The columns that had once stood proudly now splintered and crumbled inwards, crashing to the earth in clouds of dust and debris. Gleaming white marble, polished to a mirror sheen just days ago, was cracked and scorched black by the roaring fires that tore through the walls.
The fire roared louder, hungrily consuming the legacy of House Thornfield.
Windows shattered one after another, glass raining down like silver tears. Soldiers rushed through the manor in a black tide, some already carrying loot out of the burning home. Smoke billowed from the entrance as flames crept higher, consuming tapestries and furniture, turning legacy into ash.
Thorne watched in silence, his fists clenching as the destruction unfolded.
This is the end of it. The Thornfield estate, the jewel of the family’s power, is gone.
The thought stirred no satisfaction, only a hollow numbness. He allowed himself one final look before he turned and leapt across to the next rooftop, heading back to Uncle.
Thorne moved swiftly, his body a blur as he bounded from rooftop to rooftop. He stuck to the upper levels to avoid the chaos of the streets below, Ravencourt forces clashed with scattered Thornfield soldiers, blood painting the cobblestones.
Even with his Veil of Light and Shadow skill activated, he could feel its strain as the aether within him fought to maintain the illusion. Broad daylight was his enemy here, his stealth was strong, but it had its limits. Moving too quickly across open spaces, his shadow flickered faintly, his outline shimmering at the edges.
Push harder, he told himself.
He jumped across a wide gap, landing in a crouch. His vision rippled slightly as the strain of the skill made itself known, Veil flickered, threatening to fail, but he gritted his teeth and pushed forward, slipping behind a brick chimney to steady himself.
He leaned against the cool wall and let out a slow breath. His chest rose and fell heavily, the extended use of aether tugging at his reserves. Sweat slid down his brow, mixing with streaks of grime and dried blood.
I need to check my status, he thought.
With a mental flick, his notifications appeared. He scanned the flashing text, his gaze lingering on the welcome words:
Character Level Up! You have reached Level 43.
He exhaled, a brief flicker of satisfaction cutting through his fatigue. Bringing up his Character Sheet, he took a moment to review his progress.
Name: Thorne
Level: 42 → 43
Race: Human
Age: 19
Special Traits:
- Aetherbound [Elder Race]
- Veilbreaker 1/5
- Lunar Champion 2/5
Health Points: 1000/1000
Aether: 570/570
Stamina: 920/920
Core Attributes
- Strength: 78
- Agility: 96
- Dexterity: 83
- Endurance: 92
- Vitality: 100
- Spirit: 137 → 152 (+15)
- Wisdom: 57
- Intelligence: 52
Combat Skills
- Vengeful Blades (Daggers): 6 → 9
- Lethal Flurry: 15 → 16
- Backstab: 14 → 17
- Bloodletting: 8
- Unarmed Combat: 28
- Combat Reflexes: 47 → 48
- Sword Mastery: 19
- Charging Strike: 3
- Throwing Knives: 21
- Knife Fan: 8
- Crossbows: 10
- Critical Eye: 19 → 20
- Archery: 24
- Piercing Arrow: 5
- Silent Draw: 7
Stealth & Deception
- Veil of Light and Shadow (Stealth): 6 → 7
- Shadow Meld: 33
- Sleight of Hand: 23
- Pickpocketing: 20
- Lockpicking: 17
- Stealth Strike: 27 → 29
- Escape Artist: 36
Survival & Miscellaneous Skills
- Tracking: 27 → 28
- Foraging: 6
- Acrobatics: 49
- Burst of Speed (Running): 10 → 11
- Herbalism: 6
- Hunter’s Insight: 12
- Cunning Trapper: 16
- Swimming: 2
Mental & Social Skills
- Acting: 40
- Haggling: 10
- Reading: 15
- Arithmetic: 12
- Mindguard: 18
- Echoes of Truth: 31
- Mask of Deceit: 40
- Deception: 36
- Sculpted Persona: 12 → 14
- Tactful Deflection: 7 → 11
Defensive Skills
- Resilience: 47
- Aetheric Skin: 22 → 25
Aetheric Abilities
- Primal Aether Manipulation: 35
- Aether Burst: 17
- Aether Surge: 19
- Aetheric Grip: 9
- Invisible Threads: 12
Special Abilities
- Veil Sense
- Lunar Regeneration
- Silverlight Strikes
The Spirit stat pulsed faintly in his mind, as though responding to the points he had invested. It was a long-term investment, a necessity to rein in the backlash of his increasingly heavy reliance on aether. His fights were pushing him harder and harder, and the power clawing at him needed to be tamed before it overwhelmed him completely.
