The crow.

  The symbol at the bottom of the parchment was unmistakable, its crude lines etched with precision that somehow radiated malice. The faint glow of aether surrounding it made his skin crawl, the energy resonating with something powerful and unnerving.

  His mind flashed back to the crow painted in purple on the wall earlier, the wet paint still vivid in his memory.

  He’s everywhere, Thorne thought, his grip on the parchment tightening. How deep does his influence go?

  Lord Rook watched him nervously, his earlier desperation giving way to visible unease. “Something wrong?” the merchant lord asked hesitantly, his voice trembling.

  Thorne forced his expression back into neutrality, sliding the document back into the envelope with deliberate care. “No,” he said flatly. “Everything seems... in order.”

  Rook’s shoulders sagged in relief, but his fear lingered, his gaze darting to Thorne’s glowing eyes as if trying to decipher his thoughts.

  Thorne stepped forward, holding the envelope between his fingers like a delicate object. He studied Rook for a moment, noting the faint sheen of sweat on the man’s brow and the twitch in his trembling hands.

  “You went to a lot of trouble to get this,” Thorne said evenly, his tone devoid of emotion.

  Rook swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “It... wasn’t easy,” he admitted, his voice low. “But desperate times call for desperate measures.”

  Thorne tilted his head slightly, his curiosity piqued. “And the crow?” he asked, his voice soft but pointed.

  Rook frowned, his face twisting in confusion. “The crow... what crow?” he asked. He hesitated for a moment before he continued. “Probably a mark left by the scribe who enchanted the document. Nothing more.”

  Thorne’s glowing eyes bore into him, trying to gauge whether the man was lying or not. The silence stretched uncomfortably and Lord Rook started fidgeting. Thorne said nothing, slipping the envelope into his coat with a slow, deliberate motion.

  “I’ll place the document,” Thorne said, his voice calm but tinged with menace. “But I hope, for your sake, this is worth my time.”

  “It is,” Rook said quickly, his words tumbling over each other in his haste. “With that document in his room, House Braddock’s legacy will crumble. His fleet will be mine, and I’ll finally be able to break his stranglehold on the sea routes.”

  Thorne arched an eyebrow, watching as Rook’s desperation turned to manic enthusiasm. He could see the man’s ambition burning in his eyes, the greed that drove him to risk everything for this one opportunity.

  Another schemer, Thorne thought coldly. But not as clever as he believes.

  He stepped back, turning toward the door. “Prepare your mercenaries,” he said over his shoulder. “You don’t have much time.”

  As Thorne left the room, his thoughts lingered on the document, its pulsating aetheric energy still tingling against his skin. The crow’s symbol was no mere flourish, it was a message, a claim of ownership over the events unfolding in Alvar.

  He’s already ahead of us, Thorne realized, a flicker of unease worming its way into his mind. But how much does he know? How much is he controlling?

  His hand brushed against the crow mark on his palm, hidden beneath his glove. The faint glow of purple light pulsed in time with his heartbeat, a reminder of the man’s reach and the silent threat he posed.

  Thorne clenched his fist, shoving his unease aside. He had a task to complete, and no matter how tangled the web became, he couldn’t afford to falter now.

  “Your move,” he murmured under his breath, the words carrying a defiance he didn’t entirely feel.

  With a final glance toward the door, Thorne stepped into the chaos of the docks, ready to finish what he’d started.

  Thorne left Rook’s compound with purposeful strides, the air still thick with tension. The mercenaries on watch were visibly restless, their hands gripping weapons as they awaited orders. The battle for Alvar loomed, and these men and women seemed eager for blood.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Thorne spotted the woman he’d fought earlier. She stood amidst a group of rugged mercenaries, her swords now sheathed but her stance radiating simmering aggression.

  Thorne tipped his fingers to his temple in a casual farewell gesture, a smirk playing on his lips.

  Her eyes narrowed, a spark of annoyance flashing across her face, but she made no move to stop him.

  Satisfied, Thorne paid her no further mind and continued on his way.

