The remainder of the party was a test of Thorne’s patience, each passing moment tugging at his already frayed nerves. The events of the night weighed heavily on him, but the nobles around him were blissfully unaware.

  Questions came at him from all sides, polite inquiries masked as veiled attempts to extract information, subtle jabs disguised as humor. But Thorne’s social skills rose to the challenge, his carefully honed facade projecting an image of calm confidence. He projected a dignified and carefree image, his tone calm, his words perfectly measured. Each inquiry was met with a polished reply that revealed little and redirected much.

  His skill Tactful Deflection leveled up twice as he redirected the flow of conversations again and again, steering inquisitive nobles away from topics that skirted too close to dangerous truths.

  Meanwhile, Sculpted Persona gained another level, making his image as a young, enigmatic foreign lord even more flawless. He realized with some surprise that he had started adopting small mannerisms, gestures, turns of phrase, that he had never consciously practiced but that fit the role he played to perfection.

  Despite his composed exterior, Thorne’s mind was anything but calm. His attention split between multiple fronts, each one demanding his focus.

  Across the room, Selene was talking animatedly with two women, her hands occasionally gesturing to emphasize a point. Thorne’s gaze was drawn to her again and again.

  One of her companions was Lady Emilia Farroway, the daughter of Lord Gregory Farroway, one of the most prominent noble families in Alvar. Lord Gregory was a towering figure in the city’s political landscape, second only to the Ravencourts, Thornfields, and Lockridges. Uncle had long sought to win Gregory’s support, but the man’s loyalty to the Ravencourts remained unshaken.

  Selene laughed at something Emilia said, the sound light and carefree. Her presence felt like a balm, so far removed from the darkness that dominated Thorne’s world. For a fleeting moment, he allowed himself to admire her, but then he forced himself to look away.

  In the center of the ballroom, Alaric Ravencourt commanded the room with effortless charisma. A crowd of young nobles surrounded him, men and women alike vying to be as close to him as possible. They hung on his every word, their admiration palpable, as if his charm and authority were contagious.

  Alaric reveled in the attention. His gestures grew grander, his voice louder, and as the night wore on, his confidence only seemed to grow.

  Thorne’s attention sharpened when he overheard an argument between Alaric and Valen Moreau.

  “You’re being stupid,” said Valen Moreau, his tone firm.

  Valen stood just outside Alaric’s circle, his glasses glinting as he pushed them up the bridge of his nose. The bespectacled scholar was a familiar figure to Thorne, though few in the room seemed to regard him with anything but mild disdain. Months ago, Thorne had saved Valen from an aether beast rampaging through the merchant district, an encounter that had left Valen both shaken and oddly fascinated.

  “You boast about attacking the Thornfields,” Valen continued, “but you’re ignoring the real threat. The aether disturbances are becoming more frequent, and they’re far more dangerous than this petty feud you’re so obsessed with.”

  Alaric didn’t bristle at the challenge. Instead, he laughed uproariously, throwing an arm around Valen and pulling him into a headlock.

  “Always the same, Valen!” Alaric exclaimed, ruffling Valen’s hair in a mock display of affection. “When will you grow up and get your nose out of your books?”

  Valen squawked indignantly, struggling to free himself. “I’m serious! My calculations...”

  “That’s enough, Valen,” Alaric interrupted, his tone still jovial but with a faint edge. “We’re here to party, not drown in academics.”

  Releasing Valen, Alaric raised his glass high. “To unity and strength!” he proclaimed, his voice booming.

  The crowd cheered, raising their glasses and mimicking Alaric as he downed his drink in one smooth motion.

  Valen huffed, adjusting his glasses as he stormed off. His muttered words were lost beneath the roar of approval from Alaric’s admirers.

  Thorne’s gaze lingered on Valen’s retreating figure. Aether disturbances are becoming more frequent? he thought. That’s worth looking into.

  Thorne’s attention shifted again, this time to Lord Ravencourt. The head of the family stood near a cluster of nobles, speaking with calm authority. His demeanor was so composed, so ordinary, that it almost made Thorne doubt the cryptic encounter from earlier in the night.

  But Thorne couldn’t stop checking on him. Every few minutes, his eyes instinctively sought Ravencourt’s position, trying to make sure nothing had happened to him.

  Thorne’s attention snapped back as a man across from him cleared his throat expectantly.

