DEADALUS author of AETHERBORN
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CHAPTER 228
🕑 Added 2025-07-07 17:00:12 +0000 UTCThe days blurred and before he knew it the opening ceremony was about to begin.
As Aetherhold stirred from its slumber, the castle came alive with movement. Every morning, new faces arrived, young mages-to-be with luggage enchanted to hover beside them, parents clutching tearful goodbyes, nobles announcing their presence with retinues of fluttering cloaks and quiet enchantments. The hallways grew crowded. Louder.
And in the midst of it all, Thorne walked quietly, hood up.
He spent most of his time with Elias, wandering the spiraling corridors and arching halls of the academy. They climbed towers they weren’t supposed to climb, opened doors they weren’t supposed to open. On one occasion, a suit of animated armor had chased them three floors before declaring them “insufficiently interesting” and going back to sleep.
They laughed about that one for hours.
Thorne saw the others from Caledris on occasion. Isadora, surrounded by a rotating gallery of jeweled nobles; Lucien, always with a book in hand and some viscount or minor baron trailing behind him. They nodded to him when they noticed, but the nobles looked at him strangely. Like he didn’t belong.
Elias, though, Elias didn’t care. He reminded him of Jonah, in the best ways. Clever, fast-talking, and too stubborn to be intimidated by anything. Together they explored the castle and its secrets.
Even if Thorne didn’t say it aloud, part of him was always searching. Hoping. For a sign. A trace. Anything about Bea.
He didn’t know what he was looking for. Just… something.
Two days before classes began, a knock came at his door, not a person, but a bird. A small, metallic songbird made of silver and blue-tinted glass, tapping its beak gently against his door. When he opened it, the bird whirred to life.
“Message from Mistress Argessa,” it sang. “Come to the shop at once. Wear something durable.”
The bird dissolved into a puff of aetheric sparkles.
Thorne sighed.
The shop visit was as bizarrely mundane as always. He was greeted by a pale young assistant with glasses too big for his face and a voice too timid for retail. He was led through a side door and into a narrow room lined with shelves, each one filled with wand cases, each case packed with foci that supposedly had “potential.”
Argessa was nowhere to be seen.
“She’s... away,” the assistant offered, clearly hoping that would be enough.
For the next three hours, Thorne tested wand after wand after wand. Some sparked. Some fizzled. One snapped in half. Most did nothing at all.
“This is a joke,” Thorne muttered around the two-hour mark.
The assistant laughed nervously.
When he finally returned to Aetherhold, worn and unimpressed, he found two messengers waiting outside the House Umbra staircase, both equally irritated and overdressed.
“My masters are waiting for you. He will not appreciate being made to wait longer.”
“My mistress expects you for tea. The invitation is not optional.”
Thorne stared between them, expression blank.
“...Right.”
The first meeting had been with the Verdian Order and it was exactly as stiff and joyless as the rumors promised.
Three men awaited him in a stone chamber etched with militant runes, each one dressed in engraved mageplate polished to an impossible sheen. Their insignia, a golden flame coiled by a serpent, glinted from shoulder to gauntlet. They stood in perfect formation, like statues that had chosen to speak.
They wasted no time.
He was told, not asked, what would be expected of him. That he would be trained for “combat precision,” educated in “transnational magical law,” and deployed, eventually, on field assignments across borders. Their sponsorships were contracts in all but name. Long-term. Rigid. Heavy with obligations.
He would be assigned a regimen. A supervisor. A senior mage-knight to evaluate his “progress in battlefield conduct.” He would be expected to maintain curfews, attend drills, wear uniformed colors, and “abstain from independent magical exploration without clearance.”
Thorne had stopped listening halfway through and started planning his escape.
By the time they used the phrase “refinement through obedience,” he was already thinking of what kind of tea Lady Nyre might serve.
The next morning’s meeting had been more… enigmatic.
Lady Corvessa Nyre met him in a garden balcony perched over one of Aetherhold’s high inner terraces, wind chimes singing in faint, unnatural harmonies behind her. She looked younger than he expected. Tall and pale, wrapped in robes the color of midnight storms, her hair bound with silver thread, eyes like polished slate. Her voice was wind-smoothed stone, soft, but unyielding.
They spoke at length. About magic. About Eltherra, her home. About the burden of strength and what it meant to shape storms with whispers. Her questions were piercing but never harsh, her observations keen. She didn’t try to flatter him or charm him.
But something about her unsettled him.
