The noble quarter was a war zone.

  What had once been the pristine heart of Alvar, its wide streets lined with stately mansions, manicured gardens, and glittering fountains was now a battlefield. Fires raged unchecked, thick black smoke curling into the sky as Ravencourt soldiers stormed through the quarter with ruthless efficiency.

  Thorne ducked into the shadow of a crumbling archway, his glowing eyes narrowing as he surveyed the scene ahead.

  The streets of the noble quarter were a sea of swords and armor.

  Black-caped Ravencourt soldiers pushed forward like a tide, their unified formation crashing against the green-caped defenders of House Thornfield. The rose emblem of Thornfield, once a symbol of strength and refinement, was now streaked with blood and ash as its soldiers struggled to hold the line.

  He scaled the crumbling building and from his new vantage point atop a partially collapsed balcony, Thorne watched the chaos unfold. The din of the battle below filled the air, shouts of commanders barking orders, the clash of steel, the cries of the dying.

  The Thornfield soldiers fought valiantly, forming a defensive bulwark near the gates of the manor. Their green cloaks fluttered amid the chaos, their discipline holding back the relentless Ravencourt advance. But it wasn’t enough. Slowly but surely, the black tide pressed forward, their superior numbers and ferocity beginning to overwhelm the defenders.

  Thorne’s glowing eyes narrowed as he assessed the battlefield, his Veil Sense brushing against the violent cluster of cores below. His first instinct was to slip away, to move through the shadows toward Uncle’s estate and leave the chaos behind. The governing building was the key. If the Thornfields lost it, the city would fall. He needed to inform Uncle.

  But then his gaze caught on a figure amid the swirling melee, and he froze.

  Eliza.

  She moved through the fray with her characteristic precision, her twin daggers a blur of deadly arcs. A Ravencourt soldier lunged at her, but she sidestepped deftly, her blade slashing across his throat in a fluid motion. Blood sprayed, and the man collapsed, his black cloak crumpling beneath him.

  For a brief moment, Thorne allowed himself a flicker of admiration. Eliza had always been ruthlessly efficient in battle, a perfect instrument of Uncle’s will. But even she was not invincible.

  The battlefield was too crowded, the bodies too tightly packed. As she withdrew from her latest kill, another Ravencourt soldier surged toward her, his blade arcing downward with brutal speed.

  “Eliza!” Thorne hissed through gritted teeth, but the sound was lost amid the cacophony of the fight.

  At the last moment, Eliza activated a skill. Aether solidified briefly around her dagger, and then it vanished. Thorne looked on dumbfounded as the soldier tried to attack but wide cuts appeared all over his body, as if he had been cut by invisible swords. The man fell and Eliza turned around to meet another attack.

  This time she wasn’t so lucky. A ravencourt with a greatsword swung low, Eliza raised her twin daggers just in time. The attack was redirected, the blade glancing off course, but it still struck true.

  The sword skewered her just beneath the collarbone.

  Eliza grimaced in pain, blood staining her black cloak as her knees buckled slightly. The Ravencourt soldier raised his sword again, his face twisting into a grim smile.

  Thorne didn’t think. He moved.

  The world slowed as Aether surged through his body, sharpening his senses and quickening his steps. For a fleeting moment, the battlefield felt suspended in time, every sound amplified and every detail crystal clear, the glint of sunlight on a bloodied blade, the anguished cries of a wounded soldier, the rising fury in his chest.

  And then the world snapped back into motion, faster than before.

  Thorne vaulted over the edge of the balcony, landing amidst the chaos with a roll that absorbed the impact. He pushed through the crush of bodies, his glowing eyes locked on Eliza as she struggled to fend off her attacker.

  The first soldier to block his path died before he could react. Thorne’s dagger plunged into his back in a precise Backstab, the blade finding the gap in his armor and piercing his heart. The soldier crumpled to the ground, his sword slipping from lifeless fingers.

  Another lunged at Thorne, his blade slashing toward his side. Thorne twisted, Stealth Strike activating in the same motion as he disappeared for an instant, reappearing behind the soldier. His dagger flashed in a brutal arc, slashing the man’s throat.

  The third soldier came at him from the left, swinging wildly. Thorne ducked under the attack, his movements fluid and effortless as he activated Lethal Flurry. His blades became a blur, striking three times in rapid succession. The soldier stumbled backward, blood gushing from the wounds before he collapsed.

  Pain flared in Thorne’s arm as a blade glanced off him, but the damage was minimal, his Aether Skin skill absorbing most of the blow. He spun, his dagger lashing out and plunging into the gut of the soldier who had struck him.

  Each movement was precise, calculated. The battlefield around him blurred into a haze of black and green, his focus narrowing to a single point: Eliza.

