Thorne didn't walk.

He ran.

Boots pounding down the marble halls of the Arcanum Ring, past the open dueling terraces and the silent coliseums that towered like broken teeth around him. Every arch he passed bled late-afternoon light, glowing with the amber hue of sinking sun filtered through aether glass. He didn't stop. Didn't think.

He left the Arcanum Ring behind entirely, not even bothering to hand over the training ring key or the notification crystal for his payment.

His only thought was:

Varo.

Gods above, he'd hoped to never hear that name again.

He was supposed to ignore them. That was the plan. A stupid, desperate, doomed plan, but a plan nonetheless. Pretend the Empire's offer never arrived. Pretend the threats were exaggerations. Pretend that maybe, just maybe, someone like him could slip through the cracks of history without drawing the gaze of empires and monsters.

He knew it was a stupid idea.

Even when he'd said it aloud to Argessa, it had sounded like a lie he was telling himself just to function. But there were already too many fires in his life. Too many knives hanging overhead. Varo, the Empire, was one weight too many.

But the Empire of the First Light didn't send offers. They sent verdicts.

And Varo?

Varo was the executioner who smiled while he sharpened the blade.

By the time Thorne reached the main courtyard, his breath was sharp in his lungs. His heart drummed not from exertion, but from the slow constriction of dread curling through his chest like iron vines.

He could tell something was wrong immediately.

There was a crowd. A dense ring of students gathered near the center of the courtyard, murmuring, shifting, some standing on benches to get a better look.

And in the middle of it all, standing like a priest at the altar of madness, was him.

Varo.

Impossible to mistake.

His silver-white hair fell in braided coils, tied with clasps of etched bone. His robes reached the ground, long and fluid and wrong, shimmering with the suggestion of movement even when he stood still. The fabric hissed around him, dragging across the stone like whispers in a graveyard. Not silk. Not wool. Something else.

Living.

And stitched across his chest, embroidered in gold thread that pulsed with quiet power, was the symbol of the Empire of the First Light:

A sun cresting the edge of a jagged horizon, rays curling upward like grasping hands.

The Empire's mark of dominion.

Behind him, a formation of a dozen imperial guards stood like statues, encased in ceremonial armor the color of molten gold, trimmed with obsidian lines and studded with aetheric runes. Their helms bore blank visors, and no part of them moved.

But Thorne could feel them.

The air around them bent, warped slightly with the massive enchantments layered into the armor. Runes that bled heat. Wards designed to suppress magic. These were not academy golems or glorified doormen.

They were killers.

As Thorne watched, one overly eager student stepped a little too close, just a foot over the invisible perimeter that surrounded Varo.

A sudden crack of force lashed out like a whip. The student was flung backward ten feet, crashing into the cobblestones with a yelp of pain. Several students gasped. One girl laughed nervously.

The guards didn't move.

They hadn't even looked at the student. The enchantments had done the work for them.

And Varo?

Varo just kept smiling.

That strange, crooked, off-kilter smile that didn't quite belong on his sharp, elegant face. The kind of smile you might see on a statue in the middle of a nightmare, beautiful and utterly wrong.

Thorne pushed through the outer ring of students; he caught fragments of Varo's voice drifting on the breeze.

"... Oh, but what is lineage," he was saying, tone musical, playful, "if not an accident of gods who were drunk on starlight and too lazy to clean up afterward?"

Soft laughter. Students enthralled. A few visibly swooning.

Varo twirled something in his fingers, a silver coin with a hole through its center, flipping it once, twice, thrice, as if the rhythm helped him think. His silver-irised eyes, rimmed in black, like a burning eclipse, flashed as he spun the coin again and again.

He saw everything.

Every gaze. Every breath. Every little lie people told themselves just to get through the day.

And then...

He froze.

Mid-sentence.

Mid-spin.

And slowly, like a blade unsheathing itself, Varo turned his head.

Thorne stepped into the courtyard fully and Varo's eyes locked onto him.

The grin that bloomed across his face was instant and feral.

"Ah." His voice rose like silk cut with shattered glass. "There you are."

Thorne stopped walking.

Every single student followed Varo's gaze and turned to look at him.

Just like that, he was the center of the storm.

"Thorne," Varo said, almost purring the word. "My black star. You've been hiding from me."

His voice wasn't loud, but it carried, clear and unnatural. Like it bent around the air itself. Every syllable slid into the ears and minds of those nearby whether they wanted it or not.

Thorne's jaw clenched. He said nothing.

Varo stepped forward, robes coiling behind him like a living shadow, and extended his arms as if to embrace the world. Or him.

"You kept me waiting," Varo cooed. "And I'm so patient, Thorne. You know that. But even I have limits."

Another step. The guards didn't move. They didn't need to.

A girl next to Thorne gasped softly, elbowing her friend. "Is he talking about you?"

Thorne wanted to sink into the stones.

