The courtyard of Aetherhold shimmered in the morning light, its fountains spilling crystal streams into air that smelled faintly of ozone. Thorne sat with his friends on an enchanted bench that stretched obligingly wider each time someone joined, as though even the furniture had been trained to accommodate the egos of mages-in-training.

Lucien was in high spirits, as usual, flicking his fingers to produce a palm-sized orb of fire that he kept tossing from hand to hand like it was a toy. Each time he caught it, the flames shifted color, blue, green, violet, before snapping back to red.

"You're going to set your sleeve on fire," Thorne muttered without looking up from the spellbook on his lap.

Lucien grinned. "Not this time. I perfected the control weave." The orb promptly fizzled out, leaving a scorch mark on the sleeve of his uniform. Lucien examined it with mock tragedy. "Fine. Ninety-eight percent perfected."

Elias snorted through a mouthful of bread. He had a sandwich in one hand and a napkin in the other, which he waved with unnecessary drama as he spoke. "Nyssha, tell me something. Do darklings eat normal food? Or do you just… I don't know… absorb ambient aether from the air like plants?"

Nyssha blinked at him, her expression as unreadable as always. Her voice brushed all their minds at once, cool and precise. We eat. Darklings, like most races, have their preferences of course. She paused deliberately, tilting her head as if deciding whether to indulge his nonsense. For instance, I quite like candied ginger. Roasted venison with ironroot glaze. And fermented kelp, though not everyone appreciates that one.

Lucien made a gagging sound. "Fermented kelp? That's not food, that's a punishment."

Elias grinned. "See? That's fascinating. You look like a statue come to life, and yet your favorite meal is basically the smell of a harbor."

Nyssha's golden veins pulsed faintly brighter. At least I don't eat whatever that is, she said, gesturing to his sandwich. It smells like regret and mediocrity.

Lucien barked a laugh loud enough to turn a few heads. Elias sputtered crumbs everywhere and tried to defend himself, but Nyssha had already turned her gaze serenely back to the fountains, as though she hadn't just eviscerated him in front of his peers.

Thorne let the banter wash over him, his smile faint but distant. His spellbook lay open on his knees, a page describing a complex offensive array sketched in fine ink. He traced the sigils with a finger, pretending to weigh the merits of learning something advanced like Maris or Tavric would, big, showy, devastating spells, or shoring up the basics he hadn't fully mastered yet.

But the truth was, he wasn't reading. Not really.

It had been three days since he'd sent Fen on his errand. Three days without a glimpse of the boy's dirty-blond head darting through the crowds, without a whispered update or cocky grin. Three days too long.

Thorne's eyes lingered on the inked diagrams, but his mind was far away, locked on a single, gnawing thought. What if I sent him to his death?

Nyssha's gaze lingered on him, sharp and unblinking. The golden lines under her obsidian skin pulsed in a steady rhythm, like a heartbeat made visible. You look worried, she said, her voice brushing against his mind like cold silk.

Thorne didn't answer. He kept his eyes on the open spellbook in his lap, tracing a sigil with his finger as though he were studying it.

Your jaw clenches when you're distracted, she continued. Earlier, when Lucien scorched his sleeve, you didn't laugh. You always laugh when he makes a fool of himself. Your shoulders are tense. And you haven't turned a single page since you sat down.

Elias looked up from his sandwich, a crumb stuck to his chin. "She's right, you know. You've been glaring at that page like it insulted your mother."

Lucien smirked. "Maybe it did."

Thorne sighed inwardly. Enough. He let the Mask of Deceit unfurl. The shift was subtle but undeniable, his posture relaxed, his expression softened into one of mild amusement, his entire presence smoothing into something calm, unreadable, perfectly in control.

Nyssha blinked once, her silver-white hair catching the light. Fascinating, she murmured, her voice cool even as her interest sharpened. And slightly disturbing.

She leaned the barest fraction forward. That was not natural. Is it a… social skill?

Thorne gave her a short nod, lips quirking.

Her veins glowed faintly brighter. Interesting.

He arched a brow. "Why interesting?"

Before she could answer, Lucien spoke up, his frown cutting into his usually careless face. "Hold on. How many of those do you have?"