  Thorne left the main road, scaling a rusted pipe along the side of the nearest building. Once he reached the rooftop, he moved with ease, vaulting over a low wall and leaping across a narrow gap. His boots barely made a sound as he hopped from one structure to the next.

  To his left, the open sea stretched out in stark contrast to the chaos of the city, its surface dark and choppy beneath the overcast sky. To his right, the smoke-filled skyline of Alvar painted a grim picture of the ongoing war.

  The noble quarter, he reminded himself, his mind racing. He had to reach the Braddock estate, infiltrate it during the chaos, and carry out his mission. Kill the man, place the forged document, and disappear without a trace.

  But first, he needed to inform Sid about Rook’s forces.

  Thorne didn’t waste time hiding his presence; no one was watching the rooftops, and speed was more important than stealth. Within minutes, he reached the edge of the docks district, where the sprawling fish market began.

  The fish market, usually teeming with merchants and buyers, was now a staging ground for battle. Dozens of men and women stood in makeshift lines, clutching an assortment of crude weapons, steel pipes, clubs, and sharpened tools. The air buzzed with tension, their eyes flitting nervously toward the smoke rising in the distance.

  At the forefront stood Sid, flanked by Riley and two other veterans of the Lost Ones.

  Riley had been one of the older recruits when Thorne first joined the guild, his skills in reconnaissance and sabotage unmatched. They’d worked together on several missions, though Riley had always kept to himself, preferring to let his results speak for him.

  Sid was giving orders, his calm, authoritative voice carrying over the murmurs of the gathered fighters. Beside him, Riley’s demeanor was more relaxed, though his sharp eyes scanned the crowd, ensuring every detail was accounted for.

  Thorne dropped down from the rooftop with a controlled leap, landing lightly on his feet just behind them.

  Sid turned at the sound, his gaze sharpening as he spotted Thorne.

  “Finally decided to join us, eh?” Sid said, his tone a mix of sarcasm and amusement.

  “Had to handle something,” Thorne replied smoothly, brushing off the remark. His glowing eyes swept over the scene, taking in the assembled group. “Looks like you’ve been busy.”

  “More than you know,” Sid said with a faint smirk. “Talon and her group have been driving the Farroway forces this way, keeping them on their heels and picking them off when they can. Riley’s been helping with that.”

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  At the mention of his name, Riley’s face lit up with a proud grin.

  “He’s a master at sabotage,” Sid continued. “Took out a big chunk of soldiers with his latest trap.”

  Thorne turned his gaze to Riley, one eyebrow arched. “The explosion?”

  Riley nodded, his grin widening. “One of my better works,” he admitted, a hint of pride coloring his tone. “I had some help, recruits with skills in traps and sabotage. We’ve been making their lives miserable.”

  Thorne chuckled softly, a rare sound. “Good. Keep it up. Anything else?”

  Riley’s expression darkened. “Farroway forces are moving in from the north. A sizable group. They’ve already taken part of the Merchant District and are pushing inward. We’ve managed to delay them, but they’re better organized than we anticipated.”

  Thorne frowned, his mind racing. “How many?”

  “A hundred, maybe more,” Riley answered grimly. “And they’re not just regular soldiers. They’ve brought a handful of high-level knights too.”

  “Perfect,” Thorne muttered, his tone laced with sarcasm.

  Sid’s expression turned serious as he stepped closer to Thorne. “What about you?” he asked. “What’s the plan?”

  “Rook’s mercenaries are on their way,” Thorne said simply. “They’ll bolster the line here and help hold the district. Make sure they’re ready when they arrive.”

  Sid nodded, satisfaction flickering in his eyes.

  Thorne’s attention shifted back to Riley. Though they’d had little direct interaction during their time in the guild, except for the few missions they had done together, Riley had always been competent and reliable. Now, seeing the deference in his stance, Thorne felt an odd sense of authority.

  “Keep the sabotage coming,” Thorne said to Riley. “Anything to slow them down or scatter their forces. Every bit helps.”

  Riley inclined his head respectfully. “You’ve got it.”

  Sid’s gaze lingered on Thorne for a moment longer. “You’re not staying?”

