Aerion sat hunched in the Starfall Athenaeum, the Lyceum Arcana Academy's oldest library, where the world's chaos seemed held at bay by ancient stone and silence.
Sunlight, fractured through stained-glass windows, scattered colored patches across the battered wooden table.
The light painted his hands blue and gold as he traced the faded script of a grimoire older than the Dominion itself, copying star charts onto a scrap of parchment.
He hummed a low, wistful tune his mother used to sing, a lullaby from a gentler time. His dark hair fell into his blue eyes, eyes that so resembled his father's, now shadowed with worry.
He pushed the hair back, smudging ink across his cheek, and tried to lose himself in the comfort of routine.
The blue tunic uniform, edged with silver, felt like a shield: here, in this quiet corner, he could almost pretend the Veridian court's schemes and betrayals were distant nightmares.
The Lyceum was his sanctuary. Here, magic was study, not weapon; knowledge, not leverage. Here, he could be Aerion the scholar, not Aerion the prince, the pawn in a game of blood and power.
But peace, he knew, was always fleeting.
Footsteps slapped against the stone floor, hurried and uneven. Aerion's humming faltered.
He looked up as Brother Felix, the head scribe, burst through the oak door. Felix was always composed, his every gesture precise, but now he was a mess: pale, sweating, eyes wild with something Aerion had never seen in him before, a raw and unfiltered terror.
"Your Highness!" Felix gasped, clutching the table for support. "Prince Aerion!"
Aerion's stomach twisted. He set his pen down, hands trembling. "Felix, what's wrong? What happened?"
Felix swayed, breath ragged, voice rough. "The Dominion… the capital… Therion…"
He gulped air, fighting for words. "He's taken the throne. A coup. The Emperor, your father… he's dead."
The words struck Aerion like a physical blow. His vision blurred, the world tilting.
He gripped the table, knuckles white, as if he could anchor himself against the tide of horror.
His father, dead?
The Emperor's laughter, his stern voice, his gentle hand on Aerion's shoulder, gone, snuffed out by betrayal. And Therion, his own son, the architect of it all.
Aerion's throat locked. He'd never been a soldier, never hungered for power like Therion.
He'd come to the Lyceum to escape the court's games, to study, to stay out of the way. Now, the games had found him.
A sharp crack rang out from the courtyard below, followed by guttural shouts in the thick accent of Vaelgard's eastern provinces. Then, screams, high and desperate, cut short by the unmistakable sound of steel slicing flesh.
Felix's eyes widened further, if that was possible. "Vaelgard's here," he hissed. "They'll burn this place down and kill us all."
Aerion's heart pounded. He wasn't a fighter. He'd always preferred books to blades. If Vaelgard captured a Veridian prince, he'd be a bargaining chip, or a corpse.
"Thaddeus!" Aerion called, voice cracking as he turned toward the alcove where his mentor usually worked.
Professor Thaddeus Vaelen was already moving, faster than Aerion had ever seen the old man go.
His face was set, eyes flinty with resolve. "Felix, west stairs, ring the bell!" he barked. "Aerion, with me. Now!"
Shouts grew louder, metal clashing closer. Felix bolted for the narrow hallway, feet pounding up the stairs.
Thaddeus grabbed Aerion's arm, yanking him toward a blank wall behind the statue of Archmage Lyceus. Aerion stumbled, his robe catching on his legs.
From a high window, he glimpsed the courtyard, men in dark leather armor, faces masked, cutting down two Lyceum guards with brutal, efficient strokes.
Not Vaelgard, Aerion realized with a jolt. Therion's men. My brother had sent assassins.
Thaddeus pressed a pattern of stones on the statue's base. A section of wall groaned open, revealing a dark passage that smelled of wet earth and old secrets.
"Go!" Thaddeus urged, shoving Aerion inside. "Follow the blue moss down to the forest."
Aerion hesitated, voice shaking. "Thaddeus, come with me!"
The professor stayed at the entrance, hands rising, the air around him humming with the gathering of power. "I'll hold them off," he said, calm but firm. "Go, Aerion. Survive."
Three figures burst into the room, swords gleaming, faces twisted with purpose. Thaddeus didn't flinch
The stone door slammed shut, cutting off Aerion's view, muffling the sounds of the struggle.
Darkness swallowed him. "I'm alone," Aerion whispered, the words echoing in the tight space.
He pressed his forehead to the cold stone, grief clawing at him. His father, dead; Therion, a traitor; Thaddeus, likely gone.
A deep rumble shook the passage. The assassins had found the mechanism.
Aerion snapped out of his stupor, fumbling in his pocket for a light-globe. It was a small stone every Lyceum student carried.
He whispered the activation word, and a faint blue glow bloomed, revealing slick, moss-lined walls. Patches of glowing blue moss marked the path downward.
He ran, tripping over loose stones, his robe snagging on jagged edges. The passage twisted, narrowed, grew colder.
Behind him, the stone door shuddered again. Shouts echoed, closer now, harsha and hungry.
The tunnel opened into a cave, an underground river roaring through it. The moss led to a ledge by the water, ending at a rusted iron gate.
Moonlight glinted beyond, the Enthem River flowing outside. Freedom, if he could reach it.
Aerion grabbed the gate's bars. Locked. He shoved, pulled, but it held fast.
Despair hit hard, but he forced it down. Think, Aerion. Think.
He brought the light-globe to the lock. It was old, rusted, a simple tumbler. Digging in his pocket, he found his steel stylus, used for sketching diagrams. Not ideal, but it would have to do.
Shouts rang out from the tunnel. They'd spotted his light.
Hands shaking, Aerion jammed the stylus into the lock, twisting, probing. Sweat stung his eyes.
Behind him, footsteps pounded closer, the metallic tang of blood thick in the air.
A faint click.
He pushed the gate, its creak loud in the cave. It opened just enough to slip through.
He stumbled, falling into the icy river.
The cold shocked him, the current yanking at his legs. Gasping, he fought to stand, wading away from the gate.
Glancing back, he saw torchlight and figures at the gate, scanning the bank. One pointed, shouting.
Aerion ducked low, letting the current pull him around a bend. The Lyceum's towers vanished behind the trees.
He dragged himself onto the muddy bank, shivering, soaked to the bone. His teeth chattered as he stripped off his heavy robe and boots, hiding them in the bushes.
In just his tunic and trousers, he felt exposed, vulnerable, hunted.
He looked up at the stars, their calm beauty a cruel contrast to his reality. His breath misted in the cold.
He had to keep moving. Survive. That was all that mattered now.
Aerion stumbled into the forest, the darkness swallowing him whole.
Behind him, the Lyceum burned, its towers silhouetted in fire and blood, the screams of the dying echoing in the night.