Thorne waved a hand lazily. "A few."

Elias, mid-bite, froze. "A few?!" he sputtered, half-chewed bread flying onto his sleeve. "I've only got two useful skills, and one of them is bread-making."

Lucien leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "I've only got one. One. And you just shrug and say you've got a few?"

All three of them stared at him, Elias still clutching his sandwich like a weapon, Lucien glaring like Thorne had personally cheated him, and Nyssha studying him with that unnervingly calm, dissecting look of hers.

Finally, Thorne snapped, "What?"

Nyssha's voice was smooth and cool as glass. Because social skills are not common. Most never see more than one in their lifetime.

Thorne frowned. "That can't be true. I've met plenty of people with them."

And every one of them? Nobility I imagine. Her voice was matter-of-fact, like she was stating a theorem. Skills reflect the roles we're forced into. A guard receives battle skills. A hunter, movement. A worker, utility. Nobles… they are given what they need to survive courts, politics, and lies. Skills to smile while plotting, to bow while scheming, to disarm while concealing a blade.

Lucien cut in, his eyes narrowing further. "Then why do you have so many, Thorne? You keep swearing you're not nobility but maybe you are. Maybe you're the prince after all."

Thorne groaned and snapped the spellbook shut with a sharp thud. "This again? I told you, I'm not a noble. But that doesn't mean I never dealt with them."

Lucien crossed his arms, unconvinced, while Elias had already gone back to eating, clearly more invested in his sandwich than Thorne's supposed secret heritage. Nyssha, though, did not look away. Her eyes were steady, unblinking, the golden veins beneath her skin glowing faintly brighter.

Her voice brushed only his mind, intimate and cutting. I've noticed you using them. Often. Too often. I wouldn't share that openly again; nobles take pride in their social skills. The fact you have several? That could only mean one of two things: either you grew up in a royal court, surrounded by courtiers and intrigue… or your life forced you into deception and lies to survive.

The words hit harder than he expected. He wanted to grimace, to scowl, to show the discomfort twisting in his chest, but Mask of Deceit kept his face smooth, his expression lazily bored.

Then, mercifully, the bells of Aetherhold chimed across the courtyard, their sound clear and resonant. A swell of ambient aether rippled through the air, signaling the start of their next class.

Thorne stood, stretching as though nothing at all had passed between them. Inside, though, his thoughts roiled.

Saved by the bell.

***

The descent down the staircase of light was always strange, weightless, luminous, the air humming with the vibration of wards, but tonight the sensation felt sharper, heavier. Thorne's boots touched the polished stone of Evermist's grand plaza, the fountain at its heart spilling silver water that caught the glow of lanterns.

That was when a man bumped into him. Hard enough to jostle his shoulder, soft enough to look like an accident.

Thorne turned at once, eyes narrowing, but the figure was already gone, swallowed into the river of merchants, tourists, and robed mages threading through the square.

His fingers brushed his coat pocket. A rustle of fabric, the faintest weight. He drew it out without flourish, a folded scrap of parchment, small and unremarkable. He cracked it open with his thumb.

Midnight. Ashen Quay.

No signature, no seal. But Thorne smiled faintly all the same. Humus. The witch played her part well.

Vendors pressed in almost immediately, their voices clashing over one another: enchanted trinkets that glowed faintly, perfume bottles that never emptied, charms promising fortune or protection. Thorne waved them off, slipping into the current of the plaza with practiced ease. His skill Veil of Light and Shadow bloomed around him, cloaking him in soft bends of aether, his figure blurring into the crowd.

He let the chaos of Evermist pass him by, the glow of runed bridges overhead, the swaying light-crystals dangling from balconies, the distant music from taverns where spellfire lit up the rafters. Tonight, none of it mattered.

He ducked into a narrow lane and pressed into the shadows of a shuttered shop. Here, the noise dulled. This was the spot he had agreed to meet Fen.

Three days. Three days since he'd given the boy his first real task. Three days of silence.

Thorne's jaw tightened. If he doesn't show tonight, I'll start searching myself.

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A pang of guilt twisted in his chest. He told himself Fen was clever, quick, too slippery to catch. But the memory of Uncle's voice echoed like a knife in the back of his mind. Orders. Tests. Promises. He had sworn he would never become that. And yet, here he was, waiting for a boy he had pushed into danger.

