Thorne stumbled forward as the light spat him out, boots scuffing against a floor of polished marble veined with gold. He blinked, adjusting to the sudden shift from blinding radiance to the warm, honeyed glow of mage-lights drifting lazily overhead.

The chamber was vast, its ceiling lost somewhere in a haze of suspended motes. It was half library, half labyrinth, though the "shelves" were nothing but towering frames of carved stone, each holding a shimmering portal in place of books. Portals of every shape and size rippled faintly, some as tall as buildings, others barely large enough for a man to crawl through. They lined the walls in neat ranks, stretching away into the dim distances like an endless archive of worlds.

The floor between them was a puzzle of winding paths, low stone walls, and alcoves where yet more portals glimmered like captured moonlight. The air hummed faintly, thick with the static of constant transit. Somewhere far off, a voice was reciting what sounded like departure coordinates, followed by the dull thrum of an activation.

"Come on," a voice drawled beside him.

Thorne turned to find a mage in long, wine-red robes standing there. The man looked like he'd been roused from a nap, his coppery hair was mussed, his belt askew, and his eyes half-lidded with disinterest. He gave Thorne a once-over, then yawned and started down one of the winding paths without waiting for a reply.

Thorne followed, realizing almost immediately that without a guide, he'd have been hopelessly lost. The "library" wasn't just large, it was a maze in three dimensions, with paths splitting unexpectedly, portals stacked above and below in dizzying patterns, and occasional staircases leading to entirely new tiers of the archive.

As they walked, his thoughts drifted back to the citadel, its golden towers, its spirals of impossible gardens, the suffocating order that pressed down on everything. And Varo.

Varo's words lingered like a splinter under the skin.

You're chosen by the Light. That is final.

The tone had been light, almost careless, but Thorne had heard the weight beneath it. The certainty. The absolute absence of choice.

He thought of the army without end, of the Fifth Light tearing apart a kingdom as casually as a child scattering stones, of the slaves in the compound and the boy, an elderborn, bent over his menial task with a silver chain biting into his arm.

And Varo, with his unpredictable shifts from manic charm to barely leashed violence. His double-edged promises. His mockery of "choice" as though it were a quaint superstition.

Thorne's jaw tightened. There had been truths in what Varo said, ugly truths, but also misdirections, gaps, and deliberate provocations. The man had shown him power beyond anything he'd seen before, but also its price.

And still… there had been that slip. That tiny admission that not every future ended with him serving the Empire. That somewhere, however narrow the path, there was a way out.

The sleepy mage led him around another turn, past a pair of silent attendants cataloging arrivals with flicks of their fingers over glowing slates. The portals pulsed softly in their frames, each one a doorway to somewhere else. Some shimmered with desert light, others with icy mist or the scent of distant rain.

Thorne's gaze lingered on them, wondering how many led to places like the Citadel and how many led somewhere worse.

The mage left him at the edge of the Convergence Room, muttering something about "paperwork" before shuffling away.

Thorne stepped into the cavernous space and felt the familiar shift in the air. The sigil wheel dominated the center, a vast disc of ancient wood, its grooves glowing faintly as it turned with glacial slowness. Runes spiraled out from the hub like the spokes of a celestial map, each line intersecting with others in dizzying complexity. Ambient aether pooled here, shimmering like heat haze above the carved surface. It always smelled faintly of ozone, as though lightning had just passed through.

He walked along the outer ring, boots clicking against inlaid marble, passing by the shadowed statue of the Umbra house, holding on one hand a candle lit in purple fire and a book on the other. He felt the unseen gaze of the statue on his bone, assessing if he belongs to its domain.

The corridor beyond the Convergence Room sloped downward, the light dimming until it gave way to the dusky violet glow of the Umbra Common Room. Here the ceilings were lower, the air warmer from the hearths that lined the walls. A few stragglers lingered at tables, murmuring over mugs of steaming brew. Others slouched in armchairs, half-asleep. The faint scent of pipe smoke and old parchment clung to everything.