  “The rise in prices,” the noble prompted, his voice laced with curiosity. “Surely it’s creating opportunities for new trade routes?”

  Thorne’s mind raced as he recalled the details of their conversation. For a moment, the words of Valen and the presence of Ravencourt blurred together in his mind, but he forced himself to focus.

  “Yes,” Thorne replied smoothly, his tone measured. “Though such opportunities must be approached cautiously. A sudden shift in trade could destabilize the markets, particularly in regions already under strain.”

  The noble nodded thoughtfully, seemingly satisfied with the answer. Thorne let out a slow breath, his attention already straying back to his other concerns.

  As the evening wore on, the ballroom began to empty. Nobles drifted away in pairs and small groups, their laughter softening into murmurs as the festivities wound down. The clinking of glasses and distant strains of music faded into the background, leaving the room quieter but no less stifling. Thorne felt the weight of the night pressing harder on him, the performance finally nearing its end.

  He thought of Eliza.

  Her words lingered in his mind, cold and unyielding: Of course. I was given an assignment. I have to complete it.

  Her target was Lord Ravencourt, and Thorne knew her well enough to understand there was no dissuading her. She had made up her mind. Ravencourt’s fate was sealed.

  Thorne’s gaze instinctively sought the man again, finding him near the far end of the room. Ravencourt stood in casual conversation with a noblewoman, his posture relaxed, his expression calm.

  He has no idea what’s coming.

  The sight of him, so unguarded, struck something uneasy in Thorne. He wasn’t sure if it was pity, guilt, or simply the nagging sense that tonight’s events had set something larger in motion, something he couldn’t stop, even if he tried.

  As Thorne’s gaze lingered, he couldn’t ignore the faint whisper of doubt in the back of his mind: If Eliza succeeds... what will Selene think when she finds out?

  The thought was unbearable. He shook it off, forcing himself to move toward the exit.

  Just before stepping through the door, he stopped and turned back for one final look at the ballroom. His gaze swept over the thinning crowd, taking in the fragmented remnants of the night. Nobles murmured goodbyes, servants moved discreetly to clear away the debris of the party, and the faint echo of laughter lingered in the corners of the room.

  Then his eyes found Selene.

  She stood near the far wall, her gown still gathered slightly in her hands. Her companions were gone, but she remained, scanning the room as if searching for something or someone.

  When her gaze met his, her expression softened. A small smile touched her lips, a smile that felt like it was meant only for him.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Thorne’s chest tightened. He allowed himself to return the smile before stepping through the doors.

  The chill of the night air greeted him, sharp and bracing, but the warmth of Selene’s smile lingered.

  Behind that warmth, though, was the shadow of what he knew was coming. Ravencourt’s doom was inevitable. And no matter how much Thorne wanted to believe he could keep the threads of his world from unraveling, the truth loomed over him like the glow of the crow mark on his hand.

  The crows are circling.

  *

  Eliza never returned.

  Thorne spent the night not in Uncle’s grand estate but in his small attic, tucked away in the city. It had been so long since he’d slept there, so long since he had called the cramped space home. And yet, as he lay on the narrow bed with his feet dangling over the edge, he felt an odd sense of comfort, peace, even.

  The space was far removed from the weight of Uncle’s expectations, from the masks he wore every day. Here, in this tiny, unremarkable room, he could just be himself.

  But sleep didn’t come easily. He drifted in and out, his mind racing with fragments of the night before: the mysterious man’s chilling words, the mark burning faintly on his hand, Selene’s smile, Jareth’s death and the knowledge of what Eliza was about to do.

  When morning came, he had only managed a few hours of restless sleep. Still, he rose, pulling himself from the bed with weary determination.

  He headed downstairs to Gilly’s, the tavern was eerily empty. Gilly greeted him with her usual warmth, though her sharp eyes flicked over his rumpled appearance with faint disapproval.

  “Rough night, dear?” she asked, sliding him a plate with a small loaf of bread and some jam.

  “You could say that,” Thorne muttered, offering her a tired smile. He wolfed down the meager meal, thanked her, and hurried back upstairs.

  The attic felt smaller in the daylight, the walls seeming to close in on him as he paced back and forth. His thoughts churned.

  I have to get back to Uncle.

