Patterns of Friction

Aetheris Academy – The Grand Council Chamber

Cael Mavros sat in the cold, towering hall of the Academy Council, his fingers tapping idly against the wooden armrest of the chair they had forced him into. The walls were lined with ancient banners, each woven with sigils representing the noble houses that controlled Aetheris. The air was thick with tension, the kind that whispered of decisions made before the accused could even speak.

Across from him, a semicircle of robed figures sat in judgment. At the center, his gaze sharp as a blade, was High Chancellor Malrik. His very presence made Cael's skin crawl. The man was an anchor to reality itself, a force that nullified abstract magic just by existing.

To Malrik's right sat Grand Magister Vorell, a woman with storm-gray eyes, and to his left, Archmage Durnath, whose long beard made him look more scholar than executioner. But Cael knew better. None of them were here to listen.

No, this wasn't a trial.

It was a test.

And one wrong move would cost him everything.

The Accusation

Malrik cleared his throat, and the sound was enough to silence the hushed murmurs in the chamber. His voice, cold and measured, rang out.

"Cael Mavros. You stand before this council as an anomaly within Aetheris Academy. A student whose abilities are neither recognized nor understood. A participant in the Grand Gauntlet Tournament… under a false identity."

The accusation sent a ripple of discontent through the gathered nobles.

So they finally figured it out.

Cael kept his expression neutral. He wasn't about to play into their hands.

"What do you have to say for yourself?" Malrik asked, folding his hands on the marble table before him.

Cael tilted his head slightly. "Am I to be punished for winning?"

A few scoffs echoed through the chamber, but Malrik remained unmoved.

"You are to be questioned," the High Chancellor corrected. "Your abilities defy classification. Friction Manipulation and Pattern Recognition—these are not within the known schools of magic. And yet, you demonstrated combat proficiency beyond what should be possible. You made elite mages look like children playing at war."

Cael shrugged. "Should I have lost instead?"

"That is not the point," Malrik snapped, his fingers tightening. The room grew heavier, as if gravity itself was pressing down.

Cael resisted the urge to shift in his seat. So, that's how it is. He's using his Reality Anchoring against me.

Malrik continued, his voice sharp as glass.

"The academy thrives on order. Magic is power, and power must be understood. Your existence is… disruptive. We cannot afford chaos."

At this, Cael gave a short, dry laugh. "And yet, you still invited me here. So tell me, Chancellor—what exactly do you want from me?"

Silence.

Then, Grand Magister Vorell leaned forward, her piercing gaze boring into him.

"We want to know… who trained you."

The Veiled Hands Make Their Move

That was the real reason.

Not the false identity. Not the fact that he won.

They were terrified.

No one had taught him. No master, no formal instruction, yet he had outmaneuvered their best students.

They thought he was working with someone.

He could feed them a lie. Give them a name. Mislead them, send them chasing shadows.

But before he could open his mouth, the chamber doors slammed open.

A figure strode inside—cloaked in black, hood drawn low. The scent of ink and parchment clung to them, but their movements were too sharp, too calculated to belong to a mere scholar.

Cael immediately knew.

The Veiled Hands had come for him.

The hooded figure stepped forward and bowed, revealing a porcelain mask underneath. Their voice was smooth, measured.

"Apologies for the intrusion, High Chancellor. But Cael Mavros is under our protection."

Gasps erupted through the chamber. Even Malrik's usual icy composure cracked for just a moment.

The Veiled Hands, openly declaring allegiance?

This was a declaration of war.

Bargains in the Dark

Malrik's expression darkened. "You would dare interfere with academy matters?"

"We would dare to remind you," the masked figure replied, "that the academy is not the only force that governs Aetheris."

Cael hid his amusement. He wasn't sure what was more entertaining—the fact that the council had clearly underestimated the reach of the Veiled Hands… or the fact that they now had no idea what to do with him.

Vorell spoke up, her tone laced with suspicion. "Why would the Veiled Hands be interested in this student?"

The masked figure turned toward Cael, and for a brief moment, he thought he saw something familiar in their stance.

"Because he is one of ours."

A calculated lie. But one he would let them tell.

The council had already feared he had backing. Now they had been given a ghostly, untouchable enemy to fixate on.

Malrik exhaled sharply, pressing his fingers together. "And if we refuse to acknowledge your claim?"

The masked figure tilted their head. "Then we will be forced to assume that Aetheris Academy intends to move against us. And that would be… unfortunate."

The unspoken threat was clear.

A heavy silence followed.

Then, finally—

"Very well." Malrik's voice was cold, but restrained. "Cael Mavros will remain a student. For now."

Cael gave a small, satisfied nod. For now would be enough.

As he stood, the masked figure gave him the smallest, almost imperceptible nod before turning to leave.

Cael followed, suppressing the smirk threatening to form.

He had just escaped the noose.

For now.

The Price of Protection

As soon as they were out of earshot, Cael turned to his mysterious "savior."

"You have five seconds to tell me what the hell that was about."

The figure let out a quiet chuckle before pulling back the hood and removing the mask.

Dark brown hair, sharp golden eyes.

Cael's lips twitched. "Of course. It's you."

Veyna Eldriss.

A high-ranking member of the Veiled Hands. And someone he had hoped never to cross paths with again.

He knew her well—too well.

They had met three years ago, back when Cael still operated in the underbelly of Aetheris, taking odd jobs in the shadow market to survive. Veyna had been the one to test him—to see if he was "worth recruiting." At first, she had watched from a distance, analyzing his movements, his strategies, the way he never lost a game of chance even when the odds were stacked against him. Then, one night, she had cornered him after a high-stakes wager in the back alleys of the Ebon District.

"You're either the luckiest bastard alive," she had said, flicking a dagger between her fingers, "or you're playing on a different board than the rest of us."

He had laughed. She had smiled.

Then she had nearly killed him to see how he'd react.

It had been a test—one he had barely passed.

Since then, they had crossed paths more than once. She always showed up when things got complicated, offering deals that never seemed worth the price. He had learned to be wary of her, of the way she spoke in half-truths, of the way she always seemed to know more than she should.

"You're welcome," she said dryly, slipping the mask into her sleeve. "You should be thanking me."

"For what? Dragging me deeper into your mess?"

"For keeping your head attached to your shoulders."

Cael exhaled sharply. This was just like her. Offering help with one hand while hiding the knife in the other.

And yet, as much as he hated to admit it…

She had saved him.

Again.

Cael sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Alright. Why?"

Veyna's smirk faded. "Because whether you like it or not, Cael, you're valuable. And that means people will keep trying to take you off the board."

"So what? You're offering protection?"

She tilted her head. "That depends. Are you willing to listen?"

Cael hesitated.

The Veiled Hands were dangerous. But then again, so was Malrik. So was everyone in Aetheris.

He had avoided picking a side for years.

But now, it seemed the choice had been made for him.

"Fine," he said. "I'm listening."

Veyna's eyes glimmered. "Good. Because the real war?"

She stepped closer, voice dropping to a whisper.

"It's only just beginning."