Thorne didn't stop. He crossed the common room, passing by the still pool in the center, that came to life once his reflection touched it. He headed for the alcove at the far side, the one that led to the narrow staircase up to his private room.

He slowed when he stepped into the small living area outside the five rooms.

Isadora was sprawled on the couch.

She was curled slightly on her side, one arm bent beneath her cheek, the other dangling loosely over the edge of the cushions. Her long, dark hair tumbled down across her face in soft disarray, catching the light from the nearby lamp. The burgundy gown she wore shimmered faintly in the dimness, pooling around her legs.

Thorne frowned.

He hadn't wanted to talk to anyone tonight, his mind was too crowded with images of golden towers, endless armies, and Varo's smile, but the way she was positioned left little doubt. She'd been waiting for him. Waiting to hear what had happened with the Empire.

He sighed, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and stepped closer.

He shook her shoulder gently. "Isadora."

Her lashes fluttered. She blinked up at him, eyes glassy and red-rimmed, not from tears, he realized, but from wine… and something sharper. The heavy-lidded haze of indulgence was one he'd seen too often in Uncle's establishments, in the faces of patrons chasing pleasure past the point of sense.

When she recognized him, her lips curved into a sleepy smile.

Then the smile vanished, replaced by a sudden glare.

"Where in the blighted stars were you?!"

Her voice cracked slightly on the last word, part outrage, part relief, part something else entirely.

Thorne arched an eyebrow, letting a faint, sardonic curve touch his lips. "I was enjoying a tour of the Empire," he said evenly, "in case you didn't know."

He was sure she did know. Word traveled fast in Aetherhold, especially about anything involving the Empire of the First Light. This wasn't curiosity; this was her fishing for details. Testing him.

Isadora's unfocused gaze lingered on him for a moment, the blankness behind her eyes making it hard to tell if she'd even heard him. Then she blinked slowly and murmured, "Right… I think I heard about it."

She pushed herself upright with a groan, dragging her hands back through her hair until the dark strands spilled messily over her shoulders. Thorne studied her, frowning. There was something off here. No sharp questions. No interest. No probing about what he'd seen or who he'd met.

Which meant either she didn't actually care, unlikely, or this was all a play.

His old instincts stirred like an animal waking, that prickling sense of caution spreading through him.

Isadora stood abruptly, the shift in movement almost too sudden for her languid state. "Come on," she said, voice a shade too light. "Let's go to my room. I need… something to take my mind off things."

Before he could respond, her fingers wrapped around his wrist, warm, firm, and she was already leading him toward her door.

The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

Thorne frowned. "What's wrong?"

"I don't want to talk about it," she said without looking back.

Her door shut behind them with a muted click. She didn't bother with the lights; the faint glow from a crystal sconce bathed the room in a low amber wash. She guided him toward the bed like it was preordained, pushing at his shoulders until he sat.

Then she climbed onto the mattress, straddling him in one fluid movement.

Thorne looked up at her, the amber light catching in her eyes, turning the russet in them almost molten. Her hands slid down to the hem of his coat, starting to tug it open, until he caught her wrists, stilling them.

"What's wrong?" he repeated, voice quieter now but sharper at the edges.

For a heartbeat, she held still. Her breath came just a fraction faster, her pupils a little too wide. Then she spoke, almost whispering, as if the words themselves might turn dangerous if said too loud.

"I mastered my second spell."

Thorne's brows lifted despite himself. Impressive. So far, he'd fully mastered only one, most students in their year hadn't even done that.

"It's only a small, simple spell," she continued quickly, "but still… I mastered it."

Thorne tilted his head, confused. "And that's… bad? Why?"

Isadora's eyes found his, wide and bright with something he couldn't place, pride, fear, maybe both. Her voice was steady, but her gaze carried a weight behind it.

"I'm a prodigy," she said softly. "Just like you."

He blinked, the words hanging there between them. That explained the earnestness in her expression… but not the tension wound so tightly in her posture.

