DEADALUS author of AETHERBORN
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CHAPTER 219
🕑 Added 2025-06-24 17:45:29 +0000 UTCArgessa set the two velvet-lined boxes down on the table between them with a soft thump, then dusted her hands like she’d just finished gardening instead of unearthing two ancient magical artifacts.
She didn’t open them right away.
Instead, she leaned back in her floral conjured sofa, crossed one ankle over the other, and gave Thorne a look that might have been amusement or appraisal, probably both.
“These aren’t display pieces,” she said. “They’re history. Forgotten, misfiled, and in one case, deliberately ignored. And now they’re yours to ruin.”
Thorne lifted a brow. “Reassuring.”
She snorted. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. You haven’t earned either. Not yet. But you’re welcome to try.”
She opened the first box.
Inside sat a deep violet orb, resting in a velvet depression like a sleeping beast. It was faceted like a gemstone, sharp-edged, almost wild in its shape, more crystal than crafted. Light didn’t bounce off it. It was swallowed.
Argessa didn’t touch it. “This,” she said, “is called the Irid Shard. Don’t ask me why. The label predates me, and I’m older than half the archives in this city.”
Thorne leaned forward, examining the orb.
“It’s not from Evermist,” she continued. “Not even from Aetherhold. Some say it was recovered from the Moonlit Archive, an old, drifting vault that slipped in and out of existence before collapsing in on itself. Others say it was forged by pre-structured mages, back before spellcasting was anything more than wild instinct.”
He looked at her, skeptical. “You don’t believe that?”
“Oh, I do,” she said mildly. “Because this thing doesn’t behave like modern foci. It doesn’t amplify. It doesn’t project. It remembers.”
She nodded toward it. “It captures echoes of spells, of moments. When you cast near it, you’ll feel what was cast before. Not the details, just the resonance. The intent.”
Thorne blinked. “And that’s useful?”
Argessa smiled. “It is if you’re clever.”
She tapped the side of the orb’s box. “That’s not all. The Shard also… meddles with spell timing. Sometimes your magic goes off half a second late. Sometimes half a second early. And sometimes, it warps the flow entirely.”
He frowned. “Unpredictable.”
“Terribly. But you’re good at thinking on your feet, aren’t you?”
She let the question hang in the air before closing the box gently and turning to the second one.
This time, she didn’t speak immediately. Her fingers lingered on the edge of the lid, as if debating whether to open it at all.
Then, with a flick of her wrist, the lid fell back.
Inside lay a wand so plain it was almost laughable.
Black wood. Smooth. Scuffed along the grip. No gemstone. No carving. No gleam.
It was just… a stick.
Thorne squinted. “That’s it?”
Argessa chuckled softly. “That’s what I thought, too. For years, it was misfiled as a discard. Used as a training wand by apprentices who couldn’t bond with anything better. But no matter how many times it was discarded, it never broke. Never bent. Never bled magic it didn’t want to.”
She reached down and lifted it carefully, holding it in both hands like something fragile. “This is called Ashthorn. No one knows who made it. But I know this: it chooses who it wants. Not the other way around.”
She offered it to him, but didn’t let go.
“It doesn’t make you stronger. It makes you quieter. Harder to track. Harder to notice. And once it bonds, it starts learning from you.”
Thorne tilted his head. “Learning how?”
Argessa’s eyes gleamed faintly. “You’ll see. It reflects you. Your state of mind. Your control. Your chaos. Over time, if it likes you, if it trusts you, it may unlock a signature effect. A sort of... spell filter.”
He frowned. “Filter?”
She smirked. “It might let you shift the elemental nature of a spell. Cast fire, and it comes out shadow. Cast light, and it sings like thunder. One spell. Many faces.”
He stared at the wand.
She dropped it gently back into the box. “Of course, that’s only if it bonds. It’s rejected more than a few promising mages. Burned one. Bit another.”
“Bit?”
“Don’t ask,” she muttered.
Then she leaned back and gestured to both boxes.
“Well? There they are. One’s unpredictable and strange. The other’s quiet and smarter than it looks. Sound familiar?”
Thorne’s lips quirked. “You’re saying they’re both me?”
“I’m saying,” Argessa said, tapping her staff against her knee, “that either one might work. Or neither. And if they don’t, well, I’ll keep looking. But I have a feeling…”
She let the sentence trail off, her eyes narrowing just a little.
“You’re not finished surprising me yet.”
Argessa didn’t move to close the boxes just yet. She let the silence hang as Thorne continued to eye both items, his fingers flexing slightly at the edge of the table.
Then she spoke again, quieter now, slower.
“I should mention,” she said, “these aren’t just rare. They’re Tier Four.”