"Come now," Varo said. "Don't be shy in front of your little friends. This is historic! This is the moment a humble boy from a ruined village meets destiny."

He spread his arms wider. "I have arrived to collect you."

Thorne's stomach turned. His throat felt like sandpaper. He forced his breathing to remain steady.

He couldn't fight here. Couldn't run.

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Not with half of Aetherhold watching. Not with those guards. Not with him.

Varo's eyes never left him. They shimmered like moonlight drowning in ink.

"You've gotten stronger," he said gently. "Look at you. A little wolf pup thinking he's a storm."

Thorne said nothing.

Varo's smile widened.

"Still not speaking? How adorable. I do love it when they're nervous. Though I'd hoped you'd be more talkative after our last meeting. Do you remember it? Of course you do. That little vision I shared with you. The one where your friends bled and your bones were scattered across the snow? Oh! No, that was someone else! You were the one who bowed!"

Thorne flinched. Just a little.

Varo saw it.

And grinned.

"Oh, yes," he whispered. "You remember."

The moment Varo said you remember, Thorne knew he couldn't let another second pass in silence.

Because he did remember.

Every distorted vision. Every broken moment Varo had shoved into his core. The suffocating dread of futures that may or may not come to pass. Of losing everyone. Of bowing. Of becoming something else entirely.

He remembered.

But no one here could know that.

Not the students craning their necks in awe. Not the professors watching from the far balconies, hidden in glamours. And definitely not Varo, whose every breath was a trap waiting to be sprung.

So Thorne took a breath.

And activated everything.

Acting Mask of Deceit Sculpted Persona

A warmth surged across his skin, not from fire, not from magic, but from the slow, deliberate coiling of performance around truth. He straightened his spine, lifted his chin, and let the fear burning in his gut drain away behind the mask.

A blink.

A breath.

A smirk curling at the edge of his mouth.

"Varo," Thorne said smoothly, voice cool and amused, like the arrival of this deranged collector was a mild inconvenience during his afternoon walk. "You always did know how to make an entrance."

Several students nearby tittered nervously. A few laughed outright, sensing a shift in the air. Someone whispered, "Gods, he's brave."

Varo's eyes lit up with glee.

"Oh, bravo!" he exclaimed, clapping once, just once, but the sound seemed to echo unnaturally across the courtyard. "A mask, a mask! How delicious."

He leaned in, close enough for Thorne to see the madness swirling in his eyes, like thunderclouds behind crystal. "Social skills? You are adorable! I can smell them. Fabrication. Like perfume on a blade. Well done, little actor. You'll need it."

Then, without warning, Varo threw an arm around Thorne's shoulders.

The students gasped.

Thorne didn't move.

He couldn't afford to.

Varo turned him gently, like presenting a trophy to a crowd, and guided him to face the semicircle of onlookers.

"Behold!" Varo declared, his voice rising with theatrical grandeur, his free arm sweeping wide. "A moment of legend, born in the blood and brilliance of Empire!"

The golden guards behind him remained motionless, looming like statues of judgment.

"This young man..." Varo continued, gesturing to Thorne with open adoration, "... has been chosen."

His voice lilted with reverence, as if invoking a sacred rite.

"For the first time in decades, the Empire of the First Light extends its hand across the sea to this humble bastion of education. To offer sanctuary, knowledge, greatness, to one whose potential transcends bloodlines, politics, and nation-states."

A hush fell over the crowd. Even the wind had quieted.

Thorne kept his mask in place. Calm. Collected. A smirk tugging at the edge of his lips, as if he were in control.

His heart pounded like war drums in his ears.

Varo's grip tightened, just slightly.

"The Emperor, in his benevolence, sees not only raw power, but refined rarity. And so," Varo said, pivoting back to Thorne with a grin too wide, too sharp, "I am here to offer you a taste of the wonders of the Empire. Just a taste. A sip from the divine cup."

He leaned close again, his whisper meant only for Thorne.

"You can't decline, of course. But isn't it better when they cheer for you?"

Then louder, for all to hear:

"With his acceptance, a new chapter begins! A bridge between our glorious Empire and the academic jewel of Aetherhold!"

The students didn't know what to do, some clapped, others looked confused. But all of them were watching Thorne. Staring.

Some with envy.

Some with awe.

Some… with fear.

Inside, Thorne's thoughts spun.

He's making this public. That's the move. If I say no now, it's treason. If I say yes, I'm marked. Not just by the Empire, but by everyone else. Every faction. Every watcher.

It was a trap made of silk.

One that bled consequences no matter how gently he tried to move.

He smiled wider. "That's very flattering, Varo," he said slowly. "Though I'm not sure my schedule will allow for divine revelations this semester. Bit crowded, what with class and all."

The students chuckled.

Varo grinned, delighted.

"Oh, but that's why I adore you, Thorne. Such spirit."

