The man’s words hung in the room like a death knell.

  “You see, my dear lord, some Lost Ones seem to have lost their way and wandered into your home.”

  Ravencourt’s face drained of all color. He looked as though he might faint, his trembling hands gripping the edge of his chair as if it were the only thing anchoring him. The lord sputtered, searching for words, but nothing came.

  Above, hidden in the shadows, Thorne’s heart slammed against his ribs. He didn’t move, didn’t breathe. Every instinct screamed that even the smallest sound could spell doom.

  The man’s tone had been so casual, almost playful, but the implications of his words were anything but.

  He knows.

  Beside him, Eliza stiffened, her breaths shallow and quick. Her eyes darted between Thorne and the scene below, her face pale. Thorne could see the faint tremble in her hands, the same hands that had thrown a knife at him not minutes ago. He pressed a finger to his lips, a silent command for her to stay quiet.

  The man in the center of the room tilted his head, his sharp eyes gleaming with something that could have been amusement or cruelty. “Such silence,” he drawled, his voice low and melodious, yet carrying an undercurrent of steel. “I must admit, it’s not the response I expected. Usually, I get… protests. Pleas. The occasional groveling.”

  He smiled faintly, his teeth unnervingly white in the dim light.

  Ravencourt finally managed a hoarse, “I don’t... what do you mean?”

  The man ignored him.

  Instead, he strolled leisurely across the room, his hands clasped behind his back, as if he were inspecting a piece of fine art. His footsteps were soft, deliberate, yet they seemed to echo unnaturally loud in the heavy air.

  “I’ve always found the Lost Ones fascinating,” he said conversationally, as if musing to himself. “Children, most of them. Cast aside, left to fend for themselves. And yet, some survive. Some even thrive.”

  He stopped in front of one of the ornate bookcases lining the walls, running his fingers along the spines of the tomes. The casual motion belied the oppressive weight of his presence.

  “Do you know why that is, Lord Ravencourt?” he asked, not bothering to turn around.

  Ravencourt’s voice was faint. “W-why what is?”

  The man chuckled softly, the sound cold and humorless. “Why some of them thrive. It’s because they are willing to do whatever it takes. No rules, no morals, no limitations. It’s admirable, in a way.”

  He turned, his gaze sweeping the room. Thorne’s heart stopped as the man’s gaze turned, ever so briefly, in their direction.

  For a fleeting moment, Thorne was certain their eyes met, that the man could see him crouched there in the shadows. The thought was enough to send a cold spike of fear down his spine. But just as quickly, the man’s attention shifted, as though the moment had never happened.

  Thorne’s fingers dug into the floor beneath him, his breath caught.

  He knows.

  But the man didn’t pause. He continued his slow circle of the room, his hands now in his pockets, his posture casual. “Of course,” he continued, “admirable doesn’t mean untouchable.”

  He stopped in the center of the room, his expression shifting from casual amusement to something sharper, colder. “It also doesn’t mean unseen.”

  The temperature seemed to drop as his words hung in the air.

  Eliza’s hand twitched, her fingers ghosting over the hilt of a hidden blade. Thorne grabbed her wrist, squeezing hard enough to make her stop. He didn’t dare move otherwise, didn’t dare whisper or gesture.

  The tension was suffocating.

  Ravencourt sputtered, his panic poorly concealed. “I... I don’t...”

  “Relax,” the man said smoothly, raising a hand as if to soothe a frightened animal. “There’s no need to panic. Yet.”

  Beside Thorne, Eliza’s breathing hitched, a sound so faint that it might have been imperceptible to anyone else. But the man’s head tilted slightly, as though catching the vibration of her fear.

  Thorne’s hand shot out, clamping over her mouth before she could make another sound. His other hand pressed against her shoulder, silently begging her to stay still.

  The man in the room below straightened, and the weight of his presence seemed to double. He raised a hand lazily, as if waving away a servant.

  The ground cracked.

  Thorne barely had time to register the movement before the chains burst forth.

  They erupted from the floor with a deafening clang, each link thick and wrought with intricate patterns that pulsed with arcs of aether. The chains writhed like living things, coiling and twisting in the air, their wickedly barbed ends snapping like serpents.

