The room darkened as Thorne melded into the shadows, his body vanishing from sight as if he were never there. He shifted slightly, repositioning himself against the wall, but the limited shadows left him with fewer options than he liked.

  The woman’s narrowed eyes swept the room, her grip on her curved swords tightening as she moved with deliberate steps.

  “Coward,” she hissed, her voice low and venomous.

  Thorne took a slow, silent breath, expanding his Veil Sense to gauge her movements. Her core blazed in his perception, the vivid energy radiating strength and experience. He focused on it briefly, inspecting her level.

  Level 48.

  He stifled the urge to curse aloud. She was stronger than he’d anticipated. If he wanted to win this fight, he’d need to rely on his aetheric abilities to tip the scales.

  “Move!” the woman barked, her voice sharp with authority.

  Lord Rook scrambled away, clutching his drink as he pressed himself against the far wall. The moment he was clear, the woman lunged, her blades slicing through the space where Thorne had disappeared.

  Thorne activated Aether Surge, the energy coursing through his veins as he struck. His dagger darted forward, aiming for her wrist. He was certain it would connect, but at the last moment, one of the golden bracelets she wore flashed, a faint ripple of energy deflecting his blade harmlessly.

  The unexpected resistance sent a jolt of frustration through him, though he couldn’t help but chuckle softly. “Well, that’s new,” he muttered, his voice low and edged with amusement.

  The woman growled and pivoted, her blades flashing in a deadly arc. Thorne used Burst of Speed, darting across the room in an instant and melding into the shadow of a cabinet.

  “I hate assassins,” she snarled, her eyes scanning the room.

  Thorne didn’t reply, his glowing eyes narrowing as he assessed her stance. She was quick, efficient, and clearly well-trained. But her aggression was predictable, a flaw he could exploit.

  He waited until her focus shifted slightly before activating Invisible Threads, weaving the faint, undetectable strands toward her legs. With a subtle pull, the threads tightened around her ankle, yanking her off balance.

  The woman stumbled, one knee hitting the floor as she slashed wildly at the air, her blades cutting through the shadows in frustration.

  Thorne struck again, emerging from the darkness with surgical precision. His dagger flashed, slicing across her upper arm. The cut wasn’t deep, but it was enough to make her hiss in pain and anger.

  “Is that all you’ve got?” Thorne taunted, his voice calm and mocking as he slipped back into the shadows.

  The woman snarled and spun, her eyes burning with fury. “You think you’re clever, don’t you?”

  “I’ve been told I have my moments,” Thorne replied smoothly, his voice echoing faintly from the corners of the room.

  She lunged again, her swords carving through the air with deadly precision. Thorne evaded effortlessly, his movements fluid and controlled as he used Burst of Speed to circle behind her.

  The clash of steel filled the room as their blades met, the woman’s strength nearly overwhelming. But Thorne’s agility, precision and higher stats gave him the edge, his strikes aimed to disarm rather than kill.

  Another pull of his Invisible Threads, this time targeting her knee, sent her stumbling forward. Thorne capitalized on her unbalanced state, his dagger slicing through the strap of one sword, sending it clattering to the floor.

  Before she could recover, Thorne twisted her remaining wrist with a calculated move, his dagger pressing against her hand. She gasped, her grip faltering as the second sword fell from her grasp.

  Thorne stepped back, his glowing eyes locking onto hers as he raised his blade. The woman’s chest heaved with exertion, her fury now tempered by grudging respect.

  “That was fun,” Thorne said lightly, flipping the dagger in his hand with casual ease. “Care to try again?”

  The woman glared at him, her eyes narrowing. “You’re good,” she admitted grudgingly. “But this isn’t over.”

  Thorne smirked, his dagger steady in his hand. “It is if you know what’s good for you.”

  Before either of them could move, a low voice cut through the tension.

  “That’s enough,” Lord Rook said, his tone firm despite the faint tremor in his hands.

  Thorne’s smirk widened slightly, but he didn’t lower his weapon. The game was far from over, and he wasn’t about to let his guard down now.

  Thorne’s glowing eyes remained fixed on the woman as he gestured with a flick of his hand.

  “You can go now,” he said, his voice low and dismissive.