“Better to fix it now than later,” he muttered, letting the sheet disappear from his vision.
Thorne pressed forward across the rooftops, the noble quarter sprawling out below him like a bleeding wound. The once-elegant district was now a battlefield, its wide avenues littered with corpses and stained with ash and blood.
Thorne’s gaze swept the chaos as he moved, silent, a shadow among smoke and fire. Pockets of Ravencourt soldiers pushed through streets, battering down ornate gates and storming grand estates. Their tactics were systematic, brutal. These weren’t merely soldiers caught up in the bloodlust of war; they were an army with clear orders, executing their objectives with ruthless precision.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
Thorne knew whose orders they were.
Alaric Ravencourt.
Selene’s older brother, the new head of House Ravencourt, had wasted no time in asserting his control. He hadn’t just come for vengeance; he’d come to annihilate.
Rooting out resistance, Thorne thought bitterly as he watched another group of black-caped soldiers tear through a smaller manor.
Thorne paused on the edge of a rooftop, crouching low behind a half-broken chimney as he observed the violence below. Ravencourt forces surrounded a large estate, the gates hanging open, its defenders outnumbered and overwhelmed. From his vantage point, he could see the family guards fighting valiantly, their blue and silver tabards stained with blood.
The soldiers didn’t stop at subduing the guards. Black-cloaked figures spread out like a well-oiled machine, smashing lanterns through windows and setting curtains alight. Flames caught quickly, and soon the entire left wing of the house was ablaze. The cries of servants and nobles echoed faintly as they scrambled to escape.
One Ravencourt officer stood back from the carnage, barking orders to his men. His polished armor reflected the glow of the fire, and his voice carried even through the chaos.
“Neutral estates are no better than traitors! If they refused our call, they chose their fate!”
Thorne’s jaw tightened. He means to break the city.
Selene had been right; her brother was unrestrained now. Alaric Ravencourt didn’t care for political alliances or noble decorum. Any house that had remained neutral or loyal to the Thornfields was now a target. His goal was absolute dominance over Alvar, and he didn’t care how much blood it would cost.
And here I thought Ravencourt just wanted revenge for Hadrian, Thorne mused darkly. No. Alaric’s ambition runs deeper.
His Veil Sense rippled outward, the pressure of the battlefield revealing flashes of movement across the district. More Ravencourt squads assaulted isolated homes, forcing their way through defenses that had once been thought impenetrable.
Thorne slipped across another gap between buildings, landing silently. He glanced down as he passed over an alley where three Ravencourt soldiers had cornered a young servant, one of the few left behind by her fleeing household. Her cries reached him, faint but desperate, as they closed in.
Not my fight, Thorne reminded himself coldly, his glowing eyes flicking away as he moved on.
The further he went, the clearer the scale of Alaric’s assault became.
Smoke rose in thick, curling plumes from half a dozen directions. Mansions that had stood untouched for centuries were reduced to burning husks, their gardens trampled under the boots of advancing soldiers. A distant explosion shook the rooftops beneath Thorne’s feet, followed by the faint cheer of soldiers as another estate fell.
These weren’t random raids. Thorne could see the strategy behind it. Alaric wasn’t just attacking the Thornfields, he was dismantling the nobility itself.