  The man turned to Ravencourt, who was frozen in his seat, his drink forgotten. “You might want to step back,” the man said, his voice mild. “This could get messy.”

  Ravencourt obeyed, scrambling away from his chair as the chains surged forward, their barbs glinting.

  Thorne didn’t have to guess their target.

  Jareth moved.

  The tapestry fluttered as Jareth darted from his hiding spot, his stealth skill shrouding him in shadow as he made for the nearest exit. He was fast, his years of training honed to razor precision.

  For a split second, Thorne thought he might make it.

  But the chains were faster.

  They struck with deadly accuracy, one barbed point piercing Jareth’s leg, another wrapping around his waist. A third speared his arm, wrenching him backward with a sickening force.

  The Lost One’s cry of pain was brief, choked off as the chains tightened, dragging him to the center of the room, leaving streaks of blood in their wake. Blood dripped from the wounds where the barbs had pierced him, pooling beneath him as he struggled futilely against the unyielding steel.

  Above, Eliza let out a muffled whimper. Thorne tightened his grip on her, his heart hammering in his chest. He could feel her trembling beneath his hand, the same fear that clawed at his own throat threatening to consume them both.

  Jareth’s stealth skill flickered and failed, the shroud of shadow dissipating to reveal his pale, bloodied face. He writhed against the chains, his breaths shallow and ragged.

  “Well,” the man said, stepping closer to his captive. He knelt slightly, examining Jareth with an almost clinical curiosity. “What do we have here?”

  Thorne’s mind screamed at him to act, to do something, but he couldn’t move. The chains, the man, the suffocating weight of his presence... it was too much.

  Next to him, Eliza’s hand twitched toward the hilt of her blade. Thorne’s grip tightened, and he whispered, so faintly it was almost inaudible, “Don’t.” he hissed. “Don’t you dare.”

  Eliza’s wide, tear-brimmed eyes met his, and he shook his head slowly.

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  “Please,” he mouthed.

  She froze, her body trembling but obedient.

  “Good,” Thorne muttered, more to himself than her. He couldn’t risk it. Not against this man.

  Below, the man straightened, his gaze still fixed on Jareth. “Such a shame,” he said, almost wistfully. “All that skill, all that potential. Wasted on the likes of you.”

  He flicked his fingers, and the chains tightened, drawing a pained gasp from Jareth.

  Thorne’s nails bit into his palms, the urge to intervene warring with the knowledge that it would be suicide.

  The man turned his head slightly, his sharp gaze sweeping the room once more. His smirk returned, cold and knowing.

  “Let’s see what you’re made of, shall we?”

  Jareth had gone still, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. The chains held him captive, his blood pooling beneath him.

  “Careful,” the man said, addressing Ravencourt as he moved toward the bound Lost One. “You don’t want to get your lovely carpets stained. Blood is such a nuisance to clean.”

  Ravencourt looked as though he might be sick.

  The mysterious man sighed, as if the scene before him were an inconvenience rather than a matter of life and death. Slowly, almost lazily, he raised his hand.

  Aether surged in the air, crackling like a storm barely contained. It shimmered and coalesced, forming an elegant, needle-thin blade in his grip. The sword gleamed faintly, the intricate patterns along its length alive with vibrant, pulsing threads of aether.

  Thorne’s breath hitched as the sheer potency of the weapon slammed into his senses. The blade radiated power, far beyond anything he’d ever encountered, even the enchanted short sword he’d claimed from Rafe seemed like a child’s toy in comparison.

  The man studied the sword, tilting it to catch the light, his expression one of idle curiosity. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” he murmured, though it was unclear if he was speaking to himself or the room.

  Jareth gasped beneath the tightening chains, his struggles growing weaker with each passing moment.

  The man took a step forward, his blade trailing faint arcs of aether in its wake. “You know,” he said conversationally, “I’ve crossed paths with your little guild before.” His eyes flicked to Jareth, who stared up at him in terror.