  The woman glared at him, her pride clearly wounded, but she turned to Lord Rook for confirmation. The lord hesitated for a moment, his fear plain in the faint tremor of his hands. Then, with a shallow nod, he signaled her to leave.

  Thorne could see the unease in the man’s eyes, the way he avoided meeting his gaze directly. Good, Thorne thought, savoring the power he held. Fear is the best leverage.

  The woman massaged her wrist as she bent to pick up her swords, her narrowed eyes flicking to Thorne with one last glare before she left the room, the door closing with a dull thud behind her.

  “Well, now,” Thorne began, his tone light but edged with mockery. “There was no need for that unpleasantness.”

  He reached into his coat and produced the envelope Uncle had given him, tossing it casually onto the desk.

  The sudden motion made Lord Rook flinch, his whole body tensing before he realized what it was. After a pause, he reached for the envelope, his hand shaking slightly as he broke the seal.

  Thorne moved to a chair that had miraculously survived the earlier chaos and sat down, crossing his legs casually as he watched the lord with a faint smirk.

  The room was silent save for the faint rustle of parchment as Rook read the letter. His frown deepened, and his lips thinned as he reached the end.

  “I... I...” the lord stammered, his confidence visibly shaken. “These are fair terms, but...”

  Thorne arched an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. He didn’t know the exact contents of the letter, but he knew Uncle well enough to assume it contained enticing incentives.

  He tossed his dagger into the air, catching it by the hilt with a nonchalant ease. The movement made Rook flinch again, his nerves clearly frayed.

  “I’m sure Uncle has offered exactly what you need,” Thorne said, his voice calm and unbothered.

  Rook gulped, his hesitation betraying the storm of thoughts swirling in his mind. “Lower tax rates are... good,” he said haltingly, “and the funds for two more ships are... tempting. But...”

  Thorne’s glowing eyes narrowed slightly as he felt a subtle ripple in the air. His instincts sharpened, and he realized the lord was using a skill.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  “But it’s merely a bandage to my wound,” Rook said, his voice steadying as he glanced down at the envelope on the desk.

  Thorne tilted his head slightly, his sharp gaze fixed on the man.

  “As long as House Braddock stands,” Rook continued, his tone taking on a sharper edge, “I will never be anything more than a second-rate merchant lord scraping by on the fringes. Braddock controls the sea routes that matter under a treaty signed by the king himself, the lucrative paths to the Emerald Sands, where fortunes are made.”

  He leaned forward, his hands gripping the desk as he met Thorne’s glowing eyes. “My ships are forced to brave the long road. Dangerous waters, unpredictable storms, pirates lying in wait, it all adds to my costs. And what do I get in return?”

  Thorne remained silent, watching as the man’s words began to paint a vivid picture of his struggles.

  “Scraps,” Rook spat bitterly. “I trade with the northern towns, where the merchants are too poor to pay fair prices. Meanwhile, House Braddock grows fat, dealing with the exotic kingdoms across the seas, bringing back riches that should belong to Alvar.”

  He shook his head, his voice quieter but no less bitter. “I’ve tried to negotiate. Tried to work within the treaty that Braddock hides behind like a shield. But every time, they’ve shut me out.”

  Rook’s piercing blue eyes locked onto Thorne’s. “You understand, don’t you? What it feels like to fight for every inch, only to have it ripped away by someone who didn’t even earn it?”

  Thorne frowned faintly, the man’s words burrowing into his mind like hooks. He could see it, feel it. The frustration of clawing for survival while others thrived through no merit of their own.

  It’s unfair, Thorne thought, his jaw tightening. If I were him, I’d feel the same way.

  The logic was undeniable. House Braddock’s stranglehold on the seas wasn’t just a hindrance to Rook, it was an injustice. Why should one family have the monopoly on wealth while others were forced to scrape by?

  He felt a spark of anger rise within him, directed not at Rook, but at the system that had allowed such an imbalance to flourish.

  If I were in his place, Thorne thought, I would do anything to fix it. I wouldn’t stop until Braddock’s hold was broken.

  The idea took root, a quiet but insistent voice whispering that Rook’s cause wasn’t just reasonable, it was righteous.