  Thorne reached her just as the Ravencourt soldier raised his sword for another strike. Without hesitation, his dagger flashed, sinking deep into the man’s side. The soldier staggered, choking on his own breath before crumpling to the ground.

  “Eliza,” Thorne called urgently, crouching beside her. Blood seeped from the wound beneath her collarbone, soaking the already battered black of her cloak. Her face was pale, her breathing shallow, but her gaze burned with defiance.

  “Still... cleaning up after me, Thorne?” she muttered, her voice weak but laced with faint amusement.

  He ignored her attempt at humor and pulled one of the health potions from his belt. “Drink this,” he ordered, pressing the vial into her trembling hands.

  Eliza grimaced but obeyed, tilting the potion to her lips. The crimson liquid glowed faintly as it flowed down her throat, and she exhaled sharply as the effects began to take hold. The worst of the bleeding stopped, her posture straightening slightly as some of her strength returned.

  When she handed the empty vial back to him, he asked, “Can you stand?”

  Eliza pushed herself to her feet with a wince, one hand pressed to her shoulder. “I’m not done yet,” she said, her voice steely despite the pain.

  “Good. Then come with me,” Thorne urged, his gaze flicking to the chaos surrounding them. “We need to fall back to Uncle’s estate. The manor is lost.”

  She shook her head, her expression hardening. “I can’t. Five squads are stationed here. Our orders are to defend the Thornfield estate. I’m not leaving them.”

  Thorne stared at her, his brow furrowing as her words sank in. This was the second time she’d said something like that. Orders, squads, loyalty.

  The guild’s claws go deeper than I thought, he realized.

  To her, the Thornfields weren’t people, they were just orders to be followed, missions to be completed. She wasn’t simply his friend anymore. She was a Lost One. That came first, above everything else.

  “Fine,” he muttered, his voice sharp with frustration.

  He turned, taking a stance beside her, his dagger glinting faintly in the firelight.

  Eliza shot him a sideways glance. “What are you doing?”

  Thorne smirked, though the expression didn’t reach his eyes. “What does it look like? I’m fighting beside you.” He readjusted his grip on the hilt of his dagger, his glowing eyes scanning the oncoming wave of enemies. “I’m not letting you get killed. If Darius finds out, he’ll have my head.”

  Eliza blinked, startled by the sincerity in his tone. But her lips twitched into a faint smile, and she gave him a nod.

  The Ravencourt soldiers surged forward, their ranks a relentless tide of black and steel. Some wielded skills, their swords alive with aetheric energy or flames crashing into the defenders. Others simply hacked and slashed, their raw strength enough to drive the Thornfield soldiers back step by step.

  Thorne’s dagger flashed, taking out a soldier who had lunged toward Eliza. He activated Backstab, slipping into the man’s blind spot and driving his blade into the gap between armor plates. The soldier fell with a strangled gasp, and Thorne spun to intercept another attacker.

  Aether surged around him, its pressure building with every strike. His glowing eyes were like beacons, drawing attention as enemies recognized the unnatural intensity of his presence.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Eliza, on your left!” Thorne shouted.

  She turned just in time, her dagger parrying a blow meant to skewer her side. With a feral grin, she drove her blade into the attacker’s gut, twisting viciously. “I’m fine!” she called back, her voice breathless but alive with adrenaline.

  Another wave of Ravencourt soldiers advanced, their numbers seemingly endless. Thorne activated Lethal Flurry, his blade becoming a blur as he cut through three enemies in rapid succession. A sword grazed his side, but Aether Skin absorbed most of the impact, the energy dissipating harmlessly against his reinforced defenses.

  “Eliza!” he called again, slashing through an enemy to reach her.

  “I’m good!” she shouted, her voice tinged with exhilaration. She drove her daggers into another soldier, blood splattering her cloak. “There’s some good from this chaos...” she laughed sharply, ducking under a swinging blade, “... I’ve leveled up! Twice already!”

  Thorne barely registered her words. Notifications flashed in the corner of his mind as his own skills advanced, but he couldn’t spare the focus to read them. All his concentration was on staying alive and keeping Eliza alive.

  The pressure of the aether was almost unbearable now, crowding around him like a living thing. It begged to be unleashed, to rip through the battlefield and wipe the Ravencourt soldiers from existence.

  But he couldn’t.

  Not now.

  Not when freedom was so close.

  His eyes glowed brighter, the intensity drawing more attackers toward him. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to rein in the raging power.

  Another Ravencourt soldier charged at him, his blade raised high. Thorne ducked low, his dagger flashing with Silverlight upward to sever the tendons in the man’s wrist. The soldier screamed, dropping his weapon, and Thorne finished him with a swift strike to the heart.

  “Thorne, behind you!” Eliza yelled.

