Thorne leapt from the edge of a crumbling rooftop, his coat flaring behind him as he grabbed hold of a taut clothesline stretched between the buildings. His gloved hands gripped the line tightly as he zipped across the gap, the faint creak of the wire lost beneath the muffled sounds of the distant city.

  Uncle’s words still echoed in his mind. “Always the obedient little assassin.”

  Thorne’s lips curled into a faint smirk. Obedient? Not for much longer.

  His boots hit the next rooftop with practiced ease, rolling to absorb the impact before coming up in a crouch. Ahead, the next building loomed slightly lower, its faded tiles glinting faintly in the amber light of the sun.

  The mysterious man from the capital...

  The thought lingered in his mind like a splinter, sharp and impossible to ignore. He didn’t know the man’s motives, didn’t know his endgame, but one thing was clear: this wasn’t just some passing visitor. His movements were too precise, his presence too deliberate.

  Thorne hopped down to the lower rooftop, landing silently and moving without hesitation. A pigeon perched on a nearby chimney startled at his approach, flapping its wings as it took to the sky.

  The man had come to Alvar with purpose. Something to do with Uncle, undoubtedly. But what?

  Uncle had spent decades building his empire in the shadows, always careful to avoid attention from the capital. He played his games within Alvar’s walls, never reaching too far, never drawing the notice of powers larger than his own. And yet, here this man was, a phantom from the capital, watching, waiting.

  Thorne’s lips pressed into a thin line as he vaulted over a gap, landing nimbly on the other side. His glowing eyes flicked downward to the streets below, where a Farroway soldier marched past a shuttered storefront, the glint of stolen trinkets visible in his satchel.

  Whatever this man wants, Thorne thought, it isn’t good for Uncle.

  That thought should have brought him unease. It didn’t.

  Uncle’s shadow loomed over every part of Thorne’s life, his iron grip tightening with every year that passed. But the arrival of this man, this stranger cloaked in secrets, had introduced something new.

  Hope.

  Thorne hopped down to another rooftop, this one lower than the last. The tiles were slippery from a thin layer of soot and grime, forcing him to tread carefully as he made his way to the edge. Ahead, the clotheslines crisscrossed like a web between the buildings, forming a makeshift path.

  He gripped another line, testing its tension before swinging across to the next rooftop. The motion was fluid, almost graceful, but his mind was anything but calm.

  Is this man an enemy? An ally? Or something worse?

  Thorne didn’t know, but he knew one thing: he needed to stay ahead of Uncle. For years, the old man had played him like a puppet, pulling his strings with practiced precision. But now, for the first time, Thorne felt like he might be the one holding the strings.

  He crouched at the edge of a rooftop, his glowing eyes scanning the streets below. A faint smirk tugged at his lips as he thought of Uncle’s growing frustration, the cracks beginning to show in the old man’s carefully constructed facade.

  You don’t even realize it yet, Thorne thought, his fingers brushing against the crow mark hidden beneath his glove. You’re not the only one playing the game anymore.

  The crow’s faint pulse beneath his skin sent a shiver up his arm, a reminder of the power the mysterious man represented. If he could find a way to tip the board in his favor, to use the man from the capital to his advantage, Uncle’s reign would finally come to an end.

  Thorne stood, his smirk fading as his focus sharpened. The rooftops ahead formed a jagged path, sloping downward toward the docks district. He moved forward, his steps deliberate and measured, as the distant sound of crashing waves grew louder.

  Just a little longer, he thought, leaping to the next building. Just a little longer, and the game will be mine.

  The streets of the docks district were eerily silent, a stark contrast to their usual chaotic energy. No vendors hawked their wares, no beggars pleaded for scraps or coins, and no children darted through the alleys in wild games. The entire city seemed to be holding its breath, hiding behind locked doors and barred windows as the chaos of war spread like a plague.

  Thorne’s keen eyes scanned the empty streets, noting the subtle signs of recent violence. A broken crate here, a bloodstain smeared across a wall there.

  Twice, he spotted groups of Farroway soldiers looting shops, their laughter echoing unnaturally in the silence. Thorne stayed out of sight, slipping into the shadows and letting them pass.

  Once more, distant cries of pain reached his ears. The harsh, guttural sounds of death were unmistakable, and Thorne’s mind immediately conjured an image of Talon’s Lost Ones striking from the shadows, their ambushes swift and deadly.

  At least someone’s making them pay, he thought grimly.

  When the rooftops provided no way forward, Thorne leapt across a gap between buildings and scaled down the wall into a narrow alley. The faint creak of wood beneath his boots was the only sound, but as his feet hit the ground, he froze.