She said it with no drama, but the words landed heavy in the air.
Thorne glanced up at her.
She met his gaze with a raised brow. “I assume you know what that means.”
He hesitated. “Powerful?”
“Powerful,” she repeated, then waved her hand lazily. “Yes. But power’s just the surface. Tier Four foci aren’t powerful because they shoot prettier sparks or boost your fireballs. They’re powerful because they interact with your core in ways most conduits can’t.”
She tapped the wand’s box.
“A Tier One wand? It channels. That’s it. Basic transfer from core to spell. Like a faucet. Tier Two adds some shaping potential, lets you cast structured spells more efficiently. Tier Three begins to support modular spellwork, some enchantment interfaces, minor attunement effects.”
She leaned forward, tapping her staff against the side of her conjured seat.
“But Tier Four?” Her voice lowered just slightly. “Tier Four foci are alive, in a way. They remember. They react. They don’t just pass on your will, they listen to it. They start to form a… conversation with your magic.”
She paused, then added more softly, “They also tend to bond permanently. Some only ever work for one person.”
Thorne frowned at that. “So if I choose wrong...”
“There is no wrong,” Argessa cut in. “Just… unexpected.”
She glanced at Ashthorn, still lying motionless in its velvet cradle.
“The wand,” she said, almost to herself, “might even be Tier Five.”
Thorne blinked.
“Might,” she clarified. “I’ve never seen it used to its full extent. I’ve had it for years. Nearly forgot it was there. No one’s bonded with it. Not really. But...”
She narrowed her eyes slightly, searching his face.
“Something about the way it didn’t burn your hand on contact feels... promising.”
He gave her a sidelong look. “So I’m your guinea pig.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she said dryly. “I wouldn’t risk an artifact of that caliber on just anyone. You’ve already broken two foci. This is an upgrade.”
She shifted again, staff resting across her lap now like a sleeping cat. Her voice dipped again, this time with a bit more weight.
“You need to understand, Thorne, first years don’t get Tier Fours. Ever. You’re supposed to start with a focus that doesn’t explode if you sneeze too hard.”
She tilted her head at him.
“But I’ve seen the crystal. I saw the flare of your core. And I know enough to recognize that you are... not ordinary.”
She paused, then smirked.
“And you have just enough reckless charm that I think you’ll manage not to incinerate yourself.”
Thorne exhaled slowly, gaze drifting between the two boxes.
“So... either of these could permanently bond to me?”
“Yes. And if they do, you won’t just be choosing a tool. You’ll be choosing a path. That wand? If it likes you, it will mold to you, become a mirror of your will. And that orb…” She gave it a wary glance. “It’ll make you cleverer or kill you trying.”
She stood, slowly, her cane tapping the stone floor.
“But I have a feeling you’ll surprise me,” she murmured. “And that doesn’t happen often.”
Then she gestured toward the table.
“Well? Let’s see who picks you first.”
Thorne stood in silence, eyes drifting between the two velvet-lined boxes.
One held jagged mystery, the orb, ancient and gleaming like a star swallowed by glass. The other, the wand, was plain. Quiet. Watching.
He frowned.
“I don’t know which one to start with,” he admitted.
Argessa shrugged, utterly unconcerned. “That’s the point. You’re not picking out a new coat. This isn’t about want. It’s about resonance. Go with your instinct.”
He hesitated a second longer.
Then, slowly, he reached out and placed his fingers on the Irid Shard.
The orb was cool to the touch, but not inert. No, beneath the smooth crystal, he felt something stir, like fingers twitching in sleep. A breath caught in his throat.
He lifted it from the box.
The weight shifted in his palm, light and heavy at once. The faceted surface seemed to pull light into it, like it was swallowing the very air. The longer he held it, the more the world dulled around the edges. Sound dropped away. The air grew dense, like everything had slowed to half-speed. The orb felt cool, then warm, then alive, the sensation shifting with his every breath. Its surface was jagged but smooth, and it seemed to hum faintly against his palm, a song only he could hear.
It was just him.
And the orb.
And then it moved.
Not physically, but something inside it unfurled. Like a flower blooming backward. A whispering pressure touched his mind, not words exactly, more like echoes, emotional traces imprinted by spells long past.
He saw flickers.
A flame that spoke with sorrow.
A barrier cast in desperation.
A healing spell laced with guilt.
He wasn’t seeing them, he was feeling them.
This thing remembers, he thought. It remembers everything.
And then it began.
The orb’s light brightened, pulsing once, then again, each time syncing to his heartbeat. He felt his core respond, not with violence but curiosity. His aether stirred like a lake rippling beneath moonlight.