Not in the way Varo did, coiling secrets behind every word. No, Lady Nyre’s presence was more like pressure. Like standing near the edge of a cliff with an unspoken invitation to fly.
He could tell she was testing him too, though not for weakness. For direction. For purpose.
Her family had once been stewards of a place called the Thunder Archives, where spells were passed down through voice and song, never written. She spoke of the Seventh Gale and the Singing Vaults, of storm-forged grimoires and lightning-bound oaths.
Thorne didn’t know if half of it was real. But when she laughed, quietly and without cruelty, she seemed almost… lonely.
In truth, he wasn’t sure what she wanted from him. Maybe nothing. Maybe just to witness what he would become.
Still, he wasn’t the match she had hoped for either.
And though the meeting wasn’t unpleasant, it was… off. She didn’t want a protégé.
She wanted company.
A companion. A student who would fill the empty corners of her sprawling estate and bring life back to her sun-washed halls. Thorne, with all his cynicism, wasn’t what she’d hoped for.
She offered, gently, to host him if he ever wanted to learn the old traditions. Said her door would always be open.
He thanked her and left before he could say something sharp.
That night, back in the shadow-draped calm of House Umbra’s common room, Thorne sat alone by one of the whispering lanterns. Watching the flame flicker in violet hues. He had no sponsor. No answers.
But at least… he hadn’t made the wrong choice.
And that had to count for something.
*
Thorne adjusted the collar of his uniform as he left his room, the violet lanternlight in the hall flickering as if reacting to his nerves.
It was nearly time for the opening ceremony, and he was already running late. The trip to Argessa’s had taken longer than expected, and when he’d returned, exhaustion had claimed him almost instantly. He’d only just managed to get dressed in time.
The uniform fit well, tailored to his frame with a precision only Vellin’s atelier could’ve managed, but it still felt oddly stiff, as though it were resisting him somehow. Maybe it was the nerves. The first day of formal schooling in Aetherhold loomed just hours away, and tonight’s opening ceremony would mark the true beginning of his life here.
He passed through the common room of House Umbra, now empty save for a few flickering thought-lanterns hovering in idle patterns above the blackstone floors. As he stepped into the passage beyond, the walls around him shimmered, the shadows shifting like whispers. At the end of the corridor stood the ancient wooden wheel, the Sigilwheel, turning slowly in the vaulted chamber beneath the main castle.
It was massive, old as myth, carved with runes that shimmered faintly as it spun. Threads of aether lifted into the air like silver smoke, weaving patterns that danced and scattered with every revolution. As Thorne stepped closer, a faint violet sigil flared beneath his feet, marking his House, the steady flame of a single candle. The light pulsed once in recognition, then faded.
His gaze lifted to the far side of the chamber, where the four bridges led out in perfect symmetry, each guarded by the imposing statue of its respective House. The Umbra statue loomed behind him: a hooded figure cradling a book in one hand and a candle in the other, its face hidden in shadow.
The atmosphere here always felt like standing inside a giant heartbeat, quiet, rhythmic, heavy with purpose. Thorne exhaled slowly and crossed the bridge, the candlelight dimming behind him.
As he emerged into one of the side halls leading toward the Astral Hall, he heard quick steps approaching from an adjacent corridor.
“Thorne?”
He turned, spotting Rowenna rushing forward, her hair messily braided and a small stack of folded parchment clutched in one arm. She slowed as she reached him, chest rising slightly from the pace.
“I thought I’d be the only one running late,” she said, voice slightly breathless.
“You and me both,” Thorne replied, brushing a stray thread from his sleeve. “Long night.”
She gave a self-conscious shrug. “I was reading. Lost track of time.”
Thorne gave her a look. “Reading? Now?”
Rowenna’s cheeks colored faintly. “The syllabus is extensive. I wanted to be prepared.”
“Right,” Thorne said, a corner of his mouth tugging upward. “You’re the only person I know who’d use panic to fuel study.”
She looked him over then, and there was a flicker of hesitation in her expression, almost like she wasn’t sure whether to speak. Then:
“The uniform suits you.”
That gave him pause. “You think so?”
“It’s… well-fitted,” she added quickly, her voice a little too flat to be casual. “You look... good.”
Thorne quirked a brow. “You’re really working on this whole ‘friendly conversation’ thing, huh?”
“I’m trying.”
He noticed then that she’d added a small Caledrisian token to her collar, a roaring lion, finely wrought in gold and red. It stood out against the school-blue fabric, a subtle declaration of her home.
They reached the outer corridor that opened into the Astral Hall, where a crowd had already gathered. Students in rows, talking, laughing, jostling toward the broad arched doors.
