DEADALUS author of AETHERBORN
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CHAPTER 217
🕑 Added 2025-06-20 18:30:15 +0000 UTCThe moment they stepped through the tall, runed-glass doors of Argessa’s Aetherworks, Thorne slowed, his eyes narrowing slightly.
It was like walking into a cross between a vault, a high-end shop, and a temple.
The interior hummed, not just with voices, but with stored power. Light danced across the polished stone floors, refracted from dozens of glowing displays. Glass tubes hung from the ceiling like chandeliers, filled with floating runes and rotating diagrams. Every few seconds, a puff of colored light erupted somewhere in the distance, followed by a delighted gasp or an annoyed groan.
Display pedestals lined the walls, each presenting a wand, staff, orb, or grimoire under a shifting veil of light. Above them, floating glyphs and glowing text cycled through phrases in stylized, enchanted lettering:
"NOW WITH DOUBLE-CORE AETHER CAPACITY!"
"AUTOMATIC SPELL INSCRIPTION – NO INK REQUIRED!"
"SELF-CLEANING GRIMOIRE – NEVER SMUDGE A PAGE AGAIN!"
It was chaos, but beautiful chaos.
Shoppers moved in and out like tides. Nervous teens with their overbearing parents, arguing over practicality versus flash. Older mages in traveling cloaks gestured at cracked staves or dulled orbs, demanding upgrades or replacements. A couple stood in one aisle, arms crossed, clearly mid-domestic argument about whose wand had the better arc output.
And then there were students.
Thorne noticed a few other first-years like themselves, some gawking at the displays, others hunched in quiet focus, inspecting wand lengths or tapping their cores to resonance plates.
“Alright,” Elías murmured. “This is either the coolest place I’ve ever been… or the most dangerous.”
Before Thorne could reply, a shop assistant materialized from the crowd, weaving toward them with practiced grace.
Their uniform was crisp black, lined in faint gold trim, and a shimmering golden orb with dancing stars was pinned to their lapel.
“Welcome to Argessa’s,” the attendant said with a bright, polished smile. “First years, yes? I can always tell! Bright eyes, overwhelmed expressions, minor existential panic.”
Thorne didn’t respond. Elías gave a weak wave.
“We’re looking for wands,” Thorne said. “First focus tools. Essentials, too.”
“Of course, of course! Always a pleasure to meet powerful new mages.” The attendant’s voice didn’t skip a beat. “You’ve come to the right place. We carry every type of focus, tuned for core compatibility, enchantment layering, elemental bias, and more.”
She glanced down at a glowing plate in their palm, flicked it twice, and frowned slightly.
“Hmm. Unfortunately, all of our resonance rooms are currently in use. But don’t worry, they turn over quickly. If you’d like to browse our selections, I’ll call you the moment one becomes available.”
“Resonance room?” Elías asked.
The attendant smiled as if she heard that question five hundred times a day. “Where you test your bond, of course. Your core reaches out, the focus responds, and the pairing either takes or it doesn’t.”
Thorne nodded like he understood. He didn’t.
Elías definitely didn’t.
“Right,” Thorne said smoothly. “We’ll look around.”
“Take your time,” the attendant said, already pivoting to help a grandmother loudly arguing with a wand about its handle grip.
Thorne turned slowly, taking in the space again, this time more carefully.
Each display hummed with potential. Some wands floated in protective fields. Others crackled faintly, their tips twitching toward passersby like dogs begging for attention. A small orb blinked at them from a pedestal, pulsing faintly to the rhythm of Thorne’s heartbeat.
“Okay,” Elías whispered. “We pretend we know what we’re doing. Maybe if we look confident, a wand will bond with us out of sheer respect.”
“Or pity,” Thorne said.
They stepped into the nearest aisle, surrounded by glowing labels and whispering cores.
The search had begun.
“I swear this wand just tried to bite me.”
“That means it respects you,” Thorne said, straight-faced.
Elías narrowed his eyes at the little wand currently buzzing faintly inside a bubble of enchanted glass. Its wood was gnarled like a tree root, its tip ringed with what looked like fangs made of raw aether crystal.
“That means it needs to be put down,” Elías muttered, backing away.
They had spent the last ten minutes wandering through the aisles of Argessa’s Aetherworks, surrounded by one overwhelming sight after the other. Each focus pulsed differently, some slow and steady, others jittery and unpredictable, like they were listening for the right owner and judging everyone who passed.