  The smell of paint stopped him in his tracks.

  It was sharp and acrid, cutting through the faint tang of salt air and the distant smoke rising from the city. Thorne’s instincts screamed at him to leave, to retreat into the safety of the shadows, but his body refused to move. Slowly, he turned.

  The sight that greeted him stole his breath.

  There, painted on the wall in bold, wet strokes, was the image of a crow.

  Its head was tilted ever so slightly, as though watching him with a dark intelligence, its wings spread as if ready to take flight. The purple paint gleamed faintly in the dim light, dripping slightly at the edges.

  Thorne’s chest tightened, his pulse quickening as dread coiled in his stomach.

  He was here.

  The thought hit him like a physical blow. Thorne’s eyes darted around the alley, his muscles taut with tension as he expanded his senses.

  His Veil Sense spread outward in a ripple, brushing against the edges of the buildings, the crates stacked against the walls, the cobblestones beneath his boots. At the same time, he strained his hearing, catching the faint creak of a shutter in the distance and the drip of water from a nearby gutter.

  But there was nothing.

  No trace of the mysterious man. No presence lurking in the shadows.

  Thorne’s breathing slowed, but his unease remained. He turned back to the painted crow, its gaze seeming to bore into him despite its lifeless form.

  With deliberate care, he removed his glove, exposing the mark on his palm.

  The glowing crow etched into his skin pulsed faintly at the edges, the purple light eerily similar to the paint on the wall. He raised his hand, holding it next to the painted image.

  They were almost identical.

  He was here, Thorne thought again, his mind racing. It’s as if he knew I’d come. A warning... and a reminder.

  The aether motes around him stirred restlessly, feeding off his unease as he hastily pulled his glove back on. He flexed his fingers to mask the tremor in his hands, his jaw tightening.

  Thorne turned away from the crow, his glowing eyes narrowing as he pushed forward.

  I have a mission to complete, he told himself, forcing his thoughts to focus. If I don’t, Alvar will fall.

  But as he moved deeper into the docks district, the image of the crow lingered in his mind, its presence a shadow he couldn’t quite shake.

  Thorne reached the edge of the docks district, where the sprawl of weathered warehouses gave way to the quieter residential streets. This was the softer side of Alvar, where the common folk eked out their lives behind modest homes, far removed from the chaos engulfing the noble quarter. Yet, even here, an air of tension lingered, the faint scent of smoke carried on the wind like a whispered warning.

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

  The base of operations for House Rook sprawled at the edge of a small bay. It was a patchwork of old stone buildings and hastily assembled wooden structures, their rough edges betraying the rapid expansion of Rook’s ventures. The bay’s calm waters reflected the silhouettes of three large ships moored at the docks, their sails furled and their flags fluttering weakly.

  The emblem of House Rook, a white anchor on a blue field, was emblazoned across the banners, a symbol that mirrored the family’s ambitions. Like the weak flutter of the flags, House Rook’s efforts to rise in the noble circles of Alvar felt tenuous, as though a single strong wind might topple their precarious position.

  Thorne sought a high point to investigate his target and climbed on the balcony of a crumbling warehouse, his sharp gaze sweeping the enclosed base.

  The wall surrounding the base was simple but sturdy, made of stacked logs driven deep into the earth. A wooden walkway along the top allowed guards to patrol the perimeter, their mismatched armor and weapons a clear sign of their mercenary status.

  Thorne activated his Veil Sense, letting the faint pulse of aether wash over the area. His glowing eyes narrowed as the signatures of the mercenaries appeared in his mind’s eye, each core pulsing with surprising strength.

  Level 30 at the minimum, Thorne noted, his lips twitching into a faint frown.

  The guards moved in disciplined groups of four, their routes overlapping to ensure no blind spots. Their patterns were precise, practiced. Lord Elian Rook had clearly spared no expense in hiring competent protection.

  Thorne tried to get an accurate count, but the constant movement of the mercenaries made it difficult. They slipped in and out of his ability’s radius, their numbers shifting like shadows. He estimated at least forty, possibly more.

  So much for a simple noble with a few ships, Thorne thought grimly.

  The air trembled as a sudden explosion rocked the city, the distant rumble sending vibrations through the ground beneath Thorne’s boots.

  He froze, his head snapping toward the sound as a plume of black smoke rose near the noble quarter. His heart skipped a beat, and he wasn’t the only one affected, every mercenary on the wall turned instinctively, their gazes fixed on the distant chaos.

  Thorne’s jaw tightened. Whatever that was, it can’t be good.

  He forced himself to refocus. The city was unraveling with every passing moment, and the longer he lingered, the greater the risk of Alvar’s collapse. He had to move.

