DEADALUS author of AETHERBORN
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CHAPTER 213
🕑 Added 2025-06-16 17:47:48 +0000 UTCThe water had gone lukewarm, but Thorne didn’t move.
He sat in the stone tub, shoulders submerged, head tilted back against the curved rim, eyes half-lidded. Steam rose in curling wisps, clinging to the air like it didn’t want to leave. The enchanted lanterns overhead pulsed faintly, casting soft gold across the walls, but the real light came from the water itself, just a trace of ambient aether, catching the surface in glints that danced with every subtle movement.
It was too quiet.
Not dangerous quiet. Not the kind he’d known in the alleys of Alvar or Uncle’s study, when silence meant you were already too late. This was a different quiet, hollow, reflective, and somehow worse.
His thoughts drifted, uninvited.
Darius, the man he could always count on. Jonah’s shop abandoned or burned. Ben, probably still clutching that satchel of potions like it could stop the sky from falling. Eliza. Gods, Eliza.
Were they alive? Still in the city? Had they made it out?
He had no way of knowing.
He'd killed Uncle, left Alvar burning, and walked through a door that couldn’t be opened again. That door now felt far away, sealed by stone, magic, and memory.
He hadn’t let himself think of them in days.
He should have felt victory. He’d done what no one else could. Uncle was dead, by his hand, his empire shattered, his voice silenced. It should’ve felt like freedom.
But it didn’t.
It felt like standing at the edge of a cliff and realizing there was no one left behind him to chase him and nothing ahead but fog.
He exhaled, the sound barely audible over the gentle ripple of water.
Three knocks echoed through the room, precise, evenly spaced, but strangely soft. The sound wasn’t wood-on-wood. It was lighter, more fluid. Like the knock wasn’t a sound at all but a ripple in the aether.
Thorne opened his eyes.
He stood slowly, muscles stiff from too much stillness, and grabbed the towel draped over the rim of the tub. Water traced lines down his chest and back as he wrapped it around his waist. No weapons. No veil. Just bare feet and damp skin and the coiled tension that never really left his bones.
He padded across the cool stone floor to the door.
When he opened it, only a fraction, light spilled in, soft, silver-blue, and humming faintly.
A figure stood on the other side.
Not a person. Not entirely.
It was shaped like one, tall, androgynous, robed, but its body was woven entirely from light. Not illusion, not enchantment. Aether, raw and radiant, sculpted into form. Its edges shimmered like starlight viewed through rippling water, and its eyes were two points of soft white flame, steady and unblinking.
It extended one arm.
Resting in its palm was a thick bundle of envelopes, bound in silver ribbon, the corners of the parchment sharp and crisp. There were… a lot of them. More than a dozen, easily.
Thorne didn’t reach for them right away.
The construct waited, utterly still. It didn’t breathe. It didn’t shift. It simply was, like a memory caught in a spell.
He finally took the letters. They were heavier than expected. The ribbon shimmered faintly as his fingers brushed it.
The construct bowed its head, not deeply, but precisely and then it dissolved.
No flash, no sound. Just a soft, breath-like exhale of light and it burst into motes of light that scattered down the hall and vanished like falling stars.
Thorne stared down at the bundle. The seals were varied wax in every color, embossed sigils, even one letter wrapped in translucent paper that glowed faintly from within. Some looked old-world elegant. Others radiated subtle enchantments that tingled in his fingers.
He was still standing there, half-dressed, damp, and confused, when a voice slid in behind him, smooth as silk and smug as sin.
“Well. That’s one way to greet someone.”
Thorne didn’t turn. Didn’t need to.
He let out a quiet sigh. “Isadora.”
“Imagine my surprise,” she said, strolling into view, “when I go to check on my favorite mystery student and find him dripping, shirtless, and being courted by glowing courier spirits.”
She leaned against the doorframe with casual grace, arms crossed, eyes dragging shamelessly over him. Her hair was swept back, streaked with a faint shimmer that caught the light, and her robe looked like it cost more than most inns.
Thorne glanced down at himself. Then at the letters.
“I was bathing,” he said dryly.
“Obviously. The question is, were you expecting visitors?”
He raised an eyebrow.
She smiled. “Because if so, I think I may be underdressed.”
“You’re not.”
“That’s sweet. Untrue, but sweet.”
Thorne stepped back from the doorway, holding the bundle loosely in one hand. “They’re invitations.”
Isadora’s eyes lit up. She straightened and took a step closer. “Sponsorships?”
He gave a small nod.
She whistled low. “There are a lot of those.”
“Apparently.”
“More than I received, if we’re being honest,” she said, leaning in as if to count. “That one’s a royal seal. And... wait, is that Alchemic House Virel? They never sponsor first-years.”
Thorne just gave her a look.