Thorne was beginning to enjoy himself. Maybe it was the energy of the place, or the absurdity of Elías trying to convince a grimoire not to hiss at him, but for the first time since arriving at Aetherhold, he felt... a little lighter.
He passed a staff that looked more like a gnarled garden hose with a gemstone growing on the wrong end. Elías poked a glowing orb with his finger and yelped when it started purring.
“Oh no,” he whispered. “It likes me. I wasn’t ready for commitment.”
Thorne chuckled under his breath.
Then he stopped.
Halfway down a wide aisle of gleaming black tile was a special display, set apart from the others. Gold runes arched above it in a suspended halo of slow-turning script.
Tier-4 Core Focus – Wand of the Third Eye
Compatibility: Tier-4 spells & below
Passive Amplification: 7%
Special Effect: Aetheric Echo Storage
Core Recharge Rate: High
Minimum Required Stats:
– Wisdom: 200
– Intelligence: 195
The wand floated in a cradle of pure light. It was thin, perfectly balanced, a deep violet wood veined with glowing gold filament. The tip shimmered faintly, as if aware of its own arrogance.
Elías joined him a second later, took one look, and let out a low whistle.
“Well, that’s just cruel. It should come with a side of trauma counseling.”
Thorne raised an eyebrow. “You think anyone could even hold that without combusting?”
“No, but I bet it judges everyone who tries.”
A moment later, the attendant reappeared, walking briskly toward them, her golden orb pin gleaming on her lapel.
“Good news,” she said brightly. “Two resonance rooms have just opened up. If you’ll follow me?”
Elías and Thorne shared a glance.
“Anything catch your eye?” she asked over her shoulder as they walked.
They answered in perfect sync: “No.”
She led them through a polished arch into a quieter corridor, the noise of the main showroom fading behind them like curtains drawing closed. This section of the shop was dimmer, cooler, and smelled faintly of old cedar and clean parchment.
There were long benches lining the walls, and a handful of other students sat there, some nervous, some excited. A pair of instructors chatted in hushed tones nearby, occasionally glancing at the numbered doors lining the hall.
As they passed one, it opened with a soft hum. A woman in a tall, pointed hat swept out, looking smugly victorious as she clutched a glowing orb emitting red mist. It pulsed faintly in her arms like a heart.
“Right this way, sir,” the assistant said, motioning Elías toward an open door on the right. “May your core guide you.”
Elías shot Thorne a mock-salute. “If I explode, don’t let Vellin dress my corpse.”
Thorne gave him a look. “Noted.”
Then the assistant turned to Thorne. “And you, this way.”
She led him to a smaller door across the corridor. The handle glowed faint blue as he approached, and the air inside tasted faintly of starlight and iron.
The room was small, square, and quiet.
And packed with boxes.
Three of the four walls were filled floor to ceiling with tightly packed focus boxes of every size, shape, and material, wooden, leather-wrapped, bone-inlaid, crystal-sealed. They were stacked precariously, jammed in so tightly it felt like one wrong step might bring the whole place crashing down.
The only wall not packed with potential avalanche was the far wall, where a single aether crystal hovered, dim and silent.
Hovering near the top of the tallest stack, a box was slowly being guided into place by a woman’s wand, its tip glowing as she levitated the box with patient precision. She muttered softly, aligning it into a tiny gap between two others, a feat that felt like threading a needle while standing on a cliff.
She almost got it.
Then the box squeezed itself into place with a puff of air, and the entire stack shifted with a creak.
The woman exhaled deep and satisfied.
Then she turned.
Her eyes fell on Thorne.
She paused.
Her gaze lingered, for just a moment on his eyes, and something unreadable flickered across her face. Surprise? Curiosity? Wariness?
“Welcome,” she said smoothly, stepping down from her platform with the quiet confidence of someone who lived surrounded by precarious danger. “You must be a first-year student.”
Thorne nodded once.
She smiled, professional but not cold.
The woman gave the crystal on the wall a quick check, ensuring it remained dim, then stepped toward the bench at the center of the room. With a flick of her wand, a pale light blossomed across the ceiling, chasing away the gloom in soft gradients of silver and gold. Several boxes shifted faintly behind her, as if sensing her attention.
She turned back to Thorne, speaking in a voice practiced from repetition but still warm, like a teacher who never lost the joy of the lesson.
“Before we begin, you should understand what you’re choosing. Or rather, what’s about to choose you.”
She gestured toward the crowded walls around them.
“Every wand, staff, orb, and grimoire here is a crafted channel, a vessel designed to shape, store, and direct your aether. Once bonded to your core, a focus does more than obey. It reflects. It listens. In time, it may even evolve.”