The orb pulsed again, faster now. Eager.
It was reaching out.
Trying to bond.
The sensation wasn’t sharp or painful. It was... intimate. Like something slipping under his skin, brushing along the edges of his soul. There was a heady pull, like falling into a dream where time stretched and twisted. For a moment, he understood it.
And for that same moment, it understood him.
The orb wanted to bond.
It wanted him.
A thread of aether uncoiled from his core, almost involuntarily, reaching into the orb.
And the orb responded.
A whispering sensation bloomed in his mind, not words, but feelings.
Then the orb pulsed again, eager now.
And Thorne felt his core flood open.
It wasn’t intentional. His control slipped. The orb wasn’t just receiving his aether, it was pulling it, drinking it like it had been starving for centuries. And his core, his eclipsed core, responded with terrifying efficiency, pouring out power in a surging wave.
A maelstrom of silver-blue aether churned between them, swirling like a vortex around his hand. The orb began to levitate slightly, glowing with blinding intensity as it drank him in.
Thorne’s breath caught.
His eyes flared like fire.
And in that moment, he felt it trying to claim him. Not gently. Not curiously.
Possessively.
The bond had begun.
But something felt wrong.
Not dangerous, no, the danger was familiar. The wrongness was subtler. A dissonance, buried deep. The connection was too fast. Too certain. Too willing.
Like a person who smiled too wide.
And beneath it all... a refusal to adapt.
It didn’t want to grow with him. It wanted him to fit it.
This isn’t mine, he realized, heart pounding.
And with that, Thorne pulled back. Hard.
He cut the connection, forcing his core to seal itself mid-flow.
The orb’s glow went jagged.
Then it screamed.
Not with sound, with force. It lashed out with a whip of violet aether, spitting rejection like venom, furious at being denied. Thorne staggered, gritting his teeth as the magic struck his palm, burning with cold fire.
And that’s when Argessa moved.
Her staff thundered against the floor, and her voice cut the air like a blade.
“Enough.”
A sigil bloomed between them, ancient and clean, shining white-gold like morning light.
The orb froze mid-lash, caught in place. The light drained from it instantly, and it fell to the padded box with a hollow clink, suddenly lifeless. Dormant.
Thorne’s hand was still raised, fingers twitching, his palm faintly scorched where the backlash had hit.
His chest rose and fell. His core throbbed, not in pain, but friction, like slamming a vault door shut a second too late.
The room stank faintly of burned ozone and raw magic.
Argessa was staring at him.
But not with fear.
Not even with surprise.
She looked... impressed.
Then, as if catching herself, she sniffed and crossed her arms.
“Well,” she muttered. “That was dramatic.”
Thorne exhaled, trying to slow his breathing.
After a moment Argessa rubbed her temple, “you made a very bold first impression.”
Thorne looked at the orb, his breath still uneven. “It was... too much.”
“Mm,” she said. “That one’s dangerous. Not evil. Not malicious. Just… needy. It’s been passed from collector to collector for centuries. It’s used to being admired, not rejected.”
He looked at her.
“You said no one’s ever bonded with it.”
“No one’s ever said no after getting that close,” she corrected. “And now it knows what rejection feels like. So if you hear whispering later, just don’t answer.”
She smiled faintly. “Still. You passed a test most mages don’t even know they’re taking.”
Thorne flexed his hand, the tingling fading.
Argessa's eyes narrowed slightly. “You didn’t just break the bond. You reversed it. I’ve only seen that done a handful of times, and the last idiot who tried it lost their hand.”
“I didn’t like how it felt,” Thorne said quietly.
“Good instinct,” she said. Then after a pause, with a little more steel: “And good control. Most new mages would’ve melted half the room trying to shut that down.”
She gestured to the orb, now inert and cold in its box.
“You could’ve forced the bond.”
He looked at her, uncertain. “But it would’ve been wrong.”
“Yes,” she said. “But most people don’t care. They see power, and they take it.”
She gave him a long, considering look.
“You didn’t.”
She rose from her conjured seat, brushing nonexistent dust from her robes.
“Now,” Argessa said, gesturing at the remaining box. “Why don’t you try the one that doesn’t hold grudges.”
The wand lay in its velvet cradle like a discarded tool, black, battered, unimpressive. Nothing shimmered. Nothing glowed.
Compared to the Irid Shard, it looked like a training stick a novice would throw in frustration. But there was something about it… not in the look, not even the faint sigil scorched into the base.
It was in the silence.
The kind of silence that waits for you to speak first.
Thorne stared at it, brow furrowed. Unlike the Irid Shard, it wasn’t reaching for him. No whispered power. No flicker of allure.