  He tilted his head, his gaze distant as if recalling a memory. “Valewind, wasn’t it? A curious little rat lurking in the shadows, watching from the rooftops. Didn’t think much of him at the time, why would I? But I noticed.”

  Thorne’s breath caught in his throat. He felt the blood drain from his face as realization struck. The man was talking about him. That night in Valewind, when he had shadowed Lord Valewyn’s meeting. He’d thought himself undetected, invisible.

  He was wrong.

  The man’s eyes flicked to Jareth, a faint smirk curling his lips. “Back then, I let him go. A mistake, as it turns out. That rat scurried back to its hole, and soon after, one of my most promising liaisons disappeared. No doubt one of your guild’s charming little escapades.”

  He stepped closer to Jareth, the faint arcs of aether around the blade hissing softly as they grazed the chains. “I didn’t think much of it at the time. Why would I? A group of gutter rats scrambling to survive? Hardly worth my attention.” He crouched slightly, his sharp gaze pinning Jareth in place. “It stung, you know. Not enough to derail my plans, of course. But enough to warrant a little... lesson.”

  Thorne’s stomach churned. The man’s words only solidified his belief, they were discovered. He tightened his grip on Eliza’s shoulder, silently willing her to stay still.

  The man turned to Lord Ravencourt, his smirk widening. “And you,” he said, his tone almost playful. “Uncle has his sights on you, you know. This boy poisoned your favorite drink.”

  Ravencourt’s eyes darted to the discarded glass on the table, his hands trembling as he stumbled backward, nearly tripping over the armchair in his haste to put something, anything, between himself and the accusation.

  The man chuckled softly, the sound devoid of warmth. “I’d be careful if I were you,” he said, his gaze sharp as a dagger.

  Thorne bit back the bile rising in his throat, his fingers twitching with the suppressed urge to act.

  Then, without warning, the blade plunged into Jareth’s shoulder.

  The Lost One’s scream tore through the room, raw and guttural, as the needle-like sword pinned him against the chains.

  “Tell me,” the man said, his voice calm, almost bored. “What missions has your little guild been taking on? Which cities are they infesting now?”

  Jareth’s body convulsed, his head shaking violently as if trying to escape the agony. He couldn’t answer, not that it seemed to matter.

  The man’s lips curled into a mocking smile. “No words? I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Most of you are better at whimpering than talking.”

  He withdrew the blade with a sickening sound, only to drive it into Jareth’s thigh.

  Eliza trembled beside Thorne, her nails digging into the wooden floor. Tears streaked her face, her expression a mixture of fury and helplessness.

  Thorne’s grip on her shoulder tightened. He couldn’t let her move. Not now.

  “Still nothing?” the man taunted, his voice light, almost cheerful. The blade flicked again, carving a shallow line across Jareth’s chest, the aether-infused metal searing the flesh as it passed.

  The Lost One’s screams turned hoarse, his voice cracking under the strain.

  “What a disappointment,” the man murmured, leaning closer to Jareth’s bloodied form. His eyes gleamed with cruel amusement. “And here I thought I’d get something useful out of you.”

  Thorne felt like he was suffocating, his own breathing shallow and strained. Every instinct screamed at him to intervene, to stop the nightmare unfolding before him. But the oppressive aura of the man’s power held him in place, the cold rationality of survival warring with his desperation to act.

  The man tilted his head, his blade hovering above Jareth’s trembling form. “One more chance,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “What do you know?”

  The man angled his sword toward Jareth’s face. The gleaming tip hovered over his left eye.

  Lord Ravencourt made a strangled noise, his face pale as parchment.

  The man’s smirk deepened. “One eye is enough, don’t you think?”

  He pressed the tip of the blade against the soft tissue, applying pressure slowly, deliberately.

  Jareth’s screams reached a new pitch, his body thrashing violently against the chains. Blood began to well around the blade, a slow, dark trickle.

  Lord Ravencourt retched, his hands flying to his mouth. He staggered to the corner of the room and emptied his stomach, the sound harsh and wet in the suffocating silence.

  Eliza’s nails dug into the floor, her silent sobs shaking her shoulders as she fought against Thorne’s grip.