His eyes scanned the alley, every shifting shadow, every rustle of fabric. Worry gnawed at him like teeth.

Damn it, Fen. Where are you?

Thorne waited, cloaked in the hush of shadows, for more than an hour. His patience was thinning when at last a small figure darted into the lane, fidgeting, shoulders hunched, eyes darting nervously in every direction.

Fen.

Thorne exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Relief loosened something tight in his chest. He stepped away from the wall, the stealth around him dissolving. It took Fen a moment to notice, but when he did, his face split into a grin. It was all teeth and bravado, but Thorne saw what lay beneath: fear, exhaustion, hunger. The boy looked like he hadn't slept in days.

"I did it," Fen blurted, pride swelling in his thin chest.

Thorne smiled faintly, keeping his voice steady. "Did you eat?"

Fen hesitated, then shook his head.

"Let's get a bite first," Thorne said. "I'm famished."

Fen nodded quickly, eyes flicking down the street. "Where do you want to eat? I don't know this part of the city very well. You pick," Thorne said.

That was all it took. Fen perked up, grin widening again. "I know just the place!"

He set off with a bounce in his step, Thorne following at an easier pace. The boy could barely contain himself, words bubbling up every few seconds as they walked. "It took me a while. I had to talk to my friends, people who knew things about Brennak..."

"First we eat," Thorne cut in gently, "then we talk business."

Fen shut his mouth but his whole body looked like it was vibrating, ready to burst with the secret he was carrying.

The street they reached was quieter than Thorne expected, mostly residential buildings, their balconies strung with glowing orbs that floated lazily in the air, casting warm light down on cobblestones. Small shops tucked between houses offered late-night fare. Fen's steps quickened toward one in particular: little more than a stall with an open counter, an old man chopping ingredients while enchanted coals flared blue and smokeless beneath his pots.

Fen called out a cheerful greeting. "Master Barro!"

The old man glanced up, thick brows knitting. "You little rat." His voice was rough as gravel, but not unkind. "Where've you been? Haven't seen your scruffy face in days."

Fen ducked his head. "Busy."

Barro stopped mid-dice, his knife gleaming faintly with a ward sigil that made Thorne pause. A cooking blade with wards, that was no mere kitchen tool. The old man pointed it at Thorne, eyes narrowing. "And who's this? You bring trouble to my boy, stranger, I'll gut you right here and the Council will thank me for it."

Thorne slipped easily into his performance. Mask of Deceit, Acting, Echoes of Truth, all weaving into the warm, disarming smile he directed at the man. "A friend. Nothing more."

The old man's eyes remained flinty, unconvinced even under the weight of Thorne's skills. His gaze swept Thorne up and down, like he was measuring a cut of meat. Finally, he huffed and turned back to Fen. "The usual?"

Fen was already nodding, mouth watering. "And for my friend too," he added quickly, jabbing a thumb at Thorne.

"Aha." Barro's grunt carried more weight than the word. He pointed the glowing knife toward two stools outside. "Sit."

They obeyed.

Thorne lowered himself onto the stool and blinked. The wood softened beneath him, shaping itself subtly to his weight, as if it were alive, adjusting to keep him comfortable. Across the street, a pair of stools were doing the same for another couple, shifting minutely as the men leaned forward in conversation.

The world around them was quiet but alive. A mother scolded her two children for chasing fireflies enchanted to sparkle like tiny lanterns; each time the children clapped their hands, the insects burst into harmless motes of starlight before reforming again. A man in work clothes swept the street not with a broom, but with a carpet of enchanted sand that rolled forward, collecting debris before dissolving into nothing. Two apprentices from the artificer's guild hunched over a mechanical bird on a doorstep, adjusting its wings until it gave a sharp metallic trill and flapped away into the night.

Everywhere, magic threaded into the fabric of ordinary life, not the dazzling glamour of nobles but the quiet enchantments of people who had lived alongside it so long they no longer noticed the wonder.

For a fleeting moment, Thorne allowed himself to breathe it in.