Varo finally let go, stepping back like a magician after the finale of his best trick. And in some twisted sense, it had been a trick, a performance for the gawking students, a trap strung up with gold embroidery and imperial glory.

The smile never left Varo's lips as he gestured lazily to one of the side archways branching off the courtyard. "Now, come. We've delayed long enough. The Emperor's schedule waits for no one. Even someone as… charmingly unpunctual as you."

Thorne gave a noncommittal shrug, letting the performance continue. He fell into step beside Varo, even as his stomach curled inward.

The dozen golden-armored guards surrounded them in a protective ring, their steps measured, their presence suffocating. It was like being caught inside a slowly closing cage that moved with him.

As they walked toward the lesser-known eastern archway, a side entrance most students rarely used, Varo began talking again.

Not conversation.

Rambling.

Madness laced in honey.

"Did you know," Varo mused, "that the stars were originally fish? It's true. Scales like suns, they leapt into the sky when the world was young. That's why some dreams smell like brine."

Thorne didn't answer. He didn't even blink. Just kept walking, letting the words slide over him like oil over water. Ignore. Don't react.

Varo twirled his silver coin again.

"It's also why mirrors hate being cleaned. They miss the dust. The residue of human thought. It makes them feel important, you see."

Thorne nodded slowly. "Naturally."

Varo beamed. "Ah, you do get it!"

They passed beneath the low arch, emerging into a hidden portion of Aetherhold's campus, the stables.

An enclosed area open to the sky, but walled off from the rest of the academy by thick wards and reinforced structures. The scent hit Thorne first, a maelstrom of odors. Wet fur. Burnt ozone. Musk, piss, blood, cinnamon for some godsdamned reason.

And then...

The sound.

A shriek. No, a hiss, so loud it wasn't even heard as much as felt. Thorne's teeth vibrated in his skull. His vision shuddered. Somewhere nearby, a stablehand dropped a stack of enchanted feed buckets and sprinted the opposite direction.

There were dozens of holding pens. Some open-air, some behind enchanted gates. Magical beasts thrashed and snarled and paced in their enclosures. But the centerpiece was impossible to miss.

A palace.

A miniature golden palace, tucked inside the stable grounds like a crown sitting among straw and dust. Ornate banners rippled from the spires, imperial glyphs glowing faintly. The structure looked impossibly decadent in this place of grit and noise.

And coiled around it...

Was a serpent.

A massive, winged creature, its scales a shimmering gradient of emerald, gold, and dusk-blue. Each breath it took rattled the stone foundations beneath Thorne's feet. Chains of raw aether, black-silver and constantly shifting, looped around its body and anchored it to shimmering pylons around the palace.

The beast's twin wings unfurled, nearly brushing the tops of the outer wall. Its tongue lashed the air like lightning. And that hiss came again, punctuated by a roar that made several magical barriers shimmer in defense.

Stablehands ducked. A griffon in the far pen screamed in panic.

Varo sighed with genuine fondness.

"Home sweet home," he said, grinning at the palace. "And that, oh, that, is Tzelkrith."

He gestured proudly to the serpent, who had begun tightening its coils around the palace as if guarding it from every soul nearby.

"My darling Tzelkrith. Isn't he just precious?"

Thorne blinked, lips parting slightly. "He's the size of a castle."

"And a better conversationalist than most courtiers." Varo's grin stretched wider. "He hates politics but loves drama. Very sensitive soul. We have tea sometimes."

Thorne's eyes narrowed. He couldn't look away from the beast. Tzelkrith's tail was thicker than most tree trunks. Its wings were tattered, but not from damage, more like wear, like old parchment that had flown through too many storms. Its eyes, when they flicked open, were ancient. Pale. Terrifying.

Thorne nodded, deadpan. "You should feed him less. He's chunky."

The serpent stopped moving.

Dead still.

Then...

Its head snapped toward Thorne.

The hiss this time was a wail, and the creature's wings flared wide, creating a shockwave that sent nearby hay flying. Several lesser beasts shrieked in fear. Two stablehands dropped flat to the ground.

Dust swirled in the air. A gust slammed against Thorne.

Still, he didn't move. Didn't flinch.

He simply stared back at the serpent, expression unimpressed.

"You should house-train your pet."

Varo howled with laughter.

His knees nearly buckled as he doubled over, wheezing and clutching his sides.

"Oh, Thorne... Thorne, you'll kill me! You're delightful! But maybe don't insult Tzelkrith to his face. He can understand you. And he holds grudges like a jealous god."

Thorne glanced at the serpent again. Its pupils were vertical slits of molten gold. He thought, just for a second, that it winked.

He wasn't sure if that was worse.

Varo wiped a tear from the corner of his eye.

"Gods, you really are everything the Empire hoped you'd be." His grin turned sharp again. "Now, come. We have a strict itinerary to follow."

He clapped his hands once.

The doors of the miniature palace opened themselves.

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