She grinned. “I’m not jealous. I’m simply impressed. Truly. Standing here, dripping, dressed in your finest towel, radiating understated menace, if I were a noble house, I’d sponsor you too.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Do you ever stop talking?”
“Not when I’m entertained.”
Thorne’s mouth twitched. “Want one? I’ve got extras.”
She grinned. “Tempting. But I doubt any of them are looking to sponsor someone with a sharp tongue and a reputation for being difficult.”
“You forgot ‘vain.’”
“Please. That’s a given.”
She looked around the room then, expression shifting just slightly.
“This is where they put you?”
He followed her gaze: stone floor, narrow bed, a desk barely large enough to hold the bundle of envelopes. A single arched glass door with a narrow balcony. Everything was small, quaint but more than he needed.
“It’s fine.”
She wrinkled her nose. “It’s tragic.”
Thorne looked at her, deadpan. “And where do the spoiled ones sleep?”
She smiled slowly. “Glad you asked.”
And then, without warning, she reached out and took his hand, fingers cool against his still-damp wrist.
“Come on. You’ve earned a tour of the real rooms.”
He let her pull him along, letters tucked under one arm, towel still firmly in place, and a very real suspicion that this was going to get worse before it got better.
Thorne blinked. “You do realize I’m still half-naked.”
“Which only makes the tour more enjoyable for me,” she said over her shoulder, already tugging him down the corridor. “Besides, it’s not like there’s anyone here who hasn’t seen worse.”
“I’m fairly certain that’s not true.”
“You’re in Aetherhold now. Modesty is optional. Self-importance, mandatory.”
They walked barefoot and dripping, well, he walked barefoot and dripping, past a floating crystal lantern that shifted color as they passed. The polished stone underfoot was cool against his skin, but Isadora didn’t seem bothered by his damp presence in the slightest. If anything, she was reveling in it.
“Just to be clear,” Thorne said dryly, “this isn’t some elaborate plot to assassinate me in a broom closet?”
“If I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t use a closet,” Isadora replied. “I’d poison your tea. Something tasteful.”
Isadora stopped three doors down from his room where at a silver handle and a sigil lock pulsed faintly as she approached. With a flick of her fingers, the seal unraveled and the door opened inward.
Thorne’s brows lifted.
Her room was massive.
The floor was polished obsidian veined with sapphire light. A high canopy bed dominated one side, its silken drapes catching the ambient glow like star-woven fabric.
The ceiling arched high above them, embroidered with hanging lanterns shaped like falling stars. A chandelier floated overhead, shedding soft, golden light that glowed like late evening sun.
A velvet chaise lounge rested beside several tall windows overlooking a balcony, complete with a suspended orb-lantern shaped like a moon. A faint scent of jasmine drifted through the space, mingling with the undercurrent of magic that clung to everything.
There were chests. At least six of them, stacked or arranged in little arcs like ornate monoliths. Each one was different, carved, enameled, gilded, sealed with enchantments that softly hissed at his presence.
Isadora released his hand and swept into the center of the room, arms out.
“Welcome to civilization.”
Thorne stepped in cautiously, still dripping, the towel around his waist growing increasingly inadequate.
He glanced around. “So this is what favoritism buys.”
“Favoritism?” she echoed, plucking a grape from a floating dish and popping it into her mouth. “No. This is what bloodlines buy. And connections. And an unreasonable amount of charm.”
“Right.”
She turned to face him again, this time tilting her head.
“You’re judging me.”
“Constantly.”
She grinned. “At least you’re honest.”
Thorne looked back toward the hallway. “You could fit six of my room in here.”
“Seven, if you stack them.”
“And yet somehow, I’m still the one with more invitations.”
Isadora made a wounded sound, pressing a hand to her heart.
“You wound me. Honestly, I may have to retract my offer to let you borrow my tailor.”
“I have a tailor?”
“You will, if you want one. Evermist has everything,” Isadora said, waving a hand like she was brushing dust off the word itself. “Robes, armor, enchanted jewelry, things that whisper back if you speak nicely to them. But if you want something made properly, go to Vellin’s Atelier. Tell them I sent you, they’ll know what that means.”
Thorne gave her a look. “And what does it mean?”
“It means they’ll overcharge you,” she said sweetly, “but they’ll also make you look like you weren’t raised in a storage crate.”
She moved toward one of the larger chests and nudged it with her foot. “Now. I brought options. Emergency wardrobe expansions. Backup accessories. A wand case that doubles as a wine chiller. You know. The essentials.”
He raised a brow. “That all fit in six chests?”
“No. There’s a seventh one arriving tomorrow. The Aetherhold staff had to reinforce the hallway.” she said, crossing the room toward one of the open chests.
She flipped open the lid with one elegant flick of her fingers. Inside were layers of carefully folded robes, jeweled hairpins, belts threaded with charmstones, and a few items that looked less like clothing and more like weapons disguised as fashion.