  Thorne didn’t notice the faint ripple of aether emanating from Rook, nor the subtle glow in the man’s blue eyes. His mind was clouded, his thoughts no longer entirely his own.

  When Rook spoke again, his voice was softer, almost pleading. “This treaty... it’s not just a document. It’s a weapon. And Braddock wields it ruthlessly.”

  Thorne nodded slightly, his expression shifting to one of understanding. “It isn’t right,” he murmured, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

  The sharp twang of metal striking wood shattered the moment’s calm. The sound reverberated through the room, followed instantly by a strangled cry of pain.

  Skill level up: Mindguard!

  Thorne stood, his glowing eyes cold and ruthless as he moved toward the desk. The dagger he had thrown was buried deep, pinning Lord Rook’s hand to the wood. A thin line of blood trickled down his palm, pooling onto the documents below.

  “I came here,” Thorne began, his voice sharp with controlled anger, “thinking that, for once, I might deal with a reasonable man.”

  He pulled another dagger from his coat, the blade glinting faintly in the dim light. The motion was calm, deliberate, meant to unsettle.

  Rook writhed against the pain, his free hand scrambling to pull the embedded dagger free. His breathing was ragged, his face pale and strained as he struggled, but Thorne made no move to help.

  “You have a very impressive skill,” Thorne said, his tone conversational, though it dripped with menace. “So subtle, so... persuasive. I almost didn’t notice it.”

  Rook let out another gasp as his efforts failed, his body trembling from the agony. Thorne’s words seemed distant, like an echo in the back of his mind.

  “You had me convinced,” Thorne continued, pacing slowly around the desk. “Your logic, your arguments, they all made perfect sense. So much sense, in fact, that I didn’t even question them. Didn’t even think to question them.”

  Thorne’s glowing eyes narrowed, a faint smirk curling his lips. “That’s how I knew something was wrong.”

  Rook’s cries grew weaker as his strength ebbed, his trembling fingers finally wrapping around the hilt of the embedded dagger. With a sharp gasp, he yanked it free, the motion sending fresh waves of blood spilling onto the desk.

  He stumbled back, clutching his wounded hand as he staggered toward the crates in the corner of the room. Thorne didn’t stop him, watching dispassionately as the man fumbled for one of the health potions stored there.

  The noble’s trembling hands finally uncorked the bottle, and he drank deeply, his wound closing within seconds as the potion took effect. His breathing steadied, but the fear in his eyes remained.

  Thorne tilted his head slightly, studying the man like a predator observing weakened prey.

  “Are you finished?” Thorne’s voice cut through the air like a blade.

  Rook froze, his wide, frightened eyes snapping to meet Thorne’s.

  “Sit,” Thorne commanded, his tone cold and final.

  For a moment, the noble hesitated, his gaze flicking toward the closed door as if considering his options. But the dangerous gleam in Thorne’s glowing eyes left no room for defiance.

  “I’m not going to repeat myself,” Thorne said, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper. “Time is of the essence, and you’re wasting mine.”

  Rook grimaced but obeyed, sinking into the chair with a pained expression. His uninjured hand clutched the armrest as he avoided Thorne’s piercing gaze.

  Thorne stepped closer, his movements slow and deliberate. His dagger spun idly in his hand, the blade catching the faint light.

  “Now,” Thorne said, his voice calm but deadly, “before you tried to entrance me, you were saying something about good terms.”

  He gestured with a flourish, his smirk returning as he tilted his head. “Please. Continue.”

  Rook gulped, his confidence shattered. The once-proud merchant lord was now reduced to a trembling shadow of himself, his earlier arrogance replaced by palpable fear.

  Thorne’s smirk widened. The game wasn’t over yet, but Lord Rook was beginning to realize who held the winning hand.

  Thorne regarded Lord Rook carefully as the man spoke, his tone steady despite the tremor in his hands.

  “I know how much your employer wants my mercenaries,” Rook said, his voice weak. “It’s the force that could tip the scales in this little war he’s started. But don’t mistake me for a fool like the rest of the nobles. I live here, in the docks, where your Uncle’s influence first began to spread. I know all about him and what he’s capable of.”