Her hand moved as she spoke, weaving subtle trails of light with her wand. “Each type has its own personality. Its own structure. And though no focus is restricted to a specific race, age, or affinity... many of them still have preferences. Patterns.”
She raised her palm, conjuring a soft, rotating image of a wand hovering between them. It pulsed faintly with an inner light, warm and golden.
“Wands are the most versatile. Quick. Responsive. They favor precision, and most are made for adaptable, reflex-based casting. Ideal for elemental work, or mages with multiple smaller spells woven through their repertoire.”
The wand dissolved, shifting into the image of a long, gnarled staff.
“Staves channel aether in broader strokes. They’re often chosen by earth, plant, or nature-aligned casters. Less nimble, but incredibly stable. Some call them the ‘roots’ of magic, they anchor spells, amplify endurance, and store vast amounts of aether.”
Another shift: a hovering orb with concentric rings rotating around it like moons.
“Orbs lean toward psychic, time, and mental affinities. Precision. Finesse. They’re rarely explosive in power but terrifying in control. An orb-wielder can manipulate a duel with a single thought, if trained well.”
The orb folded itself into a book, its spine flaring with arcane glyphs.
“Grimoires,” she said with a note of reverence. “They’re complex. Rare. Favored by ritualists, scholars, and memory casters. Grimoires aren’t just spellbooks, they’re living constructs. Some hold libraries. Others rewrite themselves over time. The best can layer enchantments across pages, building spells like symphonies.”
With another wave of her wand, the illusions vanished.
“Each focus comes with an attack function, basic offensive use, like an aether burst or elemental projection. These don’t draw from your core. Instead, they use stored aether inside the focus itself.”
She tapped the bench once with her wand, and a floating glyph appeared above it: a reservoir meter, slowly depleting, then refilling.
“Most new students assume they can cast endlessly. They forget their tools have limits. When a wand runs dry, it’s no better than a stick. And the recharge time? That depends on quality, enchantments, and materials. The finer the focus, the faster the recovery and the more dangerous the effects.”
She gave him a long, knowing look.
“Some even have upgrades. Special functions. Passive boosts. Elemental shaping. Multi-target tracking. But those come with a cost.”
She let that hang in the air for a beat.
“And,” she added, a little quieter, “the bond goes both ways. A strong core can change a focus. Leave marks. Imprint resonance. That’s why once you bond with one, really bond, it becomes yours in ways no one else can replicate.”
She stepped back toward the box-lined wall.
“Now. Let’s begin.”
The woman selected a slim wand from a box that shimmered with a pale green finish. The wand itself was smooth, lightly curved, with a core of crystal-fused reedwood. Basic, but refined. “This one,” she said, “has a stabilized matrix. Good for beginners. It should help you channel without triggering recoil. Hold it gently. Let your aether feel it before you command it.”
Thorne reached out.
The moment his fingers touched the wand, something shifted.
Not visibly. Not outwardly.
But within.
It was subtle at first, like brushing up against the edge of another consciousness. A thread of awareness that wasn’t his, testing him, tasting his presence. The wand felt light, almost too light, but there was a distinct hum in his hand, a rhythm that pulsed beneath the surface like a sleeping heartbeat.
Then came the pull.
The wand reached for his core or perhaps his core reached back. He wasn’t sure who moved first. For a breathless moment, he felt something align. Something promising.
Then everything snapped.
His aether surged upward like a storm breaking through a dam, wild and immense. The whisper of connection was crushed beneath a wave of raw force. There was no finesse, no flow, only pressure.
Instinct.
He tried to cast. Just a simple attack spell.
The wand responded, but it was like forcing a flute to carry the roar of a hurricane.
The aether lashed through it and the wand jerked in his grip, the pulse of magic too strong, too wild. A pale bolt fired toward the crystal on the wall, flaring bright and the wand shuddered violently, ripping itself from his hand.
It shot backward, skidding across the floor before clattering into the wall behind the assistant’s bench.
Thorne exhaled slowly.
The woman cleared her throat, then flicked her wand and summoned the next.
This one was thicker, dark-wooded, with a slightly curved base and an iron inlay at the grip. “Ironroot,” she said, placing it in his hand. “Designed for containment. We’ll go slower this time.”
Thorne steadied himself. Focused.
The wand felt sturdier, stronger, even. The presence inside was quieter, more disciplined. When it touched his core, it didn’t retreat, it braced.
That sensation returned, the tether. As if a thread was being spun between them. Not fully formed. Fragile, but present.
