A Throne Forged by Shadows - Aaric Graycastle

The hallways of Basgiath are never truly empty.

Even now, the corridors buzz with the familiar hum of life. The sharp bark of a second-year. The shuffle of boots. The echo of mage lights buzzing faintly overhead.

Everything smells like scorched parchment and steel—like war and knowledge and the things we're forced to become just to survive here.

Sloane walks beside me, our steps in sync without trying. We've moved through so many corridors together that it's muscle memory now. Routine forged through chaos. Comfort carved from war.

"Five days," she mutters, her voice edged with theatrical misery.

I raise an eyebrow. "Five days?"

She groans, dramatically rolling her shoulders. "Of Gauntlet practice. And I think my arms might actually fall off."

A small laugh slips out of me, tired but real. "You and me both."

Sloane smirks, bumping my shoulder. "Yeah, but at least I can get past the chimney."

I glare at her, though there's no heat behind it. "Thanks for that."

She grins wider. "I mean, if you really wanted to, I'm sure Aaric could just throw you up there—"

"Sloane."

"What? He practically lifts you off the ground and throws you around half the time when you're sparring anyway."

I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. "This is what I get for making friends."

"No, this is what you get for making friends with me," she says, smug.

A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth despite myself.

It's stupid. Banter. Lightness in a place that offers so little of it. I almost let myself fall into the moment—let myself feel normal for just a second.

Then the air shifts.

A prickle crawls down the back of my neck—sharp, cold, instinctive. I've felt this before. Too many times.

We're being watched.

I don't react.

Not outwardly.

But my shoulders lock. My fingers twitch at my sides. Every muscle tightens, waiting for the inevitable.

My eyes flick sideways—just enough to catch the edge of the corridor, past the soft mage light glow.

And there he is.

Rowe.

Leaning against the wall like he owns the place, arms crossed, that smug smile already curling at the corners of his mouth.

"Oh, look who it is."

He pushes off the wall, stepping into our path like we're just an inconvenience to him. Just another target for his endless supply of venom.

Sloane stiffens. Her fingers twitch near her hip—too close to her blade.

I keep walking.

Keep my pace even.

He's not worth it.

But Rowe doesn't stop.

He's like a predator who smells blood.

"Where's your shadow, Melgren?" His voice drips mockery. "Haven't seen him hovering today. Don't tell me he finally got bored of playing babysitter?"

I exhale slowly through my nose. I don't stop walking. Don't give him the reaction he wants.