  He turned just in time, his dagger clashing against a sword that had been aimed for his neck. The force of the blow sent a jolt through his arm, but he didn’t falter. With a swift kick, he sent the attacker stumbling backward, following up with a precise strike that ended the fight.

  The battle raged on, the defenders holding the line with grim determination. Distantly, Thorne’s Veil Sense picked up other black-cloaked figures moving amidst the chaos Lost Ones, like Eliza.

  But for all their efforts, the tide showed no signs of slowing.

  The fight was chaos. A cacophony of clashing steel, pained screams, and the ever-present roar of the Ravencourt soldiers pressing their advantage. Thorne’s focus narrowed as a Ravencourt warrior raised his blade, aiming for Eliza’s unprotected side.

  Without hesitation, Thorne activated Invisible Threads, his aether surging in a subtle, undetectable weave. A faint shimmer, imperceptible to the naked eye, tugged at the Ravencourt soldier’s sword, yanking it from his grip just as he swung.

  The man faltered, his weapon clattering uselessly to the ground. Eliza took full advantage of his hesitation, her dagger flashing in a brutal arc as she drove it into his neck.

  No one seemed to notice Thorne’s use of aether. For now, at least, his secret was safe.

  But he didn’t have time to relish the victory.

  A sudden, crushing force hit him like a battering ram. A Ravencourt soldier’s shield slammed into his chest, its impact amplified by a ripple of aether that struck him a heartbeat later.

  The air rushed from his lungs as he was sent flying, his body careening into a group of soldiers.

  Thorne’s instincts took over. As he tumbled through the air, his Combat Reflexes kicked in, his movements quick and fluid despite the chaos around him. A blade arced toward his neck, but he twisted midair, narrowly evading the strike.

  Landing amidst the enemy, Thorne immediately wrapped his legs around a soldier’s neck. With a sharp twist, he snapped the man’s spine, his body dropping lifelessly to the ground.

  Another Ravencourt soldier lunged at him, but Thorne’s dagger was already moving. The blade pierced the man’s eye, his scream cut short as he crumpled.

  The next notification flashed in Thorne’s mind, impossible to ignore:

  Character Level Up! You have reached Level 43.

  “Well, that’s fun,” he muttered under his breath, disentangling himself from the pile of bodies. He sprang to his feet, his blades flashing as he dispatched the remaining soldiers around him.

  Blood stained his cloak, his glowing eyes burning brighter with every passing moment. The aether thrummed around him, begging to be unleashed.

  As Thorne carved his way back toward Eliza, the truth of their situation became painfully clear.

  The Thornfield defense was all but finished. Only a few dozen soldiers remained, their green cloaks tattered and their movements sluggish with exhaustion.

  The Lost Ones, scattered among them, were the only force making any real difference. Their black-cloaked figures moved like wraiths, blending into the chaos before striking with deadly precision. Each one cut down multiple Ravencourt soldiers, but even they couldn’t hold the line forever.

  Thorne reached Eliza, panting as he slid back into position beside her. He blocked a sword aimed at her flank with his dagger, the impact jarring his arm. “We’re out of time!” he shouted over the din of battle.

  Another Thornfield soldier fell nearby, his lifeless body trampled beneath the advancing Ravencourt forces that were almost to the gate.

  “This is no place for Lost Ones!” Thorne yelled, his frustration boiling over. “Open battlefields aren’t for assassins and spies. We need to fall back!”

  Eliza slashed her blade across an enemy’s throat, her expression stubborn as ever. “We have orders!” she shouted back, her voice shaking with strain.

  Thorne growled in frustration, his patience snapping. “The Thornfield manor is lost! Wake up, Eliza! Our only hope is the governing building! If that falls too, then it’s over for all of us!”

  Eliza hesitated, her gaze flicking to the chaos around them. The Thornfield line was in complete disarray, and the Ravencourt soldiers were overwhelming what little resistance remained. Her expression faltered, uncertainty creeping in.

  “But the orders...” she said weakly, her voice trailing off.

  Thorne stepped closer, his glowing eyes burning with intensity. “Screw the orders! What’s the point of dying here if you can assist the guild another way?” He gestured toward the central plaza infusing his words with aether, trying to sound convincing with the help of Echoes of Truth. “Go to the governing building! Fight there! At least there’s a chance!”

  For a long moment, Eliza stared at him, torn between duty and survival. Finally, she nodded, her expression grim.

  “Eliza!” Thorne called as she turned toward her squad. “Get them out of here!”

  Eliza rushed to her squad, her voice carrying over the clash of steel as she barked orders. Thorne fought viciously, holding back the tide of Ravencourt soldiers to buy them time.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the argument among the Lost Ones, their faces grim as they realized the truth of their situation. One by one, they began to disappear, blending into their surroundings or slipping into the shadows.

