The roar from the stands hit him a heartbeat after the wards dimmed.

It wasn't just applause, it was that chaotic, surging energy of a crowd that had just seen something they'd talk about for days. Some were on their feet, shouting praise or disbelief; others were laughing in shock, leaning over the rail to point at him like they couldn't quite believe what they'd just witnessed.

The teaching assistant, wide-eyed, finally remembered himself and called for a healer. Two robed figures hurried down from the staff gallery, their satchels already open, threads of soft green light spilling from their staffs.

Tavric was faster. He broke from the knot of onlookers and sprinted to his sister's side, dropping into a crouch beside her with surprising gentleness for someone built like a battering ram. Maris was already waving him off, blinking through the last of the afterimage, but he fussed anyway, brushing dust off her shoulder, muttering something low that made her swat at him.

Thorne… stood there. Ashthorn still warm in his hand.

He wasn't used to being the center of this kind of attention. Not this kind. Usually when a crowd looked at him, it was because something had gone very wrong, a job, a fight, a corpse cooling in the dark. This was different.

And then they were on him.

Students he didn't even know, faces from other years and other classes, swarming into his space.

"That was incredible, Thorne!" "How did you get it to do that?" "Was that a custom sigil? Can you teach me?" "Do you run private sessions?"

Names he'd never bothered to learn were suddenly calling his as though they'd been friends for years. Hands clapped his shoulder, some a little too hard. Questions piled over one another until it was just noise, all of it shot through with that hungry, competitive edge unique to mages who'd just seen something they wanted for themselves.

He gave them nothing. A few vague smiles. A shrug or two. Let them wonder.

The crowd began to part without being told, like water pushed aside by a prow cutting through a river. Tavric and Maris were coming toward him.

For an instant, Thorne braced, ready for fury, for insult, for some sharp barb about going too far.

Instead…

Tavric's grin was so broad it looked like it might split his face. He clapped Thorne's shoulder with the force of a battering ram, laughing so hard it was half a wheeze.

"Gods, that was beautiful! How in the Emperor's golden balls did you learn to fight like that? I mean..." He broke off to gesture wildly toward the ruined ground of the arena. "That wasn't a duel, that was art. Pure, terrifying art."

The words came fast, tumbling over one another, Tavric's excitement making him almost boyish despite the sheer size of him.

Maris was more composed, though her reserve had a different shape now, not cold, not offended. Curious. Measuring. She still carried herself with the unshakable confidence of a fourth-year duelist, but there was no heat of insult in her gaze.

"I have so many questions," she said simply.

Her tone was neither threat nor demand, just intent, like she meant to pry him open and catalogue every trick, every twitch, every decision.

For once, Thorne found himself not entirely minding the attention.

Maris glanced at the crowd, the way they still hovered on the edge of the warded arena, hungry for another look. "We should maybe talk somewhere quieter," she said, her voice low but carrying just enough bite to suggest she wasn't joking. "Before your fans start asking for autographs."

Tavric turned to her in mild surprise. "The club?"

She gave a single, distracted nod, already turning toward the exit.

That was all the prompting he needed. Tavric clapped Thorne on the shoulder, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to jolt him a step forward and spun him toward the archway.

"Let the man breathe!" Tavric bellowed to the lingering crowd, his voice echoing off the high arena walls. "Show's over! Go write an essay or something!"

A few laughs broke out, but the knot of spectators finally began to break apart, some muttering, some grinning, all of them still glancing back at Thorne as though he might decide to conjure another miniature sun just for their entertainment.

Thorne followed the siblings through the marble-floored corridors, the sound of their boots a steady rhythm against the faint hum of the academy's wards. He couldn't help himself, curiosity crept in. "Where exactly are we going?"

Maris didn't break stride. "We belong to an official dueling club. Sanctioned by the academy," she said absently, as if her mind was already ahead of the conversation. "They let us have a room to store our things, practice in private if we don't want an audience breathing down our necks. No interruptions, no gawkers."

They stopped in front of an unassuming steel-bound door tucked between two towering racks of practice weapons. Maris drew a slim brass key from a pocket and turned it in the lock. The hinges groaned, and the scent of chalk dust and scorched fabric wafted out.

Inside, the chamber was larger than Thorne expected, more warehouse than lounge. The walls were lined with racks of dueling staves, shields, and wands, all neatly arranged but clearly well-used. Practice dummies stood in crooked rows, their scorch marks layered from years of spellfire. A long scar marred the floor near the center, likely from some past duel gone slightly too far. Sigils pulsed slowly on the walls, meant to absorb and deflect spells gone awry.

In one corner sat a mismatched collection of chairs and a scarred oak table, covered in loose parchment, battered mugs, and a deck of spell-sigil cards mid-game. A faint, steady breeze stirred the air, carrying the sharp tang of aether residue.

Maris dropped into a chair, crossing one leg over the other. Tavric strode to a squat cabinet by the wall and pulled out a dark-glass bottle and three plain tumblers.

"Want something to drink?" he asked over his shoulder.