Thorne raised an eyebrow. “Do you plan to actually wear any of this?”
“Eventually. Maybe. Depends on the lighting.”
“You haven’t unpacked anything.”
She leaned her hip against the side of the chest. “Too many decisions. Besides, I’ll probably just hire someone to do it. Or bribe one of the Emerald Sands princess’s handmaidens to ‘accidentally’ organize things for me.”
“You’re not even joking, are you.”
“I rarely joke about delegation.”
She closed the chest and turned back to him, eyes running over him again, this time slower, a bit more thoughtful.
She sat down on the edge of the bed, her expression softening a touch as she looked him over again.
“You really don’t have anything else to wear, do you?”
“I have this towel,” Thorne said. “It’s doing its best.”
Isadora let out a quiet laugh and moved to her wardrobe, larger than his entire bed, and pulled the doors open. Inside hung at least three dozen garments, all perfectly arranged by color and fabric type.
He exhaled through his nose. “Not unless I plan to rewrap myself in boat rags.”
“And you were planning to go shopping in Evermist dressed like that?”
He shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the first time I looked out of place.”
Isadora didn’t smile at that. Not immediately. She leaned back slightly, bracing herself on her hands.
“Where are your things? The ones you came with. The real ones.”
Thorne was quiet for a second longer than necessary. Then, “Didn’t bring them.”
“Why not?”
“Didn’t need them.”
She stared at him a moment, then sighed through her nose.
“You really are infuriating.”
“I try.”
“Mm. You succeed.”
Isadora shifted through the garments, muttering to herself about idiot men that had no sense of fashion. She touched a sleeve here, a scarf there, then let the doors swing shut again with a soft click.
“I suppose I’ll have to lend you something until we get you properly outfitted,” she said, already moving toward a smaller chest near her vanity. She turned, flicking her robe slightly as she passed him again, catching the edge of his towel with her movement, purely by accident, of course.
Thorne took a step back.
“You’re slightly taller than the boys I usually dress, but we’ll make it work.”
Thorne blinked. “You what?”
“Relax,” she said, lifting the lid. “I was joking.”
She paused. “Mostly.”
Isadora rummaged a moment longer before pulling out something folded and dark, a cloak, midnight-blue, lined with silver stitching that shimmered like starlight. She held it out to him without fanfare.
“Here. Until you stop looking like you washed up on shore.”
Thorne eyed it. “I’m not wearing that.”
She just looked at him.
He took it.
The fabric was smooth, heavy, warm the moment it touched his skin. Magic, no doubt. Even the inner lining was runed, probably resistant to aether flare, heat, or knives.
“I hate how comfortable this is,” he muttered, slipping it over his shoulders.
“I know.”
He adjusted the clasp, flicking the hood down. “I’ll give it back.”
“I’ll pretend to believe that.”
He rolled his eyes and turned toward the door, still towel-wrapped and painfully aware of how out of place he looked among all the silks and sigils.
“I should go,” he said. “Get dressed. Figure out if I’m going to sell my soul for a decent wand or not.”
Isadora walked him to the door, leaning casually on the frame as he opened it.
“If you’re lucky, one of those invitations comes with a wardrobe stipend,” she said. “Preferably from someone with taste.”
“I’ll make sure to consult you before accepting anything.”
“I expect nothing less.”
He stepped out into the hall, the chill of the corridor biting at his damp skin. But he paused before taking another step.
“Thanks,” he said, not looking back.
“For what?” she asked.
He hesitated. “Not making a thing of it.”
A beat of silence. Then, softer than before: “It is a thing. Just not the kind you need to explain right now.”
Thorne nodded once, then started down the hall.
Back in his quarters, Thorne shut the door behind him and leaned against it for a second.
His room felt smaller after hers. But it was his now.
The bed looked narrower, the walls grayer, the faint magic less alive.
He peeled off the cloak and set it neatly over the back of the chair, then pulled out the only other clothing he owned, the threadbare shirt and trousers Kerke had given him in the boat. Dirty and worn thin. He’d been living in them since that fateful day.
He’d have to change that. Soon.
Thorne crossed the room, knelt by his satchel, and unfastened the hidden compartments inside. Tucked beneath the false lining were the spoils of years, his life as a weapon, paid in blood and coin.
Gleaming gold and silver coins. Small pouches of trade gems. Two enchanted rings, three aether-imbued tokens and crystals. Some family heirlooms and precious artifacts that had somehow been found in his possession.
Not much, maybe. But enough to build with.
It has to be, he thought. Enough to pass, enough to keep moving.
He sat at the desk and untied the ribbon on the letters. Sixteen in total. Some bore wax seals from noble houses. Others shimmered faintly, enchanted for security or flair. One bore no seal at all, just his name, scrawled in a looping hand that looked vaguely amused.