  Eliza caught Thorne’s gaze one last time. She gave him a nod, her expression unreadable, before vanishing into the chaos.

  Thorne exhaled, a fleeting sense of relief washing over him. But the battle wasn’t over yet. The Ravencourt forces surged forward, their cries of triumph echoing through the burning streets.

  Thorne fought a moment longer, each movement sharp and precise, his blades carving through the chaos. Fresh wounds stung his arms and legs, shallow cuts that he barely registered through the haze of adrenaline. Around him, a grim circle of dead bodies marked him as a threat, the green and black of their cloaks mingling in a pool of blood.

  But he knew he couldn’t stay.

  Thorne’s gaze darted to the crumbling Thornfield line, where defenders fell one by one under the relentless advance of Ravencourt soldiers. If he lingered, it wouldn’t be long before the black tide swarmed him, too.

  Time to leave.

  Without warning, he leaped over the ring of corpses, his movements fluid and sudden enough to catch nearby soldiers off guard. Before any of them could react, he activated Veil of Light and Shadow, the aether surging through him. His image flickered, distorting like a ripple in the air as he melted into the chaos.

  For a heartbeat, it worked.

  But too many eyes had seen him.

  “Over there!” a Ravencourt soldier barked, pointing in his direction. Swords slashed through the space he had just occupied as Thorne weaved through the crowd, ducking low and darting between bodies.

  The skill failed, his flickering outline snapping back to visibility.

  He cursed under his breath and pushed harder, his agility carrying him through the tangle of soldiers. Again he activated the skill, aether draining from his reserves as he tried to vanish once more. The flicker failed twice. Shouts erupted behind him, men recognizing the deadly silhouette with the glowing eyes.

  Thorne didn’t stop. He didn’t dare.

  Finally, on the third attempt, Veil of Light and Shadow took hold. His image blurred and vanished as he slid between two buildings, his form folding into the darkness.

  Thorne found a narrow alcove behind a crumbling stone wall, his breathing ragged as he pressed himself into the shadows. His chest rose and fell heavily, the exertion of the extended fight catching up with him. Sweat slicked his brow, mixing with the blood splattered across his face.

  Even my reserves are feeling it, he thought grimly. The battle had taken its toll.

  The muffled sounds of fighting still raged in the distance, but his eyes were drawn back to the Thornfield defenses. From his hiding spot, he had a clear view of what remained of the last line of resistance, a thin cluster of green-cloaked soldiers, their swords shaking in weary hands.

  They didn’t stand a chance.

  Thorne watched as the line finally buckled, collapsing under the sheer weight of the Ravencourt onslaught. Without the Lost Ones, without their precision and lethal efficiency, the Thornfield forces crumbled like wet paper. One by one, the defenders were cut down, their cries lost in the rising roar of victory from the black-caped soldiers.

  He clenched his fists, feeling the nails biting into his flesh. There was nothing left to defend now.

  Moving quietly, Thorne slipped out of his hiding spot, the shadows still clinging to him. He scaled the nearest building, his fingers finding familiar grooves in the stonework, his boots silent on the cracked ledges. Within moments, he hauled himself onto the rooftop, crouching low at the edge as his eyes swept across the manor grounds below.

  The Thornfield estate, the jewel of their power, lay before him, and it was a scene of devastation.

  The black-caped Ravencourt soldiers swarmed through the once-beautiful gardens like ants, their boots crushing flowerbeds that had been meticulously tended for generations. Well-groomed trees were hacked down, set aflame with cruel satisfaction, their leaves curling and blackening as smoke rose in thick, choking plumes.

  Thorne’s gaze followed the destruction as it moved toward the manor itself. The richly carved double doors, adorned with gilded roses, were smashed off their hinges and trampled underfoot. Ravencourt soldiers poured through the entrance, their shouts echoing through the broken windows.

  Statues of Thornfield ancestors, immortalized in pristine marble, were overturned and shattered, their remains lying scattered like discarded bones. Glass shattered in a cascade of silver shards as windows were broken, and smoke began to rise from within the manor’s halls.

  For a moment, Thorne watched, transfixed, as the violation unfolded before his eyes.

  The Thornfield estate, once a symbol of wealth, power, and prestige, was being reduced to rubble. The grand walls he had once stalked, the manicured grounds he had admired and envied, it was all being destroyed with methodical cruelty.

  Uncle will be furious, Thorne thought, a bitter smirk tugging at his lips.

  But the thought brought no satisfaction. Only a hollow emptiness.

  Because as much as he despised what Uncle had made of his life, as much as he wanted freedom, he couldn’t deny the weight of what he was seeing.

  The Thornfield name was burning.

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