“Elias,” Thorne said, spotting a familiar figure up ahead.
The elf was chatting with a small group of other elves, taller, more finely dressed, their features sharp and refined. But Elias stood a little hunched, his uniform sleeves pushed halfway up his arms, his hair wind-tousled. On him, the tailored sky-blue uniform made him look younger, smaller than usual. His slim frame gave off a more delicate presence in contrast to the others.
Rowenna’s expression soured instantly.
Thorne waved. “Elias!”
Elias glanced over and broke into a relieved grin. “Thorne!” He excused himself and jogged over. “You look… very military.”
Thorne shrugged. “Didn’t get a lot of say in the design.”
Elias gave Rowenna a quick nod. “You too. Sharp.”
Rowenna’s mouth twitched but she didn’t reply.
“I saved us seats inside if you want to...”
“We can’t,” Rowenna cut in. “Tradition. First years are expected to sit with their nation’s contingent for the opening ceremony. Especially during the introductions.”
Elias blinked. “Really?”
She nodded. “It’s a sign of respect. And unity. Especially important between the Great Houses.”
Elias sighed, glancing back at the elven students. “I guess that means I’m stuck with the clans. Great.”
“You’ll be fine,” Thorne said.
Rowenna muttered something under her breath about 'slippery tree-folk.'
Elias smirked. “Oh good, we’re bonding.”
Thorne chuckled.
Elias gave them a little salute, backing away. “Catch you both after?”
“We’ll be waiting,” Thorne said.
As Elias moved off, Rowenna crossed her arms, lips tight.
“You really don’t like elves,” Thorne said.
“I don’t like most people,” she replied. Then, quieter, “I just don’t know how to talk to them.”
Thorne raised an eyebrow, slightly amused. “Must make your friends very patient.”
Rowenna hesitated, then murmured almost too low for him to hear, “I only ever had one.”
Thorne caught the name, “Triss.”
He turned to her, curiosity sharp behind his eyes, but she was already walking ahead.
He didn’t press.
But he didn’t forget, either.
“Come on,” he said, catching up. “Let’s go find out what Aetherhold thinks passes for ceremony.”
The doors of the Astral Hall stood wide open, pouring out music and magic in equal measure. From outside, Thorne could already hear the subtle hum of enchanted chandeliers and the soft clinking of silverware. As he and Rowenna stepped through, the world transformed.
The hall had been decorated with blinding precision. Banners representing each of the four Houses, Ignis, Aegis, Zephyrus, and Umbra, hung from the crystalline ceiling, drifting and folding as if caught in a breeze that didn’t exist. Tables sprawled out in neat rows, each house separated by shimmering magical lines that gleamed with their respective colors. Sky-blue uniforms were everywhere, the students decked in various additions, flaring sashes, glowing cuffs, even full-on magical armor for some of the more ostentatious nobles.
Above them, the crystal ceiling of the hall reflected the aether rivers that flowed in the skies, casting moving patterns of light and color across the tables. On one side of the vast chamber, an invisible enchantment parted the wall, revealing the night sky above Evermist and the endless dark forests that clawed at its edges.
Rowenna tugged at Thorne’s sleeve, guiding him wordlessly toward the long table reserved for students from Caledris.
He followed her past a half-dozen nobles already deep in conversation or showboating enchanted baubles. At the center of the table, familiar faces sat waiting.
Isadora, lounging like a queen, a jeweled brooch pulsing at her collar. Lucien, upright and sharp-eyed, draped in a deep red cloak over his uniform, that shimmered with faint defensive wards. Garridan sat near him, looking slightly uncomfortable in his uniform, the golden lion of Caledris stitched proudly over his heart. Vivienne was sipping her drink while pretending not to watch everyone else.
And then there was Ronan, dressed to the teeth in layered magical equipment that made him look more like he was going to war than dinner. His armor gleamed, his family crest, a towering oak in black, stood in sharp contrast against the red sash draped over his shoulder.
As soon as Ronan spotted Thorne, his lips curled.
“Well, look who actually showed up,” he said, voice dry. “Try not to embarrass the rest of us.”
“Hello to you too,” Thorne muttered.
Isadora perked up, sloshing wine dangerously close to her sleeve. “Thorne! Rowenna!” she whisper-shouted, waving them over. “Sit, sit, before Ronan bursts a vein trying to establish dominance.”