  “I have some things to take care of,” Thorne replied, his tone curt but not dismissive.

  Sid didn’t press further, simply nodding in understanding. “We’ll hold things down here. Just make sure whatever you’re doing is worth it.”

  Thorne smirked faintly, already turning away. “It always is.”

  He left the docks and the fish market behind, moving with ease across the rooftops. Below him, the city seemed unnaturally calm, a sharp contrast to the chaos he knew was tearing through Alvar’s northern reaches.

  The docks and merchant district were still largely untouched, their streets eerily silent.

  But the calm didn’t last.

  As Thorne climbed onto a taller building overlooking the upper part of the merchant district, he froze.

  The air grew heavier as he approached, the acrid smell of smoke and the metallic tang of blood mingling together. The sound of splintering wood and the dull roar of flames reached his ears before he saw them

  The Farroway host.

  They surged down the wide main road like a living tide, their silver and blue armor gleaming as they caught the light of the fires they left in their wake. Their banners fluttered proudly above them, even as they smashed through doors, overturned carts, and set fire to anything they couldn’t carry.

  Thorne crouched low, his glowing eyes narrowing as he scanned the destruction below.

  This part of the city, once untouched, was now being torn apart. His heart lurched at the sight, and his glowing eyes instinctively sought out Jonah’s shop at the far end of the street. The small, familiar sign, chipped and weathered, hung crookedly over the doorway. It was intact, for now, but for how long?

  His mind raced. He didn’t know where Jonah or Ben were. Had they gone to ground? Found somewhere safe? Or were they still here, caught in the path of destruction?

  Don’t think about it, he told himself, his teeth clenching as he forced his gaze away. Just keep moving.

  He gripped the edge of the rooftop, forcing himself to stay still despite the instinct to rush down. He couldn’t afford to get distracted. His mission came first.

  He was about to move on when his Veil Sense flared, sending a sharp pulse through his mind. He froze, his instincts kicking in as he scanned the area.

  From the corners of his awareness, shadowed figures emerged. They descended on the Farroway soldiers like a storm, silent, deadly, and precise.

  They leapt from balconies, smashed through windows, and materialized from the darkness, their movements a dance of death. The Lost Ones.

  Thorne watched, mesmerized, as they struck with ruthless efficiency. Their blades flashed in the dim light, cutting down soldiers before they could react. A dozen men fell in seconds, their lifeless bodies collapsing in heaps.

  And just as suddenly as they had appeared, the Lost Ones vanished.

  The Farroway soldiers stood in stunned silence, their ranks shaken by the unexpected assault. Panic rippled through their lines as the survivors tried to regroup, their shouts desperate and disorganized.

  This is their strength, Thorne thought, a mix of pride and unease churning within him. From the shadows, never head-on. Wolves among sheep.

  He felt the flicker of their cores moving again, retreating into the shadows to prepare for another strike. His Veil Sense whispered that they would strike soon, but he didn’t linger to watch.

  Thorne tore his gaze away, his focus shifting to the tallest structure in Alvar, the governing building. It loomed above the chaos, its once-pristine walls now shrouded in smoke.

  His target wasn’t there, but it was close. The Braddock estate lay nestled in the noble quarter, just beyond the towering structure.

  Taking a deep breath, Thorne adjusted his cloak and broke into a run. He moved with purpose, his glowing eyes fixed on the path ahead.

  Thorne reached the rooftops overlooking the noble quarter, a place that had once been a haven of refinement and privilege. Below him, the main square stretched out, a battlefield unlike anything he had ever seen.

  The sight twisted his stomach.

  Hundreds of soldiers moved like a restless tide, their black and green banners clashing as Ravencourt forces fought to take control of the governing building. The Thornfield defenders, identifiable by their green cloaks emblazoned with the rose emblem, fought back desperately, but the odds were against them.

  Scattered among the chaos, Lost Ones flitted like shadows, cutting down their foes with ruthless efficiency. Yet, for every Ravencourt soldier that fell, a Lost One was taken down in return.

  Thorne’s glowing eyes focused on the familiar figures among the fray, faces he had known for years, comrades he had trained with, and people who had become like family to him. He watched in grim silence as one after another, they fell to the unrelenting tide of battle.