He set it aside for later.
Beneath the stack, two scrolls remained.
He unrolled the first.
AETHERHOLD CLASS SCHEDULE – TERM I
Student: Thorne Silverbane – House Umbra
Arcane Fundamentals & Spellcasting (Theory & Practice)
Magical History & Arcane Law
Sigilcraft & Ancient Spell Forms
Enchanting & Magical Item Crafting
Elemental Theory & Control
He rolled that one back, heart ticking a little faster, not reading the entire list. It was long... Too long.
Later, he thought to himself.
He reached for the scroll labeled Aetherhold First-Year Materials – Term I and unrolled it fully. The parchment was long—comically so.
AETHERHOLD REQUIRED MATERIALS – TERM I
Arcane Focus (choose one):
Wand (bonded, blank, or song-core)
Staff (reinforced or channel-tier)
Grimoire (runic-bound, voice-keyed)
Aetheric Orb (personalized, multi-compatible)
Robes & Uniform Requirements:
2 Standard Aetherhold Uniforms (sky-blue, academy issued)
1 House Mantle or House Insignia (embroidered, enchanted)
1 Combat Set (aether-insulated, motion-fitted)
1 Formal Ensemble (robes, cloak, accessories)
1 Cold Weather Layer (mountain-tested)
1 House-color Cloak (high-thread count preferred)
Accessories & Personal Gear:
Sigil Chalk (alchemically sealed, color-coded optional)
Aether Notebook (runic-sealed, leak-resistant)
3 Pairs of Channeling Gloves (adjustable-finger style)
Focus Pendant, Pin, or Crest (tied to magical signature)
Calibration Quill (silver-nibbed or fire-proof)
Arcane Lens (basic vision enhancement model)
Spellbinding Oil (for wand/staff maintenance)
Portable Aether Compass (orientation-linked)
Ward Stones (minor, for personal defense)
Books (required reading):
Foundations of Flow
Runes of Order: A Primer on Sigilcraft
Casting Beyond Sight: Mental Projection and Spell Retention
The Fivefold Flow: Advanced Aether Channels
Veilwork: Boundaries Between Worlds
Famous Magical Failures and What They Teach Us
The Practical Enchanter's Handbook (Revised)
Living Sigils and Their Behavioral Anomalies
Miscellaneous (suggested or mandatory by class):
1 Astral Tuner (for Veil Orientation drills)
1 Aether-safe Ink Kit (non-reactive, smudge-proof)
1 Foldable Field Circle (travel variant)
1 Mirror for Illusion Testing (standard, unenchanted)
1 Emergency Disjunction Stone (single-use)
Personal Familiar Registration Papers (if applicable)
Emotional Stabilizer Crystal (required for Mind-Affecting Magic electives)
"Otherworldly Entity Journal" (blank, for Veil Manifestation logs)
One (1) object of sentimental value (used in Personal Aether Theory)
Thorne leaned back slowly, eyes skimming the list again.
Some items made sense. Some made his brow twitch. A sentimental object? A field circle? What in the hells was an Emotional Stabilizer Crystal and why was it required?
He’d spent years assassinating politicians, sabotaging caravans, and poisoning aristocrats. He’d never once needed tuner crystals or mirror protocols.
He looked to the satchel again.
He probably had enough. But if he bought smart, cheap versions, plain robes, secondhand wand maybe, he could stretch it. Still, he’d need help navigating Evermist, especially if the city’s merchants could sniff a new student from a mile off.
He glanced at the borrowed cloak on the chair.
Maybe not that cloak. That looked like someone with coin.
Thorne exhaled through his nose, rolled up the list, and tapped a finger against the unopened letter with his name scrawled across the front, the one with no seal.
He didn’t open it.
Not yet.
He leaned back, the old weight settling behind his eyes, not danger, not survival this time, but expectation. The kind that didn’t stab but suffocated.
This place didn’t want killers, he thought. It wanted legacies.
And if he wasn’t careful, it would eat him just the same.
Thorne let the scroll fall closed.
He sat there a moment longer, staring at the desk covered in letters, lists.
He exhaled slowly, pushed the chair back, and stood.
The satchel’s weight settled against his side with a familiar pull. Inside were coins, gems, years of work, everything he’d taken from Alvar that mattered.
He got dressed and reached for the cloak, draping it over his shoulders anyway and fastened the clasp.
With one last look around the room, he stepped into the hall and shut the door behind him.
Time to shop.
Comments
Silver Beard
Disappointing, but a gorgeous, young, and rich woman dragging a naked man in a towel into her room (without a chaperone) to dress him just doesn't sound right. She does have a bed big enough for two.
Silver Beard
Just hoping the things he needs to part with aren't the very things that would be best of hold onto and use himself.