Again, he asked, "Why is that bad?"

She shook her head, almost violently, as if to dislodge the thought before it could fully form. "No more talking," she said, her tone clipped but not unkind.

Then she leaned forward and kissed him.

It wasn't the kind of kiss meant to seduce, it was urgent, almost desperate, the press of someone trying to drown out the noise in their own head. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt as if anchoring herself to him, holding him there in that moment, away from whatever had driven her to this point.

***

A gentle shake stirred Thorne from the warm haze of sleep. His eyes cracked open to find Isadora standing at the side of the bed, pulling on her Aetherhold uniform with slow, deliberate movements. She was half-dressed, the sky-blue shirt of the uniform hanging open to reveal the soft line of her waist, the curve of her hip. She slid one leg into the tailored trousers, the fabric whispering as it hugged her form.

She noticed his gaze and smirked faintly, her airy, teasing self once more. Whatever had cracked through her composure the night before was gone, buried under layers of charm and practiced ease.

"Get up, sleepyhead," she said lightly. "We'll be late for class."

Thorne only groaned in response, staying where he was, the silk sheets tangled around him. Subtle light filtered through the curtains, impossible hues from the enchanted galaxy beyond, catching in the strands of her dark hair as she moved about the room. He propped himself up on one elbow, watching her with the kind of quiet appreciation he didn't bother to hide.

"Are we going to talk about last night?" he asked.

She didn't even pause in buttoning her shirt. "No," she said simply, then glanced at him with a playful glint in her eyes. "What we are going to talk about is you being the man of the hour. An invitation by the Empire and in front of half the school? Now that's impressive."

Thorne smiled faintly at her neat sidestep. He'd caught the deflection, but he didn't press. If she didn't want to speak of it now, he would respect that.

"So you did hear about it," he said as she began fastening subtle accessories to her uniform, small touches that made her stand out without breaking the academy's strict dress code.

Isadora's eyes met his in the mirror as she tied her hair back into a sleek ponytail. "Everyone heard about it," she said. "It's no small thing to be escorted by one of the Emperor's personal light..." she let the word hang, an unspoken title heavy between them, "... and get a tour of the Empire."

Her tone shifted just slightly, losing its flirty lilt. "People will ask questions."

Thorne finally swung his legs over the side of the bed, stretching before standing. "Let them ask," he said, buttoning his shirt with deliberate calm. "They'll get no answers."

Isadora gave a soft laugh. "I wouldn't be so sure. I'm certain emissaries and informants have already been sent to every kingdom with a stake in the game. Everyone's afraid the Empire will set its eyes on them next. For them to choose you…" She leaned against the dresser, looking at him with something almost like caution. "…you must be important. Valuable enough that some will try to take you from the Empire's grasp, even if it risks their wrath."

Thorne chuckled under his breath, shaking his head as he stepped toward the door. "I'll see you later in class."

"Thorne."

He paused, his hand on the latch, but didn't look back.

"Be careful the next few days."

He gave a small nod and left without another word.

The Astral Hall shimmered with its usual midday glow, the vaulted ceiling a projection of the outside sky, only here, the clouds drifted faster, painted in exaggerated shades of gold and ivory. Sunlight pooled through the enchanted dome in liquid ribbons, spilling across the long banquet tables. The scent of spiced bread and roasted game mingled with the faint hum of magic woven into the walls, keeping the food perpetually warm and the air pleasantly cool despite the crowd.

Thorne sat midway down one of the central tables, a plate of smoked river fish and roasted vegetables in front of him. The Caledris students had gathered around as they often did, though today the air felt… different.

Rowenna was beside him, her posture as straight as ever, but unusually quiet. She hadn't even mocked Elias during class that morning, a miracle in itself. Instead, she pushed a fork idly through her food, her grey eyes darting occasionally toward him.