The adrenaline from the duel had ebbed, leaving Thorne with the dry mouth and taut muscles of someone who'd been running too hot for too long. "Yeah," he said, taking a seat across from Maris.

Tavric poured generous measures into each glass, the amber liquid catching the lamplight. He handed one to Thorne, another to his sister, then dropped into the chair beside her.

They all drank. The burn was immediate, curling warmly down Thorne's throat, settling in his stomach like banked coals.

Tavric slammed his glass down on the table with a grin, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "That fight was awesome," he announced to absolutely no one in particular, still grinning like he'd been the one to win.

Tavric leaned forward on his elbows, the grin still plastered across his face. "Seriously, that was the best duel I've seen all term. The way you moved, like you'd been doing this for years."

Thorne let the compliment hang for a beat before answering, swirling the drink in his glass. "I have. Most of my life, actually. I've been training to fight for longer than most people here have been holding a wand."

That made both siblings perk up, but he didn't stop there. His gaze slid to Maris, and there was no heat in his tone, just calm observation. "Your form is excellent. Your precision? Impeccable. But every move you made was telegraphed before you even moved. To someone with an experienced eye, piecing together your strategy was… simple."

Stolen story; please report.

Maris's brow furrowed, the faintest sting of pride flickering across her face. "Telegraphed?" she repeated.

"Mm." Thorne took a slow sip. "Tell me, have you ever fought outside a dueling ward?"

"I've gone on several expeditions with Aetherhold," she said, the edge in her voice sharpening.

"And you fought what? Monsters? Aether beasts?"

When she nodded, he sighed and set his glass down with a soft clink. "Aether beasts are good for building experience, honing reflexes… but they're not the same as a skilled opponent who's actively trying to kill you. Out there, you don't have a referee. Or wards to absorb the worst of it. You need a real life-and-death situation to truly learn how to fight."

Tavric was staring at him now, wide-eyed and half-smiling like a boy hearing tales by a campfire. "You've been in… many such situations, then?"

Thorne arched a single eyebrow, his voice dropping into that cool, flat register that carried more weight than volume. "More than you can imagine."

Both their eyes widened.

Tavric turned to his sister and said, utterly deadpan, "Sister, if you don't marry him, I will."

That cracked the tension, and all three of them laughed, Tavric's booming and unrestrained, Maris's low and reluctant, Thorne's just a ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips.

But then Maris leaned forward, her humor vanishing like smoke. "I've been replaying the fight over and over in my head, trying to find where I went wrong," she admitted, frustration seeping into her tone. "But I can't. Not one move felt like a mistake in the moment. And yet..." She shook her head. "Your aether output was incredible. How did you do that?"

"Yeah," Tavric jumped in, his expression halfway between awe and suspicion. "Your basic attacks were… frightening."

Thorne let the corner of his mouth curl upward, taking his time with another sip. "I have my secrets." He twirled his wand between his fingers with casual grace. "But this old thing? It's more special than you think."

Both siblings' eyes snapped to the wand like hawks spotting prey.

Good, Thorne thought, schooling his face into polite indifference. Let them think it's the wand. Let them chase the wrong trail.

"What tier is it?" Maris asked breathlessly.

Thorne didn't answer. Instead, he leaned back and deflected with an easy shrug. "I'll be honest, though the element of surprise was on my side. If we had a rematch, I suspect things wouldn't go so smoothly for me."

Maris straightened instantly, that competitive gleam igniting behind her eyes. "Then let's go have a rematch right now."

She half rose from her chair, but Tavric put a restraining hand on her arm and chuckled. "Easy, sister. And you call me a hothead?"

"Another time, maybe," Thorne said with a small, knowing smile.

Maris exhaled through her nose, still shaking her head. "I still can't believe you beat me using only two spells. And one of them was Lux, for the love of the stars. How is that even possible?"

Thorne gave a small, low laugh, tilting his head at her. "You," he said, "have a large repertoire of spells. But have you mastered them?"

She blinked, surprised, then let out a disbelieving laugh. "Of course not! Which fourth-year is able to master so many battle spells? Don't be ridiculous." She looked half insulted, half incredulous.

"I figured as much," Thorne said evenly, leaning back. "Your spells lacked bite."

Tavric burst into loud laughter and slapped the table. "Lacked bite, he says!" He was grinning ear to ear, clearly enjoying the jab at his sister.

Thorne ignored him, keeping his attention locked on Maris, whose expression had shifted into something more intense, like she thought he might hold the keys to the kingdom.

"They felt too unyielding. Too predictable," Thorne continued. "And your strategy… was flawed."

Her frown deepened. "Flawed how?"

Thorne swirled the drink in his glass, taking his time before answering, not because he was searching for the words, but because he was weighing how honest he wanted to be. "Your spells, although impressive, are too… similar. All offensive. Good if you want to overwhelm a weaker opponent, but ultimately ineffective against someone who refuses to play your game."

Her lips parted slightly, but he didn't give her the chance to interrupt.