  This time, Thorne didn’t bother with stealth. He stepped out confidently, his boots crunching softly against the dirt road as he made his approach. His head was held high, his glowing eyes glinting faintly beneath his hood as he walked toward the gate.

  A mercenary standing on the walkway spotted him immediately, his silhouette framed against the dull gray sky. The man’s voice rang out, sharp and commanding:

  “Who goes there?”

  Thorne slowed his steps, raising his gaze to meet the guard’s. He didn’t speak right away, letting the faint glow of his eyes pierce through the air like a blade. The guard stiffened, his posture faltering slightly as his confidence wavered.

  “I was sent by Uncle,” Thorne said at last, his voice calm and deliberate. “I’m here to meet with Lord Rook.”

  The man’s hesitation was clear, his unease etched into every line of his face. Thorne suppressed a smirk, watching as the guard turned his head to someone on the other side of the wall and nodded.

  “Wait here,” the mercenary said curtly.

  Thorne didn’t respond, merely standing with an air of quiet authority as the minutes dragged on. His Veil Sense remained active, scanning the area for any sign of danger. He felt the movement of guards within the walls, their cores shifting as they prepared for the possibility of trouble.

  Another explosion shattered the tense silence, the sound reverberating through the air like a hammer against stone. Thorne didn’t flinch, his glowing eyes flicking briefly toward the rising smoke before returning to the gate.

  Finally, the heavy door creaked open. A new figure stepped out, a tanned woman with an athletic build and an air of deadly confidence. Her clothes clung tightly to her form, leaving little to the imagination, while the two wickedly sharp swords hanging from her belt spoke volumes about her profession.

  She wagged a finger at Thorne, her lips curling into a smirk. “Come,” she said, her voice low and edged with curiosity. “He’s waiting for you.”

  Thorne inclined his head slightly, his movements precise and measured as he stepped forward.

  The gate creaked shut behind him with a finality that made his pulse quicken, though his face betrayed nothing.

  Time to see what kind of man Lord Elian Rook really is, he thought, his fingers brushing briefly against the envelope inside his jacket.

  Thorne followed the woman down the packed dirt path, his steps measured and precise. His glowing eyes flicked briefly to the line of mercenaries flanking either side of the route, their gazes heavy as they tracked his every movement.

  The display was obvious, show of strength meant to unnerve him, or perhaps to gauge his reaction.

  Thorne didn’t even spare them a glance.

  He kept his gaze fixed forward, his posture relaxed but deliberate, radiating the same quiet confidence he’d cultivated in Uncle’s service. Inside, his senses were on high alert, every step calculated, every shadow studied.

  The woman led him into the nearest building, a structure that seemed to hum with activity. The scent of salt and damp wood filled the air, mingling with the faint tang of oil from the lanterns hanging overhead.

  The moment they entered, Thorne’s eyes began sweeping the space, noting every detail. A narrow stairway to his left, a side door near the back, a series of windows partially boarded up along the far wall.

  His gaze lingered on the ceiling beams for a moment, calculating their height and stability. If things went south, they could provide a quick exit, assuming he wasn’t swarmed before he could make it.

  “You don’t even seem fazed,” the woman said, her voice cutting through his thoughts.

  Thorne turned his head slightly, catching the small smirk on her lips.

  “The rumors about your guild must be true,” she continued. “Not many could walk through here without breaking a sweat. Pirates turned mercenaries aren’t exactly the welcoming sort.”

  Thorne grunted noncommittally, his expression unreadable. “Rumors are rumors,” he said simply.

  The woman’s smirk faltered, her amusement giving way to faint irritation at his lack of reaction. Still, she said nothing more, leading him further into the building.

  They climbed a narrow staircase, the wood creaking faintly beneath their weight as they ascended to the second floor.

  The upper level opened into a wide space filled with open crates, barrels, and pots. Men and women moved among them with purpose, inspecting the contents and marking items with chalk.

  Thorne’s sharp eyes scanned the room, catching glimpses of fine silks, spices, and other expensive goods.

  “In case things turn worse,” the woman said, her voice casual, “we’re moving some of our most valuable wares. Better to lose the fight than lose our fortune.”

  Thorne nodded absently, filing the information away.

  This isn’t the operation of a nobleman, he thought. This is the work of a merchant. A businessman trying to protect his investment.

  The realization sent a faint ripple of relief through him. Perhaps, for once, he wouldn’t have to deal with a prideful noble driven by ego and ambition. Perhaps this Lord Rook would be reasonable.

  At the far end of the room, the woman stopped and raised her hand, gesturing toward a small door tucked into the corner.