  Despite their rigorous training and deadly skills, the Lost Ones were unprepared for a battle of this scale. They were assassins, spies, and saboteurs, not soldiers. They weren’t meant for open warfare.

  This is war, Thorne thought bitterly. And they’re being slaughtered.

  Uncle’s desperation and miscalculated decisions had brought them to this. In his eagerness to correct the spiraling series of mistakes that had led to this chaos, he had undone the years of work he had poured into building the guild.

  By the time this is over, Thorne thought grimly, the Lost Ones will be decimated, and Uncle will be weaker than he’s ever been.

  He shook his head and turned away. He couldn’t linger. Not now.

  Thorne moved again, taking the long way around the noble quarter. The battle had spilled into the surrounding streets, where small forces from the noble houses fought desperately to defend their estates and lords.

  The streets were a cacophony of chaos.

  The clash of steel rang out in every direction, mingling with the screams of the wounded and dying. Ravencourt soldiers poured through the narrow alleys like a relentless tide, smashing through barricades and overwhelming their opponents with sheer numbers.

  Thorne’s path was littered with signs of destruction, overturned carriages, smoldering debris, and pools of blood that stained the cobblestones. He passed the ruins of shops and homes, the lives of Alvar’s citizens reduced to rubble in the wake of the warring factions.

  The sounds of battle clawed at his nerves, but he pushed them aside. He had a mission, and he couldn’t let himself be distracted by the horrors unfolding around him.

  Finally, the Braddock estate came into view.

  Thorne’s glowing eyes narrowed as he crouched low on the rooftop, taking in the scene below. The Braddock estate, once a beacon of wealth and status, was now a battlefield. The tall iron gates trembled under the weight of the Ravencourt assault, and the meticulously landscaped gardens were being trampled into chaos.

  Guards in the crimson and gold livery of House Braddock fought valiantly, their swords flashing as they tried to fend off the tide of black-clad Ravencourt soldiers. But the numbers were against them. The defenders were barely holding the line, their ranks thinning with every passing moment.

  Thorne’s mind raced as he studied the chaos. The clanging of steel, the shouts of orders, and the screams of the dying filled the air. His eyes flicked to the estate itself, its towering fa?ade a stark contrast to the bloodshed unfolding at its gates.

  A spark of an idea ignited in Thorne’s mind, and a smirk curled his lips.

  What if... I helped the Ravencourts?

  The thought was as sharp and clear as a blade. If the Ravencourt forces breached the estate, they would cut through the guards, storm the halls, and finish Braddock for him. He wouldn’t have to lift a finger, and no one would be the wiser.

  Thorne’s lips curved into a smirk as he considered the elegance of it. No evidence, no blood on his hands, no witnesses to tie him to the act. He could walk into the chaos after it was over, place the forged document, and slip away like a shadow.

  Uncle’s words from long ago echoed in his mind:

  "If you can, Thorne, always let someone else do the dirty work for you. It keeps your hands clean and your enemies none the wiser."

  Back then, those words had felt cold, calculated, and cruel, like everything Uncle taught him. But now, in this moment, they made perfect sense.

  Why waste my energy? Why risk exposing myself? he thought, his glowing eyes glinting as he leaned forward. The Ravencourts are already here, doing what I need them to do. Let them take the blame. Let them bear the consequences.

  He adjusted his position on the rooftop, ensuring he had a clear view of the unfolding battle. The Ravencourt soldiers pushed harder, their swords hacking at the guards who fought tooth and nail to hold the gates.

  If the attackers breached the estate, they would do the dirty work for him. He wouldn’t have to waste time fighting through the guards himself, he could simply slip in, place the document, and be gone before anyone noticed.

  Well, he thought to himself, his smirk widening, that’s an idea.

  A faint ripple of aether stirred in the air, brushing against his senses like a warning. He shook it off, refocusing on the scene below.

  There was no hesitation, no second-guessing. This was war, and in war, the clever survived while the foolish died. Thorne had no intention of being the latter.

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