I saw the animated blood elf teaser on Warcraft's twitter last night.
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"What?"
"It's a whole new way of interacting with the runes! Oh-so-elegant, don't you think?" She's earnest, he can tell even with her short ears.
"But it's–" my spell, Aethas finishes the sentence in his mind, but doesn't say. The human woman blinks at him, expectantly. "Nevermind. Can I see it again?"
She hands the scroll back to him, and there it is. Plain as day, down to the flairs on the runes themselves. His idea, his handwriting, his spell.
His mind reels. What does this mean? He spoke to others about this spell, certainly, because he was proud of it! It's a good spell! Elegant, even! He even showed some of his teachers. Is there a name on it?
His eyes land on a signature. "Council of Dalaran". What? He never submitted it for publishing! And certainly not without it bearing his signature! His classmate yelps when he stalks past her, and then she's calling after him, but he can't hear a word she's saying. He can't stop walking now.
The steps up to the Violet Citadel seem endless under the midday sun. Light, protect me.
It occurs to him, as he stands outside of the room where the Council meets with students, that he could be risking something, here. That by making a fuss he could be marked as "troublesome", depending on which of his fellow students stole it. This could perhaps even destroy any hope he has for becoming Archmage in the city, Sunreaver or not. But... it's his spell. And he can prove it. He knocks on the door.
"Enter," calls a bored-sounding, masculine voice.
Aethas does, finding Archmage Ansirem seated by the round table taking up the floor. It's absolutely covered in parchment. So, perhaps it was just a clerical error! Maybe he can get it fixed easily!
"Archmage Ansirem," Aethas says with a polite bow, "I just had this spell brought to my attention."
He spreads it out over a mostly flat part of the table. Archmage Ansirem glances at it, then at Aethas with a wan smile.
"Yes, that. Quite good, isn't it? If you've academic questions, your teachers should be more than adequate–"
"It's my spell." It feels good to say. His voice echoes a bit in the cavernous ceiling.
Archmage Ansirem's smile... thins.
"No. Look at the signature, there: Council of Dalaran. You're mistaken."
Aethas is stunned, again, for the second time in an hour.
"But. I wrote it."
"Based on Dalaran magical principles older than you, boy."
"But it was my idea to shape them like this–"
"You listen to me." Archmage Ansirem slams his hand on the table, making Aethas jump.
"You're an apprentice. You don't own anything you write within these scholarly halls. Listen to yourself, would you deprive everyone of easier runework out of a misguided desire for clout? For status?" After making up these possible motivations – and certainly not projecting, surely – the Archmage leans back in his chair once more, clearly pleased with himself. "Ridiculous. Learn this lesson well, boy: it doesn't matter what your family name is. Nobody will believe you over us. Now get out of my sight."
Standing outside on those steps, mass-produced scroll crumpling in one shaking fist, Aethas thinks that Archmage Ansirem was right about one thing. He will learn this lesson well.
Don't trust the Council.