The loyal houses were being purged. The neutral ones punished. Each defeat sent a clear message to the rest of the city: submit or be destroyed.
Thorne’s path took him closer to a wider boulevard. From his rooftop perch, he could see a column of black-caped soldiers marching steadily down the road. At their head, a massive Ravencourt banner waved proudly in the wind, a crowned raven over a field of black nothingness.
At the center of the procession, flanked by heavily armored knights, rode Alaric Ravencourt himself.
Even from a distance, Thorne could make out his imposing figure. Alaric wore polished black armor engraved with golden ravens that gleamed even in the grim light of the fires. His face was alight with a kind of fervor, his golden hair catching the sunlight like a halo.
Alaric didn’t look like a grieving son or a man burdened by his father’s death. He looked like a conqueror.
As he passed, nobles, those not smart enough to flee, were dragged from their homes and forced to kneel along the road. Some pleaded, others remained silent. Alaric didn’t so much as glance at them as he rode past, his knights ensuring no one dared resist.
Thorne’s lip curled. Power suits him far too well.
It wasn’t grief that had unleashed this war. It was Alaric’s ambition.
Thorne finally drew closer to Uncle’s mansion at the edge of the noble quarter. Its walls loomed like a fortress in the chaos, stark and unyielding. The grounds were heavily fortified, green-cloaked Thornfield guards and black-cloaked Lost Ones stood shoulder to shoulder, their presence forming an unbreakable wall of steel.
The battle had reached even here. The remains of the Ravencourt assault lay scattered before them. Bodies in black armor littered the streets, their positions evidence of failed charges and ambushes. Arrows jutted from windowsills, the ground slick with blood where the defenders had held their ground.
Thorne’s eyes caught on a young guard cutting down a Ravencourt soldier with a fierce cry. It was Dalen, the guard Thorne had trained personally. Dalen’s movements were sharp but slightly unrefined, and he staggered as his opponent fell, blood splattering his face.
Thorne’s sharp eyes scanned the line, assessing their readiness. The defenders stood impassive but alert, their weapons drawn, their eyes sweeping the battlefield like hawks. They had been tested, and they had not broken.
A familiar glint of red caught his eye.
Amidst the Lost Ones, a hooded figure stood with her back straight and her bow at her side. Red hair spilled from beneath her hood, its color unmistakable even in the ash-filled air.
Rielle.
She moved with the controlled stillness that all Lost Ones possessed, her gaze fixed on the street ahead. Whatever assault had tried to take the estate, it had failed and Rielle had no intention of letting it happen again.
For the first time since leaving the Thornfield estate, Thorne felt a faint sense of relief. At least someone held.
But as he crouched at the rooftop’s edge, the weight of the destruction lingered in his mind. Alaric Ravencourt wasn’t just taking the city; he was remaking it.
And if Uncle doesn’t act soon, Thorne thought grimly, he’ll succeed.
Thorne slipped down from the rooftop, landing in a narrow alley behind a crumbling wall. The faint groan of leather accompanied his crouched landing, but no one noticed, his Veil of Light and Shadow still clung to him like a second skin.
From here, the mansion loomed larger, its high walls and guarded gate an imposing line of defense. The defenders, Uncle’s guards and Lost Ones alike stood unwavering in their positions.
Thorne didn’t try to sneak past. Instead, he let his stealth fade as he stepped into the open.
A dozen pairs of eyes snapped toward him, weapons shifting slightly. A guard tensed, his spear lowering an inch before recognition dawned in his tired eyes.
“It’s Lord Silverbane!” someone muttered, and Thorne recognized Dalen’s voice.
The tension in the line eased, though no one fully relaxed. They knew better.
Thorne ignored the stares and walked toward the perimeter, his glowing eyes searching for one person in particular. It didn’t take long to find her.
The guards watched him carefully, weapons at the ready, but made no move to stop him. The black-cloaked figures of the Lost Ones stood further back, their presence like living shadows amidst the rubble-strewn street.
Rielle was among them.
