled tinctures. The air was heavy with the mingling scents of mint, lavender, and something more acrid.

  Then he heard it, a gentle, rhythmic thump.

  A smile tugged at his lips. He followed the sound to the back of the shop and peeked around the corner.

  There he was, Ben.

  Thorne stepped fully into the small backroom, his lips quirking up in a faint smile as he took in the sight of Ben, hunched over a sturdy wooden table. The man was meticulously grinding dried herbs with a mortar and pestle, his movements steady and precise.

  Ben glanced up at the sound of Thorne’s approach, his sharp eyes widening slightly. For a moment, his hands stilled, the pestle resting mid-motion. His gaze locked onto Thorne’s, and his expression turned to one of stunned curiosity.

  The boy signed quickly, his gestures precise and urgent: “Your eyes. What happened?”

  Thorne leaned casually against the doorframe, but the weight in his chest tightened. He’d known this reaction was inevitable.

  “Yeah,” he said, his voice soft, “they’re new.” He gestured vaguely to his face, the faint humor in his tone not quite reaching his eyes. “Guess I’ve had some... upgrades.”

  Ben’s expression remained serious, his fingers flicking through signs. “Aether?”

  Thorne nodded, stepping closer to the table. “Aether. And a whole lot of it. It's a long story.”

  Ben tilted his head, his silence carrying a weight of expectation.

  Thorne exhaled and sat down opposite him. “I fought it,” he said finally. “The beast. The one everyone’s been whispering about.”

  Ben’s hands moved again, quick and deliberate. “It was you.”

  “I didn’t exactly announce it,” Thorne said dryly, a ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. “But yeah, it was me.”

  The man’s brows furrowed as he continued signing. “People think it was some mage or adventurer. I guessed it was you. I knew for sure when you didn’t show up for days.”

  Thorne sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I was out for two weeks. It took everything I had to stop that thing, Ben. And then some. The aether... it’s different now.”

  Ben raised an eyebrow, gesturing for him to continue.

  Thorne extended a hand, his fingers splayed. The air around his palm shimmered faintly, and then two perfect orbs of aether took form, glowing softly with an otherworldly light. The room dimmed slightly in contrast to their radiance.

  Ben’s eyes widened, disbelief etched across his face. His hands signed slowly, almost cautiously. “You made those?”

  Thorne nodded, a faint smile returning as he dispelled the orbs with a flick of his wrist. “Turns out, I finally understand how to use it. How to wield it.”

  Ben leaned back, his hands falling still for a moment as he processed the revelation. Then he moved again, his signs more deliberate. “It’s dangerous. People will notice. You have to be careful.”

  “I know,” Thorne said, his tone somber. “Believe me, I know. But right now, I just needed to talk to someone who wouldn’t look at me like I’m a monster.”

  Ben’s gaze softened, and he stood, moving to a small shelf and retrieving a dusty bottle of cheap wine. He poured two uneven glasses, sliding one toward Thorne before sitting down again.

  Thorne chuckled. “You’ve been holding out on me, Ben.”

  Ben smirked silently and raised his glass in a mock toast before sipping.

  They sat in companionable silence for a moment, the tension in Thorne’s chest loosening as the minutes passed. The boy’s questions came slowly at first, but they soon picked up pace.

  Ben asked about the fight, his hands moving rapidly as he signed: “What was it like? The beast? The power?”

  Thorne answered patiently, detailing the chaos of the battle, the desperation, and the raw, untamed energy that had coursed through him. Ben listened intently, his expression a mix of awe and concern.

  The hours slipped by, the candles burning low, their flames flickering weakly as the wax pools grew.

  Finally, Ben’s hands stilled, and he leaned back in his chair, signing thoughtfully: “Should we go to the tavern? Darius will be there. Jonah is late.” His expression turned to a faint frown but quickly softened.

  Thorne watched him lock displays and extinguish the last of the candles, preparing to close up the shop. When Ben returned to him, ready to leave, Thorne stopped him with a raised hand.

  “Ben,” he said quietly, his voice heavier than before.

  The young man tilted his head, his brows knitting together.

  “I have to tell you something,” Thorne said, his throat tightening around the words. He took a deep breath, steadying himself.

  “I’m leaving, Ben.”

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