And then his eyes flicked back to Fen, thin, dirty, too eager, too tired, and the weight of what came next pressed back onto his shoulders.

They sat in relative quiet, the hum of the street folding around them. Fen fidgeted, swinging his legs under the stool.

"You know," Fen said, lowering his voice like he was sharing a grand secret, "Barro's probably got knives for every occasion. Cooking. Cutting. Gutting." He mimed stabbing something with great enthusiasm. "Wouldn't mess with him."

Thorne smirked. "Duly noted. He didn't exactly roll out a welcome mat for me."

Fen shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "He's like that with everyone. Glares, growls, makes you think he's gonna toss you in the stew. Means he likes you."

Thorne gave the boy a flat look. "Right. I'll try to remember that while he's staring at me like I spat in his soup."

Fen grinned. "That just means he really likes you."

The door creaked open and Barro emerged, balancing two bowls in broad, work-worn hands. He set them down with a thunk in front of the pair, then crossed his arms and loomed above them, eyes still locked on Thorne like he was daring him to complain.

Thorne offered a polite smile. "Thank you."

Barro grunted. No movement. Just stood there.

The silence stretched. Finally, Fen dug in without hesitation, cheeks bulging as he tried to say something with his mouth full.

Thorne sighed, picked up his spoon, and took a cautious bite. He wasn't expecting much, a rough stew of street-vendor quality, good enough to fill the belly.

And then the taste hit.

His eyes widened. The flavors bloomed, rich and layered, meat tender enough to fall apart, broth spiced just enough to sing against his tongue. Aether herbs simmered through it, subtle but potent, the kind that warmed the bones and sharpened the mind.

Thorne moaned, unbidden, a sound slipping past his guard.

Barro grunted again, but this time the corners of his mouth twitched upward, the ghost of a smile.

Fen, cheeks stuffed, jabbed his spoon at Thorne and mumbled something unintelligible, probably Told you it's the best!

Thorne set his spoon down long enough to draw a breath, staring at the bowl in awe. "This… this is the best food I've ever tasted." He shook his head, almost disbelieving. "And I've had extraordinary meals. Uncle's feasts, noble banquets, Aetherhold's Astral Hall… none of them come close to this."

Barro's glare softened, just slightly, like frost giving way to thaw. He gave a satisfied grunt. "Eat up." Without another word, he turned and disappeared back into his shop.

Fen and Thorne needed no further encouragement. They devoured the food, the boy eating like he hadn't seen a meal in days, Thorne savoring each mouthful even as he scraped the bottom of the bowl faster than he intended.

Fen's bowl was empty before Thorne's was half gone. He slouched back on the stool, licking his fingers, eyes darting sideways at Thorne's bowl as though he might steal it if the man looked away. But his eagerness couldn't be contained.

"I did it," he blurted, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "I found it."

Thorne raised a brow, spoon still in hand. "Eat first, then talk. That was the rule."

"I did eat," Fen said, pointing at his spotless bowl. "Now it's your turn to listen."

Thorne chuckled quietly and set his spoon down, giving the boy his full attention. "Go on then."

Fen leaned in, his voice dropping as though the shadows themselves might be listening. "It wasn't easy. Everyone's scared of Brennak's people. Wouldn't talk to me, not even the other kids who run errands near the guildhouse. They said I'd get myself drowned in the canals if I kept asking. So I had to be clever."

He puffed out his chest, clearly proud of himself. "I watched instead. Followed a couple of his toughs, real big beastkin with arms like tree trunks. They don't notice street rats like me. I trailed them for a whole day, even slept in a barrel so I wouldn't lose them."

Thorne's brows lifted slightly. Resourceful. Risky, but resourceful.

Fen continued, eyes shining. "They went to the edge of the city. Out where the rivers cross each other, all tangled up, you know? Almost where Evermist touches the forest. There's this big stone outcrop, like the land couldn't decide if it belonged to the city or the wild. That's where they unload." He grinned, sharp and triumphant. "That's the drop-off point."

Thorne leaned back, fingers steepled. He knew the place; he'd passed it once. A liminal space, neither city nor forest, hemmed in by the wards the council swore no smuggler could breach. And yet Brennak's men were using it freely.