But there was a weight in the air now, like the quiet before a thunderclap.
He reached down and picked it up.
It didn’t pulse.
It didn’t sing.
It just sat in his hand.
Dead wood.
Then his aether moved.
And the wand struck.
It wasn’t a welcome. It was a challenge.
The wand surged against his core like a coiled beast testing the bars of its cage. It demanded more. More power. More control. More Thorne.
He tightened his grip, let his aether rise and the wand met it, deflecting the flow and hurling it outward in jagged, violent bursts.
A lash of silver-blue aether snapped from the wand’s tip, striking the floating resonance crystal and sending a spray of sparks across the ceiling. The wards in the room flared, struggling to contain the violent feedback.
Another lash struck the wall, burning a clean black gash through the stone.
A third bolt shot wild, straight for Argessa.
With a flick of her staff and a muttered word, a shimmering shield dome snapped into place around her, the bolt deflecting off with a heavy, hollow boom. Her chair rattled beneath her.
Thorne grit his teeth. “It’s fighting me.”
Argessa didn’t even blink. “No. It’s testing you.”
The wand pulsed once. Deep, low, like the thrum of a war drum.
Then the storm began.
His core opened, all at once.
Not like it had with the Irid Shard, this wasn’t coaxed. It was dragged into the light, forced to pour itself into the wand to prove it was worthy.
Aether exploded around him, a swirling maelstrom of silver and blue, winds of pure force twisting around his body, flaring the ends of his coat and hurling parchment and boxes across the room.
The armchair he’d been sitting in caught fire, the floral fabric turning to ash as a tongue of errant energy licked across it. It collapsed in on itself with a loud crack, and the wand surged harder, flinging a pillar of raw magic into the ceiling.
Argessa raised both hands now, her staff spinning, chanting under her breath as seven layered sigils formed around her. Each one shimmered with defensive scripts, absorbing the shockwaves pounding against them like waves against a lighthouse.
“Well,” she shouted over the storm, “this is new!”
Thorne didn’t hear her. Couldn’t.
The wand was inside his head now, not with thought, but with pressure. It demanded more. Show me. All of it. Or be cast aside.
His core screamed. Aether gushed from him, pushed to its absolute limit. Every breath, every heartbeat, every inch of him burned with effort. His eyes weren’t glowing anymore, they were beaming. White-hot shafts of light poured from them in radiant lines.
The wand absorbed the aether like a bottomless well, and still demanded more.
So he gave it.
He unleashed everything.
Everything.
The winds tore through the room, warping the air with heat and light. A resonance bell overhead cracked and collapsed. Runes scorched across the floor. The box the wand had come in disintegrated into curling embers.
But still... He held it.
Still... He didn’t break.
And then...
It changed.
The resistance didn’t vanish.
It shifted.
Like a gate swinging open.
The wand stopped pushing.
And began to pull, gently now. Not demanding. Not overpowering. Accepting.
The pressure vanished in an instant. The swirling aether stilled. The wind dropped.
And the connection locked into place like a key sliding into a perfectly carved lock.
Thorne gasped, like coming up for air and dropped to one knee, wand still clenched in his hand. The air still shimmered with residual energy, heat crackling against the edges of reality.
The wand glowed.
Faintly.
Just for a second.
Then it returned to black.
But it was different now. He could feel it in his hand. No longer inert. No longer testing.
It pulsed gently in rhythm with his core.
It was his.
Argessa lowered her wards with a sharp breath, fanned away the smoke, and looked at him through the haze.
Her chair was a pile of scorched timber. One wall was cracked. Three boxes were still smoldering.
She blinked. Then, after a long moment, said flatly, “You’re buying me a new chair.”
Thorne coughed and half-smiled. “Deal.”
She stared at him, staff resting against her hip. “You overwhelmed a Tier Four wand into bonding with you. That’s not strength. That’s audacity.”
Thorne pushed himself to his feet, chest still heaving.
“I knew it was mine.”
Argessa exhaled, slowly. Then her mouth twisted into something that wasn’t quite a smile, but close.
“I hate prodigies,” she muttered. “But at least you’ve got the decency to look exhausted.”
Comments
Prokopis Manolis
Argessa doesn’t need money, she has plenty! She doesn’t need power or influence either! She is an enigma…
Angela Roberts
Good instincts! Argessa is perfect. Grumbling motherishly affection and respect. After he buts her a new chair. Winder what she's asking for the wand. It won't be just money.
Prokopis Manolis
Maybe in his next meeting!
Silver Beard
It's too bad he didn't bring his invitations- if she's offering backup; he might have been able to get some information/reaction from the offers.