  Thorne raised an eyebrow, leaning slightly against the desk. He studied Rook, searching for the cracks in his composure. “Foolish? Brave? Or desperate?” he mused silently. Whatever it was, Rook seemed driven by something so vital that even the threat of death or torture couldn’t dissuade him.

  “If you know all about him,” Thorne said, letting his smirk curve his lips, “then you should also know he doesn’t like being defied.”

  Rook swallowed hard, but he didn’t falter. “I know. But I also know he’s backed into a corner, and he needs my army of hired swords.”

  That made Thorne laugh. Genuinely, deeply laugh. He shook his head in amusement, the sound unnerving the already tense lord.

  “You clearly don’t know Uncle as well as you think,” Thorne said, his glowing eyes glinting with mirth. “If you believe he’s backed into a corner and that you have leverage, let me educate you.”

  He stood up, gesturing vaguely with his hand as he circled the room. “Uncle always has a plan B. And a plan C. And D. And E. It goes on and on. If you think you’re special, you’re mistaken. Let me assure you, there’s a list of nobles just as desperate as you are, all ready to take your place.”

  Thorne leaned against the desk, fixing Rook with a pointed stare as he motioned for him to speak. “So,” he said, his smirk widening, “let’s hear what you really want.”

  Rook’s confidence cracked, the bravado that had carried him this far fading into hesitation. He coughed, clearing his throat as he tried to compose himself, but the earlier fire in his eyes was gone.

  “I want Braddock killed,” Rook whispered, his voice barely audible but filled with spite.

  Thorne rolled his eyes. “So predictable,” he muttered. He slapped his knee and stood up abruptly. “Consider it done,” he said, the confidence in his tone catching the lord off guard.

  Rook’s eyes widened, disbelief flickering across his face. “Really?” he asked, his voice trembling with equal parts hope and doubt.

  “Yes, I...” Thorne’s words were cut off as an explosion rocked the building, much closer than the ones before. The floor beneath them trembled, and a faint cloud of dust drifted from the rafters.

  As the tremors subsided, Thorne looked back at the wide-eyed noble. “As I was saying, consider the terms fulfilled.” His tone was sharp and efficient, leaving no room for argument.

  He straightened his coat and stepped toward the door, pausing briefly to deliver his next command. “Prepare your mercenaries. You don’t have much time. Farroway soldiers are heading this way. Uncle expects the entire district, including Lord Thornfield’s assets, to be protected no matter what.”

  Rook nodded shakily, but before Thorne could leave, the man’s trembling voice called out. “Wait!”

  Thorne turned slowly, his patience wearing thin. “What now?” he asked, his glowing eyes narrowing slightly.

  The lord’s hand was trembling as he held out a sealed envelope. His face was pale, his desperation obvious. “I need you to place this in his room,” Rook said, his tone almost pleading.

  Thorne’s eyes flicked to the envelope, then back to the man’s face. Without a word, he walked back and plucked the letter from the lord’s outstretched hand.

  “What is this?” he demanded, feeling the faint pulse of aether radiating from the parchment.

  Rook’s voice quivered as he explained. “An official document of debt. With this, after Braddock’s death, I will collect the extravagant sum owed to me. His descendants will have no choice but to transfer ownership of several vessels from his fleet to cover the cost.”

  Thorne arched an eyebrow, impressed despite himself. Uncle was right. There’s another schemer in town.

  “How did you even get something like this?” he asked, his tone laced with curiosity.

  Rook didn’t answer, his eyes darting nervously as if fearing his secret would be exposed.

  Thorne inspected the envelope carefully, the faint glow of aether teasing his senses. He broke the seal and unfolded the letter, his fingers brushing against the strange, ethereal material. It didn’t feel like parchment, it felt alive, as though woven from pure aether.

  As he skimmed the intricate script, the words matched Rook’s explanation. The document detailed a failed venture between House Braddock and House Rook, with the latter shouldering the entire financial loss.

  At the bottom of the parchment, a royal symbol pulsed with an immense amount of aetheric energy, its presence both commanding and ominous. The energy emanating from it wasn’t just strong, it was personal, as though the man who created it was standing in the room with him.

  But it was the crude lines at the very bottom of the document that made Thorne freeze.

  The crow.

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