Rowenna took a seat without a word, nodding stiffly to the others. Thorne sat beside her, his eyes scanning the tables, the crowd, the banners. There was something electric in the air, anticipation, nerves, the kind of buzz that only came before something meaningful.
Then, from the high dais at the front of the hall, a figure rose.
He looked barely older than any of them. But the moment he stood, silence fell across the room like a dropped curtain.
He was, quite possibly, the most striking man Thorne had ever seen.
Tall, with silver-streaked dark hair and eyes like molten steel, he moved with a grace that defied his age. His uniform was simple, no jewelry, no decoration, except for the silver wand he held in one hand. When he pointed it to his throat and murmured a spell, his voice echoed across the Astral Hall like a perfectly tuned instrument.
“Welcome, students of Aetherhold.”
There was no need to call for quiet. No one dared speak.
“I am Armathyn Vael,” the man continued. “Magister Primus of this institution. Headmaster, if you prefer the simpler title.”
He let that settle, his gaze sweeping slowly across the endless rows of students, from the oldest seventh-years to the wide-eyed firsts.
“To our returning students. Welcome back. May your minds remain sharp and your magic sharper.”
A ripple of laughter.
“And to our first years…” His eyes swept across the hall, and for a brief second, Thorne could’ve sworn they landed on him. “You stand at the beginning of something vast. Something powerful. Something dangerous.”
His tone was even, precise. His voice carried effortlessly, as if the air itself wanted to listen.
“This school has stood for two thousand years. Through four eras. Three wars. Two magical collapses. And one near-apocalypse that you may or may not have studied in your history scrolls.”
A ripple of polite laughter, though none dared be too loud.
“Each time the world frayed, Aetherhold remained. Not by chance. Not by sanctuary. But by design. Because what we do here… matters.”
He took a step forward.
“You may think you are here to become powerful,” he said. “To learn spells. To sharpen your gifts. To forge your name into the world.”
Another step. His voice was steady, but somehow charged.
“And in part, you are right.”
More than a few students sat up straighter, as if waiting for him to tell them how to do exactly that.
“But power,” Armathyn Vael said, “without understanding, is a fire in the hands of a child. Beautiful. Deadly. Unaware.”
The tone shifted. Deepened.
“You are not here to simply grow stronger. You are here to learn why that strength matters.”
His gaze turned toward the first years. Thorne stilled.
“The balance of magic in this world is delicate. Fragile. It must be studied. Protected. Maintained. That is why Aetherhold exists. Not to hoard knowledge, but to channel it. To tame it. And, when necessary… to challenge it.”
The chandeliers above flickered softly, as though stirred by the weight of his words.
“You will be taught to shape aether. To cast spells few outside these walls could comprehend. To navigate the politics, the powers, the truths and half-truths of a world ruled by magic.”
He paused, the room holding its breath.
“But first… you will fail.”
Gasps, rustling, the shifting of students caught off guard.
“You will falter,” Armathyn said, unflinching. “You will find the limits of your mind, your talent, your will. And when you do, you will discover that those limits are not fixed.”
His eyes glinted.
“They are waiting to be broken.”
Now a murmur rippled through the hall, not fear, but a quiet thrill.
“Your houses will test you. Your peers will challenge you. Your instructors will expect more than what you think you can give. And through it all, the aether will watch you. It does not care for excuses. It does not listen to lies. It answers only truth.”
He lowered his wand slightly, his voice softening but somehow resonating more.
“You are not merely mages in training. You are custodians of something ancient. You carry with you the hopes of your kingdoms. Your clans. Your families. And most of all, your future.”
He smiled. Not kindly. But not cruelly either.
“Earn it.”
The lights brightened again, the chandeliers blooming back to life in a spray of starlight.
“Let the year begin.”
Applause followed, but not the polite kind. This was fervent. Breathless. Even Thorne found himself clapping once before catching his hands and lowering them.
But then, something tugged at the edge of his senses. A prickling sensation, like being watched too closely.
He turned and froze.
There, across the table, seated at the end of the Caledris table, was a young man with neatly cropped hair and a golden pin at his collar.
Percy Vayne.
Valewind noble.
The only living soul, except for the man from the capital, who knew exactly who Thorne Silverbane really was.
Their eyes locked.
And Percy smiled.
Comments
Prokopis Manolis
Last time they met Thorne wiped the floor with him Imagine what would happen now…😄
Angela Roberts
Oh this is going to irritating until Thorne "hammers" sense into Percy. Or kills him.
Prokopis Manolis
🔴🙈
Silver Beard
Beatriss? What are the odds... Rowenna knew his sister....?