  The man twisted the blade slightly, and Jareth’s body jerked in response.

  “Still no answers?” the man murmured, his tone mockingly disappointed. “Pity. You’d think the pain would loosen his tongue.”

  Thorne’s heart thundered in his chest. He felt helpless, suffocated by the weight of the man’s overwhelming power.

  Jareth's body trembled violently, his screams fading to hoarse gasps as the man withdrew the blade from his eye socket, its tip slick with blood. The man stepped back, surveying his work with a faint smile. “What a shame,” he said, his voice almost tender. “I was hoping for more from you, boy.”

  Blood streaked down Jareth’s face, mixing with the sweat that poured from his pale skin. The Lost One looked more dead than alive, hanging limply from the chains that held him.

  Jareth’s head lolled to the side, his body trembling uncontrollably, his breaths shallow and ragged.

  Thorne’s knuckles were white as he held Eliza back, his own body trembling with the effort of restraining her and himself. The oppressive aura of the man in the room pressed against his chest, suffocating, unyielding. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe.

  The man flicked the blood from his blade, the droplets sizzling as they hit the floor. He turned his attention back to Ravencourt, who was still retching in the corner.

  “Relax, my dear lord,” the man said, his voice smooth and mocking.

  The man stood before Jareth, his head tilted, as if admiring a piece of art. “You’re not very useful, are you?” he murmured, the words devoid of emotion. He raised his blade again, its gleaming edge catching the faint light, and pressed the tip against Jareth’s chest, just above his heart.

  Thorne’s heart stopped.

  “Let this be a lesson,” the man said softly, almost to himself. “Weakness has no place in this world.”

  With one fluid motion, the blade plunged into Jareth’s heart.

  The room went deathly silent, the sound of the blade piercing flesh replaced by the faint rattle of chains. Jareth’s body jerked once, twice, then fell still, his head slumping forward as blood pooled beneath him.

  Thorne felt his breath hitch as the room seemed to freeze. Eliza’s hand flew to her mouth, her muffled cry of anguish barely contained. Blood pooled beneath Jareth’s body, dark and unforgiving, as the chains slackened and let his lifeless form fall to the ground with a heavy thud. Thorne bit down on his knuckle to stifle a sound, his mind a cacophony of rage, despair, and helplessness. Eliza’s silent sobs turned to muffled cries against his palm.

  The man didn’t spare a second glance at his victim, he withdrew his blade, its surface clean and unmarred despite the carnage. The weapon dissolved into a cascade of aether, shimmering briefly before vanishing completely.

  He turned to Lord Ravencourt, who looked utterly broken, his knees buckling as he leaned against the armchair for support.

  “We’ll continue as planned,” the man said, his tone as nonchalant as if he were discussing the weather.

  Ravencourt managed a shaky nod, his face ashen.

  The man pocketed the envelope with a satisfied smirk, tapping his chest where he’d placed it. “Stay alive, my dear lord. Though, frankly, it doesn’t matter to me. I’ve already secured what I came for.”

  Ravencourt didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the lifeless body of Jareth, his expression a mix of revulsion and despair.

  The man chuckled, a low, cruel sound, and turned on his heel. He strode toward the door with the same casual arrogance he’d displayed upon entering, the room’s oppressive atmosphere seeming to shift with each step.

  At the threshold, he paused.

  Slowly, deliberately, he turned his head, his eyes locking onto Thorne’s hidden position.

  Thorne froze, his breath catching in his throat.

  “Tell Uncle,” the man said, his voice a chilling whisper that seemed to echo in the suffocating silence, “the crows are circling.”

  For a moment, his piercing gaze seemed to burn into Thorne’s very soul, as if he were laying bare every secret, every fear. Then, with a faint smirk, the man turned and left, the door closing behind him with a final, ominous thud.

  Thorne’s legs gave out, his back hitting the wall as he slid to the ground. Eliza’s hands clutched his arm, her nails digging into his skin.

  In the suffocating silence that followed, Thorne’s mind reeled. The cryptic message. The overwhelming power. The casual cruelty.

  And the knowledge that the man had known he was there all along.

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