Patterns of Friction

The night wrapped around them like a velvet shroud, thick with the scent of damp stone and flickering torchlight. Cael stood with his arms crossed, eyes locked on Veyna Eldriss, who leaned casually against the far wall of the abandoned tavern's cellar.

The Veiled Hands had chosen their meeting place well—somewhere forgotten, hidden beneath the bustling streets of Aetheris. Dust drifted lazily in the air, settling over crates of long-expired contraband.

Cael exhaled. The real war.

She always had a flair for the dramatic.

"So," he said, "I assume you didn't save me out of sheer kindness."

Veyna smirked. "Now you're catching on."

She tapped a gloved finger against an old wooden barrel, as if deciding how much to tell him.

"The Academy Council has put a price on your head."

Cael didn't react—not outwardly. He had expected as much. After everything that had happened, the Academy was bound to act. What surprised him was the speed of it.

"That was fast," he muttered.

"It wasn't just them," Veyna continued. "Word is, Chancellor Malrik personally ordered your capture."

At that, a flicker of something sharp and cold slid through Cael's mind. Malrik. The man who had spent decades shaping Aetheris in his image, ensuring that only worthy magic remained. And now, Cael—an anomaly, an abstract mage—had forced his hand.

"Dead or alive?" Cael asked, though he already knew the answer.

Veyna's smirk widened. "They won't say it outright, but let's just say they're not interested in negotiations."

Of course.

This wasn't a bounty.

It was an execution order.

The Veiled Hands' True Intentions

"And that's where we come in."

Veyna pushed away from the wall, stepping into the dim glow of a single lantern. The golden light cast shadows across her sharp features, her eyes glinting with amusement.

"We need you, Cael."

He almost laughed. Of course they did.

The Veiled Hands—an organization whispered about in the underbelly of Aetheris, known for their influence over everything outside the rigid order of society. Smugglers, spies, assassins—and revolutionaries.

They were the only faction that had never bent to the Academy's rule.

"Let me guess," he said dryly. "You want me to be your new pet weapon? Use my abilities to tear down the system?"

Veyna tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly.

"I want you to survive."

That, at least, caught him off guard.

"You're valuable, Cael," she continued. "Not just because of what you can do, but because of who you are. You see patterns others don't. You move like a ghost in a world full of hammer-wielders. And more importantly…"

She stepped closer, voice dropping into a whisper.

"You're proof that Malrik is afraid."

Cael exhaled slowly.

"He should be," he muttered.

Veyna grinned. "Exactly. So why not make that fear work for you?"

A Game of Strategy

Cael didn't answer immediately.

Instead, he walked toward one of the dusty crates, trailing his fingers over the rough wood.

The Veiled Hands didn't operate on loyalty. They operated on deals. Veyna didn't expect him to simply join—she expected him to bargain.

Fine. He'd play along.

"What do I get in return?" he asked.

Veyna's grin deepened.

"A chance to strike first."

She pulled a scroll from her coat and tossed it onto the crate beside him. The wax seal was already broken.

Cael unfolded it carefully, scanning the elegant script.

A list. Names. Locations.

And one name stood out among the rest.

Soren Draeven.

He felt his jaw tighten.

"The Academy's next move," Veyna explained. "Soren has been ordered to hunt you down. He's gathering a team as we speak."

Cael frowned. Soren was many things—an arrogant bastard, a relentless duelist—but he wasn't someone's lapdog.

"They must have given him a damn good reason," Cael muttered.

"Or a damn good lie," Veyna countered. "Either way, the moment you face him, you'll have no choice but to fight."

Somewhere across the city, in the grand halls of Aetheris Academy, Soren Draeven stood before the Academy Council.

The room was bathed in golden candlelight, illuminating the marble pillars and the long mahogany table where the highest-ranking mages sat in judgment.

High Chancellor Malrik loomed at the head of the table, his cold gaze fixed on Soren.

"You will find him," Malrik said simply. "And you will bring him to me."

Soren's arms were crossed, his stance casual—too casual.

"And if he resists?" he asked.

A cruel smile flickered across Malrik's face.

"Then I expect you to put an end to this mistake once and for all."

Soren didn't move. Didn't blink.

But something dark flickered in his storm-gray eyes.

"Understood," he said.

As he turned to leave, Malrik spoke again.

"Do not fail me, Soren."

There was no need for threats. The weight of expectation pressed down heavier than any blade.

Soren merely nodded before disappearing into the shadows.

The War Moves Forward

Cael closed the scroll and met Veyna's gaze.

"And what exactly do you suggest?" he asked.

Veyna grinned.

"We move first."

The lantern flickered, casting shifting shadows across the walls. Outside, the city of Aetheris remained unaware of the storm brewing beneath its polished surface.

But soon, they would know.

And when they did—

Cael Mavros would no longer be invisible.