Further down, Lucien and Ronan were bickering over some absurd theory about spell efficiency, their voices just low enough to keep from attracting a professor's glare. Across from Thorne, Gariddan was carving a roast with meticulous precision, his shoulders tense, as though aware of the way the room kept glancing in their direction.

And they were glancing. Thorne felt the weight of it with every bite. Students at nearby tables whispered behind raised hands, heads leaning together like conspirators. A pair of older students at the far end didn't even try to hide their staring. Others, when they met his gaze, quickly looked away as if caught doing something dangerous. It wasn't hostility exactly, more a cocktail of curiosity and caution. The Empire's shadow was long, and it had fallen squarely over him.

The floating crystal orbs that lit the hall flickered subtly whenever someone's whisper contained his name, tiny sparks of aether reacting to the sound.

He kept eating, pretending not to notice, though his mind was cataloging every look. The Empire's interest was public now, and in a place like Aetherhold, that meant everyone was deciding how it changed his value, to them, to their kingdoms, to their enemies.

A ripple in the air by the main doors broke his thoughts. Vivienne swept in, her jewelry, each one more extravagant than the next, shimmering faintly as she moved, catching motes of conjured starlight from the floating chandeliers. She made a beeline for their table, ignoring the stares she was drawing, and wedged herself between Gariddan and Ronan with the grace of someone who had never once asked permission in her life.

"Okay," she announced, voice carrying just enough to hook nearby ears, "I have news."

The Caledris table collectively perked up. Even Lucien stopped mid-sentence.

Vivienne's eyes gleamed. "About the prince of Caledris."

Thorne instinctively glanced toward the doors for Isadora. She was nowhere in sight. Which was a problem, Isadora was the only one who could rein Vivienne in before her penchant for gossip and barbed comments became… pointed.

Vivienne leaned forward conspiratorially. "I've confirmed he's in our year. But get this, he might have come here under another kingdom's banner. To hide his identity."

She let the words hang, savoring the little gasps and murmurs they provoked. Then her gaze slid to Thorne, and she smiled with saccharine sweetness.

"So it's definitely not you," she said, almost purring the words. "I always knew it couldn't be you. I mean, that whole offer from the Empire made it pretty clear. They'd never approach the son of the king. Besides…" She grimaced, her nose wrinkling as though the next words tasted foul. "You're so… lowborn."

Thorne rolled his eyes and speared another bite of fish, letting the insult pass like smoke through open fingers.

Rowenna, beside him, seemed indifferent to the conversation about the prince, at least outwardly. But her gaze was still locked on him with an unnerving intensity, as though she was trying to read something in his face that he didn't want anyone reading.

Lucien broke the silence. "Well, if he's not one of us, then who could he be?"

"Someone close to Caledris," Ronan said thoughtfully, drumming his fingers against the enchanted table. Each tap produced a ripple of color through the wood. "The king wouldn't risk sending his son without trusted allies nearby."

"Or," Gariddan said without looking up from his plate, "he could be here without allies at all. To test him. To see if he can survive on his own."

"That's ridiculous," Vivienne cut in. "The king would never risk that. My bet is on one of the Solmyran students. They're practically Caledris' lapdogs these days."

"Or maybe the prince is hiding as a commoner among the merchants," Lucien mused. "Wouldn't that be poetic? Learning from the people he'll one day rule?"

Ronan snorted. "Poetic, yes. Likely, no. He'd have to hide his magic levels, and that's not exactly easy here."

They spiraled into a rapid-fire round of theories, each more far-fetched than the last. One suggested he was disguised as a professor's assistant. Another swore he must be living among the beastkin students. Vivienne scoffed at both, tossing out increasingly absurd ideas of her own.

Then Rowenna's voice cut through the chatter like a blade.

"Are you really going to accept the Empire's offer?"

The table fell silent. Even the enchanted chandeliers above seemed to dim slightly, their drifting motes of light pausing mid-air.

Thorne met her gaze, and for a moment, neither spoke. Around them, the hall resumed its noise in hesitant waves, but the stares hadn't gone anywhere.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.