  “This way,” she said, her tone still tinged with mild irritation.

  Thorne followed her lead, his sharp gaze noting the slight scuff marks near the doorframe, indicating frequent use, and the faint scent of ink and parchment lingering in the air.

  The woman rapped her knuckles against the door, a brief knock that echoed faintly in the room behind them. Without waiting for a response, she opened the door and stepped aside, holding it for Thorne to pass.

  He glanced at her briefly before stepping through, his movements calm and deliberate.

  The door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving him alone with an older man seated behind a wide desk.

  The man seated behind the desk rose as Thorne entered, his movements smooth and deliberate. His clothes were finely made but bore the faint wear of practical use, the stitching stretched in places to accommodate a body shaped by years of labor rather than luxury.

  His skin was tanned, his white hair neatly combed, though he couldn’t have been older than forty. His lean frame suggested athleticism, and his hands, calloused and rough, betrayed the life of a man who had built his fortune with his own sweat.

  Thorne’s glowing eyes flicked over him, noting the faint lines of weariness etched around his piercing blue gaze. This was no pampered noble; this was a man who had earned every coin he owned.

  The man extended his hand, his face carefully blank. “Lord Silverbane, I presume?”

  Thorne stepped forward and shook the offered hand firmly before stepping back, keeping the distance between them. “You presume correctly,” he replied evenly.

  Lord Rook gestured toward a side table stacked with bottles and glasses. “Would you care for a drink?”

  “No, thank you,” Thorne said, his tone polite but disinterested.

  As Lord Rook poured himself a glass of dark amber liquid, Thorne’s eyes swept the room.

  The desk was cluttered with documents, trade ledgers, and maps marked with inked lines tracing trade routes across the sea. Cabinets along one wall displayed trinkets from far-off lands, figurines, coins, and other curiosities that hinted at the lord’s travels.

  In one corner, wooden crates stacked neatly atop each other were filled with small bottles of green liquid. Thorne recognized them instantly: health potions. A merchant’s treasure hoard, safeguarded in plain sight.

  “You’ve come a long way to speak with me,” Lord Rook said, his voice casual as he took a sip of his drink. “And during troubling times, no less. It’s not every day the infamous Lost Ones send one of their finest to negotiate.”

  Thorne tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. “You seem to know a great deal about us,” he said coolly.

  “A man in my position has to,” Rook replied, leaning against the edge of his desk. “Knowledge is power, after all. And power is the only thing worth trading.”

  “I assume you know why I’m here,” Thorne said, cutting straight to the point.

  “Of course,” Rook said, his lips curling into a faint smile. “Your guild wants my mercenaries. A bold request, considering the state of the city. And what, exactly, is Uncle offering in return?”

  Thorne remained silent for a moment, letting the question hang in the air.

  “You’re a merchant,” he said finally. “You know the value of a deal. Uncle’s terms are fair, and you’d do well to accept them.”

  Rook chuckled, a low sound filled with amusement. “Fair terms? From the Lost Ones? Forgive me, Lord Silverbane, but I doubt your definition of fairness matches mine.”

  Thorne’s glowing eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of irritation breaking through his calm facade. “You should tread carefully, Lord Rook. Mercenaries are skilled, but they tend to overlook certain things.”

  With a swift motion, Thorne unsheathed a small dagger from his belt, the blade catching the light as he held it between them.

  “Like searching their guests for weapons,” he added, his voice cold.

  Rook’s eyes flicked to the dagger, his confidence faltering for a fraction of a second. Fear rippled through his expression, but it was gone as quickly as it had come.

  “You wouldn’t kill me,” Rook said evenly, though his voice held a faint tremor. “Not when you need me.”

  Thorne’s lips curved into a wolfish smile. “Who said I was going to kill you?”

  Before Rook could react, Thorne activated Burst of Speed, the aether surging through his body as he closed the distance in an instant. His dagger pressed against Rook’s throat, the blade biting lightly into the skin.

  “Who said I wouldn’t just torture you?” Thorne whispered, his voice low and dangerous. “Until you’re begging to accept Uncle’s terms.”

  Rook’s breath hitched, his hand instinctively rising in a placating gesture. But his other hand stayed put and then Thorne felt it, a ripple of aether, faint but unmistakable.

  The familiarity put him instantly on alert, but he didn’t have time to react before the door burst open.

  The woman who had escorted him into the compound stormed in, her curved swords drawn and ready for violence. Her eyes blazed with fury as she took in the scene, her stance poised for a fight.

  Thorne didn’t move, his dagger still pressed against Rook’s throat. He leaned in slightly, his voice a whisper meant only for the lord.

  “Bad move,” he murmured.

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