He gathered his aether, just a thread.
The moment he cast, the aether flooded outward again, like his core refused to be measured in fractions. It wasn't a scream this time, but it wasn't a whisper either.
A crackling arc of light fired from the wand. The crystal flared, brighter than before. But Thorne could feel the wand in his grip trembling. Its grip heated slightly. Its pulse began to stutter.
And then, with a sharp, dry snap, the wand splintered in his hand. Not shattered, but cracked, like the shell of a fruit that had been overripe with power.
He set it down gently on the bench, his jaw tight.
The woman didn’t speak right away. She retrieved the fractured wand with care, inspecting the damage with a flicker of unease in her expression. She didn’t look him in the eye this time.
Next came an orb.
She placed it in his hand without comment. Cool, smooth, etched with delicate runes across the surface.
The orb responded immediately. It felt like dipping his thoughts into still water, calm, receptive.
But as soon as Thorne began channeling, the same thing happened again. His core rushed to fill the connection. Not maliciously. Just overwhelmingly. His aether didn’t creep, it surged. The orb’s containment runes blinked once.
Then again.
Then cracked like sugar glass, red-orange fissures lacing across its surface.
The woman barely had time to whisper a containment spell before the orb let out a hollow chime and shattered in his hand.
Fragments scattered across the floor, disappearing in tiny bursts of dispersing light.
Thorne stood very still.
He hadn’t moved aggressively. Hadn’t tried to overpower the tools. But every time the focus reached for him, his aether swallowed it whole.
Each bond attempt was like pouring fire into a teacup. No matter how delicate or resilient the vessel, it wasn’t enough.
The woman’s jaw was tight now. She moved slower as she picked up the pieces, muttering a stabilizing chant. Her hands shook once, just slightly.
When she turned back to him, her composure was fraying at the edges.
“Let’s... try something stronger,” she said softly. “Some foci are forged to withstand higher surges. Some are... more alive. Not tools. Instruments. Magical constructs.”
She gestured again. Three more boxes floated forward, larger, heavier. The air around them shimmered faintly with residual energy. These weren’t practice tools. They were instruments.
When she passed the first focus to him, Thorne felt the difference immediately.
A grimoire.
Leather-bound, its surface marked with runes that seemed to shimmer and crawl when you weren’t looking directly at them. He opened it. The pages unfurled on their own, whispering secrets in languages he didn’t know but felt.
When he reached with his core, just a thread of curiosity...
The book slammed shut with a loud crack, yanked itself from his hands, and flew back into its box like a panicked animal.
The woman’s lips parted. She looked like she might say something but didn’t. Her hand was white-knuckled around her wand now.
She forced a smile. Thin. Tight. Unconvincing.
“D-Don’t worry,” she said, her voice high and brittle. “W-We’ll find something. We always do.”
She passed another wand to him.
This wand wasn’t polished. It was unfinished, uneven in grain, wrapped in a strip of aether-silk near the grip. But it thrummed in his grip. Not like an object, but like something awake. It didn’t hum with compliance, it challenged him. It felt like it had weight even beyond its material.
Thorne didn’t know what it was made of, but the moment he held it, he felt like he’d picked up something watching him.
He channeled, slowly.
The attack flared forth with smooth precision, but at double the intensity.
The crystal roared to life behind him. His eyes flared, not just glowing but radiating light from his core. In that moment, he felt everything, the wand reaching, reacting, almost forming a bond. Almost.
And from the corner of his eye, he saw the woman flinch, an involuntary step back, her hand tightening around her wand like it was a lifeline.
She hadn’t expected it.
Neither had he.
When the spell faded, the wand smoked in his hand. The warmth was gone. It felt hollow now. Dulled. Like something that had given too much too soon.
He handed it back wordlessly.
The woman set it down with trembling fingers.
“I... I’m going to call Lady Argessa,” she said, almost tripping over the words. “She’ll want to see this.”
And without waiting for his reply, she turned on her heel and left, the door clicking shut behind her with a soft but telling urgency.
Thorne stood alone in the flickering quiet.
His core still smoldered.
The crystal still pulsed.
And none of the boxes moved.
Comments
Prokopis Manolis
It wasn't intentional. It's just that the assistant picked the foci that she thought would better contain Thorne's magic.
Silver Beard
Curious they didn't try the stav...on purpose? Just from the description most likely to contain the Aether volume eaiser.
Prokopis Manolis
Sure! On Monday! 😆
Darcyspride
WE. NEED ANOTHER CHAPTER