  The fact that he had spent the night here was a statement, a small act of defiance, but defiance nonetheless. Uncle would notice, and the implications could unravel his carefully constructed plans.

  It’s not the time for this, he told himself, rubbing his temples. His departure for Aetherhold loomed ever closer. He couldn’t afford to risk everything now. He needed to play his role, the dutiful son, the loyal heir.

  He had to tell Uncle about last night.

  The mysterious man’s words rang in his ears: Tell Uncle his time is up.

  Thorne’s eyes drifted to the crow etched on his hand. The faint purple glow pulsed rhythmically, like a heartbeat, and unease coiled in his stomach.

  Do I want to tell him?

  If the mysterious man truly had Uncle in his sights, then perhaps this was a chance to be free. Uncle’s downfall would erase so many of Thorne’s problems, would rid him of the man who controlled his every move.

  But the thought made his skin crawl.

  The man’s power was overwhelming, his gaze like a predator’s. Even in their brief encounter, Thorne had felt like prey. If he sided with the mysterious man or even allowed him to act unchecked, he had the distinct and chilling sense that he would be trading one master for another.

  And somehow, he knew: this man would be far, far worse.

  Thorne rubbed his eyes, trying to clear the growing dread in his chest.

  Then it came, the sound he had been dreading since the night before.

  The mournful toll of bells echoed through the city, a deep, resonant chime that announced the death of someone important.

  Thorne froze, his blood running cold.

  Lord Ravencourt.

  Selene.

  He grabbed his cloak in a rush, throwing it over his shoulders and pulling the hood up to conceal his face. The crow mark seemed to pulse more insistently now, faint purple light glimmering through the fabric as he clenched his fist.

  He didn’t stop to think. His body moved on instinct, he darted out of the attic and into the streets, his movements fluid and precise. His training took over, each step calculated to keep him unseen and unnoticed.

  He stuck to the shadows, weaving through narrow alleys with practiced ease. His boots barely made a sound against the cobblestones as he moved, his cloak billowing behind him.

  The streets of Alvar passed in a blur. He slipped between startled merchants and dodged a procession of horses without breaking stride. When the streets became too crowded, he leapt onto a low wall, pulling himself up to the rooftops in one fluid motion.

  The city stretched out before him, its towering spires silhouetted against the pale morning light. The bells continued to toll, their mournful melody driving him forward.

  Thorne ran across the rooftops, his movements precise and controlled. Each jump, each landing was silent, his balance unshaken as he vaulted over gaps and ducked beneath hanging laundry lines.

  Alvar was alive with activity, the streets of the noble district bustling as word of Lord Ravencourt’s death spread like wildfire. Messengers darted between estates, their faces tight with urgency. Servants in dark mourning attire lined the entrances of grand houses, their presence solemn and grim.

  The bells continued their steady toll, a mournful melody that seemed to reverberate through Thorne’s chest.

  He perched at the edge of a rooftop, overlooking the heart of the city. The government building stood tall and imposing before him, its spires casting long shadows over the bustling crowds below.

  The activity was frantic, nobles gathering in small clusters, their faces tight with shock or poorly veiled intrigue. The ripple effect of Ravencourt’s death was already beginning, alliances shifting, power plays forming in real-time.

  From his vantage point, Thorne’s gaze swept the scene, cataloging every detail. He had grown up in this world, and he recognized the signs of quiet chaos, the underlying current of ambition and fear that surged beneath the surface.

  His fists clenched. Selene.

  He scanned the crowds for her, his heart pounding. If she was here, if she had already heard...

  He shook the thought away, forcing himself to focus. He couldn’t afford to act recklessly. Not now.

  But as the bells tolled again, their mournful sound echoing through the city, Thorne couldn’t shake the growing knot of unease in his chest.

  What have I allowed to happen?

  He scaled down the side of the building, his movements smooth and precise. His feet hit the ground silently, and he slipped into the crowd, weaving through the throng of people. He kept his hood pulled low, shielding his face as he moved, his ears attuned to the murmur of conversations around him.

  “Lord Ravencourt’s death...”

  “Murder, they’re saying.”

  “An attack on the city itself!”

  The fragmented whispers painted a picture of shock and anger, though few dared to voice their fears too loudly. Thorne’s gaze darted among the crowd, scanning for Selene. He felt the knot of unease in his chest tighten with every passing moment that she remained unseen.