She stood slightly apart from the others, her stance poised and deliberate. Her gaze flicked toward Thorne the moment he stepped into view, and for a split second, something unreadable passed through her expression, surprise, maybe, or recognition. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared.
“What are you doing here?” Rielle said flatly, her voice cool and edged.
Thorne raised a brow, unbothered by her sharp tone. “Nice to see you too, Rielle.”
Her lips pressed into a thin line as she turned fully to face him. Her bow rested idly in her grip, though the way she held it was anything but relaxed.
“Your timing is terrible,” she said, her gaze sweeping over him. “You look like you just crawled out of the grave.”
Thorne smirked faintly. “I’m alive. That counts for something.”
Rielle’s eyes narrowed slightly as she took in the blood on his cloak, the ragged tears in his clothes. She tilted her head, the faintest spark of something, concern, perhaps hidden beneath the professional mask. “The estate?”
“Gone,” Thorne said, the word heavy on his tongue. “The line broke. The Lost Ones pulled out, and the rest couldn’t hold.”
Rielle didn’t respond right away. Her face remained impassive, but Thorne didn’t miss the faint tension in her jaw, the flicker of something she quickly buried.
“And the governing building?” she asked finally, her voice cool once more.
“Still standing, as far as I know.” Thorne’s jaw tightened as he thought of the chaos in the noble quarter. “The Ravencourts are rooting out resistance. They’re going after neutral houses too. Alaric doesn’t want to control the city, he wants to burn it down and start over.” His eyes lingered on her. “How’s it been here?”
For the first time, something cracked in her mask. Her eyes darkened, her fingers curling tighter around her bow. She didn’t say anything, but Thorne saw the truth in her silence. Like the rest of the Lost Ones, Rielle cared for Alvar in her own way. They had grown up running through its streets, stealing from its markets, and surviving in its alleys. Alvar wasn’t just a city, it was their city, too. Watching it burn must have cut deeper than she would ever let on.
“We held the estate,” she said simply. “A combined force of Ravencourt and Farroway soldiers tried to take it earlier. They failed.”
Thorne exhaled, tension easing slightly in his chest. If the estate had held, then at least the merchant quarter might still be cut off.
“And now you’re just standing guard?”
Rielle’s eyes flashed at the implied question. “Orders,” she said tersely, the word clipped and final.
Thorne paused at that, studying her for a moment. She looked the same. Sharp, professional, unshakable but he couldn’t ignore the edge in her voice, the unspoken hostility in her gaze.
“This isn’t the time for your games, Thorne,” she said suddenly, cutting through his thoughts. “If you’ve come to gloat or stir trouble, take it somewhere else.”
Thorne arched a brow, his smirk softening into something more genuine, though his voice remained light. “You know me better than that.”
Rielle’s jaw tightened. “Don’t assume I still know you at all.”
There it was, the flicker of bitterness he’d been waiting for. Thorne let the words settle between them for a beat before responding, his tone carefully measured. “I’m here for Uncle. Not trouble.”
Rielle didn’t move for a long moment, her gaze locked on him as though weighing the truth of his words. Finally, she turned slightly, her attention drifting back toward the street. “He’s waiting for you,” she said, the cool professionalism settling back into her voice.
Thorne nodded, lingering for just a second longer. “Take care of yourself, Rielle.”
She didn’t respond. Her posture remained stiff, her gaze fixed on the far street as though he were no longer there. But the faint tremor in her fingers as she gripped her daggers told him enough.
Without another word, Thorne turned and walked toward the gates, leaving Rielle behind.
The courtyard was eerily still compared to the chaos outside. Guards patrolled the perimeter, their weapons drawn and their faces grim. The tension in the air was palpable, a silent acknowledgment that the Ravencourts would strike again.
As Thorne entered, a figure stepped forward to meet him.
Arletta.
Her sharp eyes swept over him, and she gave a small nod, as if she’d known all along that he would come. “He’s waiting,” she said simply, gesturing toward the mansion.
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