"And," Fen added quickly, "I heard what they're moving. Well… I think I heard. I was hiding under a cart, and they were laughing about it. They said it's some kind of crystal dust. Like ground-up glass, but brighter. You can mix it in drinks, or food. One of 'em said, 'Watch a man choke on it, and he'll never cast right again.' Another laughed and said it makes your spark… smaller? Like you can't hold as much. Not broken, just… shrunk."

Fen frowned, chewing his lip. "I don't really get it. But it sounded important."

Thorne went still. His blood ran cold. Crystal dust that damages the core. Not poison to the body, but to the very channels that hold aether.

He translated silently, the boy's crude report taking on terrible clarity in his mind. A substance that eats at a core's capacity. Permanent. Crippling. A mage's nightmare given form.

"The only thing I still don't know is when the next shipment will be coming. But I can keep digging." Fen leaned forward, expectant. "Well? Was that good enough?"

Thorne forced his expression to remain composed, though his mind was racing. This wasn't simple smuggling. This was sabotage. Whoever supplied Brennak with such a substance wasn't just feeding black markets, they were playing with the very balance of magical power in the city.

"You did well," Thorne said finally, his voice steady, even warm. He reached out and ruffled the boy's hair. "More than well. That was dangerous work, and you handled it better than most grown men would."

Fen beamed, trying to mask it with a cocky shrug. "Told you I could."

Thorne smiled faintly, but inside, the weight of the revelation pressed down like a storm. Crystal powder that devours cores. And Brennak is moving it by the river-crossing. If the council hasn't shut this down, they either don't know, or worse, they've been bought.

His gaze flicked back to Fen, still grinning with the pride of a job well done. A pang of guilt twisted through him. Too young for this. But he delivered. And now I have to use it.

"Eat another bowl," Thorne said, sliding a coin onto the table for Barro without looking. "You've earned it."

Fen's eyes went wide, and before Thorne could take it back, the boy scrambled inside for a second helping.

Alone for a moment, Thorne leaned back on the stool, staring up at the warded sky above Evermist. His hand brushed the pocket where the witch's note still rested. Crystal powder. Smugglers. Hunters beyond the walls. Brennak, Humus, the council, all tangled in the same game.

He exhaled slowly. "This city's about to burn."

Fen's pride kept him upright for as long as it could, but once the second bowl was scraped clean and the warmth of the stew settled in, his eyelids began to droop. He blinked, tried to straighten on the stool, then slumped forward with a yawn he couldn't hide.

Thorne studied him for a moment, jaw tightening. Then he stood and stepped back into the shop.

Barro was at his counter again, chopping with steady rhythm, the warded knife flashing with every stroke. His eyes flicked up as Thorne approached, suspicion carved deep into his lined face.

"Know of an inn nearby?" Thorne asked, keeping his tone level. "Safe, quiet."

Barro narrowed his eyes. "Why?"

Thorne inclined his head toward the boy slouched on the stool outside. "For him. He doesn't have anywhere, does he?"

The knife paused mid-cut. Barro's gaze slid past Thorne to Fen, the hardness in his expression softening at the sight of the listing youth. He grunted, shaking his head. "There's a place down by Moonwater Lane. The Silver Lantern. Keeps out trouble. Tell the keeper Barro sent you."

"Thank you." Thorne reached into his pouch and set a gold coin on the counter.

Barro's eyes bulged. "That's too much."

Thorne smiled faintly. "It's not enough for the best meal I've ever had." He set down a second coin. "And this, feed the boy."

The old man's brows knitted into a frown. "You don't need to pay me for Fen."

Thorne waved the protest away and turned for the door. He had one hand on the frame when Barro's voice followed him, rough and low.

"Why are you helping him?"

Thorne glanced back over his shoulder, the shadows of the shop cutting sharp lines across his face. "Because I was him, a few years back."

Then he was gone.

He shook Fen gently awake. "Come on. First the inn, then…" His smile was sharp as moonlight. "Then my meeting with Humus. And after that, Brennak's smugglers. Looks like I've got a busy night ahead."

Fen rubbed his eyes, stumbling to his feet. "Busy's good," he mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

Thorne's hand tightened briefly on the boy's shoulder. "We'll see."

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