  A ripple of motion in the crowd drew Thorne’s attention. The procession had arrived.

  At its head was Alaric Ravencourt, dressed in full ceremonial armor. The black steel glinted in the pale morning light, the crowned raven of House Ravencourt emblazoned across his breastplate. His face was a mask of fury barely restrained, his jaw clenched and his eyes blazing as he marched.

  Flanking him were members of House Ravencourt, their expressions grim and cold.

  But it wasn’t the Ravencourts alone that made Thorne’s skin prickle.

  Behind Alaric walked Lady Elena Lockridge, head of another of Alvar’s great houses. She too was armored, her dark gaze burning with fury. Her son walked beside her, his own armor glinting in the sunlight, a clear symbol of unity between their houses.

  Knights of House Lockridge marched with them, each one a towering presence in their heavy plate. Their levels, displayed faintly to Thorne’s Veil Sense, were all forty and above, a terrifying force, armed and ready.

  This was no mere procession to mourn Lord Ravencourt.

  It was a declaration of war.

  Thorne felt his hairs stand on end as realization struck. Around him, he saw other nobles coming to the same conclusion. Many began slipping away, their faces pale as they hurried from the scene.

  Thorne knew he should do the same. He needed to report to Uncle, to tell him what he’d seen. The alliance forming here between the Ravencourts and the Lockridges was no small thing.

  But his feet stayed rooted to the ground.

  His eyes scanned the crowd again, searching desperately for Selene. She had to be here, somewhere. Yet no matter how hard he looked, he couldn’t find her.

  The bells tolled again, their mournful chime reverberating through the air as the procession entered the government building. Thorne lingered, waiting through the ceremony, his gaze fixed on the doors.

  But when they emerged once more, like a black tide pouring into the square, Selene was still nowhere to be seen.

  Reluctantly, Thorne turned and slipped away.

  Instead of heading to Uncle’s estate as he was supposed to, Thorne returned to his attic. The small, cramped space felt emptier than ever as he stepped inside.

  Maybe she’ll come, he thought, clinging to the faint hope.

  With nothing better to do, he set to work cleaning. His hands moved automatically, sweeping the floor, tidying the sparse belongings that filled the room. It kept his mind busy, though the knot of worry in his chest remained.

  When night fell, he sat on the edge of the bed, his breath shallow and uneven. Every creak of the floorboards, every distant sound from the street below made his heart jump.

  Still, she didn’t come.

  Until she did.

  The door creaked open, and Thorne’s initial irritation flared. He thought it was Jonah or Ben, ready to pester him. He opened his mouth, ready to tell them off...

  But then he saw her.

  Selene stood in the doorway, her blond hair disheveled, her eyes rimmed red and shining with unshed tears. She wore a conservative black dress, ravens stitched at the sleeves. A dress meant for mourning.

  “Selene,” Thorne whispered, standing as she stepped inside.

  Her lips quivered, her composure crumbling. Before he could say another word, she crossed the small space between them and threw herself into his arms, her body trembling as sobs wracked her frame.

  Thorne held her tightly, guilt and protectiveness warring inside him. He could feel the weight of her grief pressing against him, her pain a tangible thing.

  “Are you okay?” he whispered softly.

  Selene shook her head, her voice breaking. “I don’t want to talk,” she murmured, her face buried against his chest.

  Thorne nodded, guiding her gently to the bed. They lay down together, her head resting against his shoulder as he held her. His fingers brushed soothingly over her hair, his mind churning with thoughts he couldn’t bring himself to voice.

  He wanted to promise her that everything would be fine, that he would protect her. But the weight of the lies between them, the truth about Uncle, about Eliza, about himself, kept the words locked behind his teeth.

  Instead, he simply held her.

  They stayed like that all night, the silence broken only by her occasional sobs. Slowly, as exhaustion overtook her, her breathing evened out, her body finally stilling.

  Thorne stared up at the ceiling, his eyes wide and unblinking. He didn’t sleep.

  When the first rays of sunlight crept through the cracks in the attic’s shutters, Selene stirred beside him.

  For a fleeting moment, there was peace.

  Then the sounds of shouting shattered the quiet.

  The clash of steel, the unmistakable roar of commands, and the chaotic din of battle reached their ears, distant but clear.

  The Ravencourts had made their move.

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