"I didn't just use two spells," he said. "I used my skills as well. That's the difference. You were too stationary. You lacked any mobility spells, anything that would allow you to reposition. Your problem wasn't that you didn't have enough firepower, it was that you couldn't land a hit. As much damage potential as you had was useless if I was always two steps ahead."

For a moment, she looked as if she wanted to argue, but then, comprehension began to dawn. Her eyes sharpened in thought, and Thorne could already tell she was replaying the duel in her head, dissecting every move and counter. He had the distinct sense that the moment he walked out that door, she'd be practicing until dawn.

Tavric was staring at him now like someone who'd stumbled upon a treasure map. "Look at him," he said, gesturing broadly toward Thorne. "It's like he's got all the secrets."

Maris ignored her brother and leaned forward. "Could you help me train?"

Thorne met her gaze and, without hesitation, said, "No."

She deflated, blinking at him as if she hadn't expected outright refusal.

"Oh, come on, man!" Tavric said, throwing his hands up. "Help us train! You could even join our dueling club, it's pretty awesome! We get drinks every day."

Thorne's mouth curved into a smirk. "As tempting as that sounds, my answer is still no. I'm not fit to be a trainer. I lack the patience… and I'd probably kill your sister." He smiled directly at her when he said it.

"You're not joking, are you?" Tavric asked, the grin faltering into something more uncertain.

Thorne turned the smile on him, slow and deliberate. "I never joke about killing." Then the smile shifted, colder, sharper. "Well… not never. I cracked a joke or two a couple of times when I killed someone."

Both siblings stared at him, eyes widening.

Finally, Tavric said to his sister, still looking at Thorne, "I don't know whether I'm afraid of this guy or impressed by him."

Thorne raised his glass in a mock toast. "I'll take either one."

Maris didn't look away from him. If anything, her gaze sharpened, the kind of focus Thorne usually saw in gamblers deciding whether to go all in. She wasn't just competitive, she was hungry.

Tavric leaned back in his chair, grinning like the fight was still going. "You know, you'd fit right in with us," he said. "I mean, sure, you're arrogant, cold, and vaguely terrifying but so are most of the people I like."

"Vaguely?" Thorne arched an eyebrow.

"Fine, very terrifying." Tavric took another drink. "But in a fun way."

Thorne gave a faint smirk, but his mind wasn't on the banter. He was cataloguing. Tavric carried himself like a man used to getting into trouble but confident enough to talk his way back out of it, muscles for days, but the way his hands rested lightly on the table told Thorne the man had reflexes too. Probably more dangerous than he let on.

Maris was another matter. Every movement she made was purposeful. No wasted gestures, no idle fidgeting. She was the kind of duelist who measured, calculated, struck, but also the kind who could be predicted if you understood her patterns. And she did have patterns. She didn't like improvisation; she liked control. That was her weakness.

"I keep thinking about our fight, I just can't let it go..." Maris said suddenly, breaking into his thoughts. "I keep trying to find the moment where I lost control, but I can't. You never gave me an opening, not once."

"That's because I didn't need to," Thorne said. "Openings aren't given. They're created. And if your opponent doesn't give you one…" He tapped a finger on the table, deliberate. "You take it anyway."

Her eyes narrowed, but he saw it, that flicker of grudging respect.

Tavric grinned at his sister. "Hear that? He just called you predictable without even saying the word."

Thorne ignored him. "You have skill," he said to Maris. "But skill without adaptability? That's a pretty way to lose a fight."

She didn't argue, which was telling in itself.

For a moment, the three of them sat in a comfortable sort of tension, Tavric relaxed but buzzing with energy, Maris coiled like a spring, and Thorne studying them both like pieces on a game board.

He wasn't sure if they'd end up as friends, rivals, or something more complicated. But he knew one thing for certain: they were useful. And in Aetherhold, maybe even more than in the Empire, useful was the same as valuable.

Thorne glanced toward the high, arched windows. The light spilling through them was no longer the bright gold of afternoon but the molten amber of a sun on its slow descent. Shadows stretched across the dueling club's floor, long and warped, curling over the mismatched chairs and scattered gear.

He had assignments waiting, sigil translations, an unfinished alchemy paper, and notes to revise before tomorrow's lectures, not to mention the nightly training session in Marian's tower. The evening was already slipping through his fingers.

Pushing back his chair, he rose smoothly. "I should go," he said. "Still have work to do before practice."

Tavric looked disappointed for all of two seconds before that easy grin returned. "You know," he said, lifting his glass in a half-toast, "you're welcome here any time. If you need to blow off steam, try a new spell, or just humiliate my sister again..."

Maris shot him a look sharp enough to cut glass. Tavric grinned wider.

"... the door's open," he finished.

Thorne paused at the doorway, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You know what?" he said, glancing over his shoulder. "I might take you up on that."

Tavric gave a mock salute. "I'll keep the welcome drinks cold."

Maris, still sitting with her arms folded, studied him with that calculating gaze, as if she were already dismantling his techniques in her mind for next time.

Thorne's smile deepened, just a fraction. "See you," he said, and then he was gone, the echo of his footsteps fading down the corridor as the last light of day bled into the halls of Aetherhold.

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