He couldn’t see the man, but he could feel him.
Back in Valewind, Thorne had seen him for only a few fleeting minutes. The memory had dulled over time but never vanished. The man had been in deep conversation with Lord Valewyn, his casual posture and irreverent smirk belying the aura of authority that radiated from him. At the time, Thorne had marveled at the sense of power, but he hadn’t possessed the skills to quantify it.
Now, he did.
The number echoed through his mind like a war drum, relentless and deafening. He wanted to dismiss it, to assume his Veil Sense skill was malfunctioning, but he knew better. Every pulse of his ability confirmed it, sending chills down his spine.
It didn’t make sense. It shouldn’t be possible.
The pressure built steadily, growing more oppressive with each passing moment. Thorne’s breathing hitched as he tried to focus, to pinpoint the direction. He turned his head slightly, narrowing his senses, and felt it, the presence was moving, deeper into the estate, slow and deliberate, each step reverberating in his mind like an earthquake.
He clenched his fists at his sides, his nails digging into his palms. Who is he? The question clawed at his mind, but the answer lingered just out of reach.
No, I know who he is.
Thorne’s thoughts spiraled as he remembered Valewind. The golden hair, the sharp features, the lazy smirk that hadn’t reached his calculating eyes. The man had spoken with quiet authority, a presence that didn’t demand attention because it already had it.
Back then, Thorne had lacked the means to sense his power, but he’d felt it. An undercurrent of dominance, a force of nature compressed into human form.
And now, that presence was here, in Alvar, moving somewhere within the Ravencourt estate.
Thorne’s Veil Sense pulsed again, and with it came the inescapable confirmation: Level 126.
The weight of the number pressed down on him. He tried to rationalize it, to convince himself that it was an error, but deep down, he knew the truth. This was beyond the realm of probability. The strongest people Thorne had encountered thus far were nowhere near this level. He couldn’t fathom the years, the experiences, the sheer effort required to climb to such a height.
Selene’s voice pulled him back to reality. “Thorne?”
He blinked, turning to find her studying him with a mix of curiosity and concern.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she said softly, her voice low enough not to draw attention.
“I’m fine,” he lied, forcing his voice to remain steady.
But he wasn’t fine. His thoughts were a storm, his instincts screaming at him to leave, to escape the estate before that presence drew closer. Yet he couldn’t move.
Instead, he focused, trying to gauge the direction and distance. It wasn’t close yet, but the aura was unmistakable, pressing on his senses like a heavy hand on his chest.
“Are you sure?” Selene pressed.
“I said I’m fine,” he snapped, more harshly than intended. He immediately softened his tone, adding, “It’s nothing. Just… nerves.”
Selene raised an eyebrow but didn’t push further.
Thorne’s knees felt weak, his hands trembling faintly at his sides. He forced himself to straighten, to hold his composure, but the effort was monumental.
Thorne turned his attention back to the room, his eyes scanning the nobles. Most were engrossed in their conversations, but a few cast curious glances his way. They didn’t feel it. They didn’t sense the tidal wave of power that was moving closer.
They had no idea what was walking among them.
The pressure suddenly shifted, growing fainter as if the presence had turned down a different corridor. Thorne exhaled shakily, his hands unclenching. But the reprieve did little to calm his frayed nerves.
Why is he here? The question clawed at his mind, relentless and unanswerable. This wasn’t a man who belonged in a place like Alvar. His presence alone was a disruption, a reminder of the disparity between the capital and aether deprived places like Alvar.
Whatever reason that man had for being here, it couldn’t mean anything good.
Thorne’s chest tightened, the world around him narrowing into a tunnel of noise and movement. Selene’s voice sounded distant, though she was right beside him.
“Thorne?” she asked again, her tone tinged with worry. “Do you want to go somewhere quiet? Somewhere away from all these prying eyes?”
He was about to nod, desperate for a moment to gather his thoughts, when realization hit him like a blow to the chest.
Lord Ravencourt had vanished mere moments before the presence began to move.
And worse, if his fears were correct, if the man he sensed was truly who he thought it was, then Jareth and Eliza might already be in danger.
His eyes snapped up, scanning the room with frantic urgency. The Lost Ones had slipped away earlier, but to where? They weren’t here, not among the chattering nobles. If their paths crossed with that man...
Panic clawed at him.
“I have to go,” he said abruptly, already stepping back.
Selene frowned, her confusion evident. “What’s gotten into you?”
“I’ll explain later,” Thorne replied, his voice clipped as he turned away. He barely registered her protests, his focus narrowing entirely on finding Jareth and Eliza.
He activated his Veil Sense skill, letting it expand outward as he began weaving through the crowd. The din of the party threatened to overwhelm him, laughter, conversation, the clinking of glasses, but he pushed through, filtering out every distraction.
People reached for him, called his name, attempted to pull him into conversation. He ignored them all, moving with singular purpose, his senses straining to locate the lost ones amidst the chaos.
At the edge of the grand ballroom, he paused, slipping behind an ornate marble statue. He shut his eyes, centering himself, and let his enhanced hearing take over.
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Noise flooded his mind, a cacophony of sound that he began to parse with meticulous precision. Conversations faded into the background as he tuned into every subtle noise, the scrape of a boot against stone, the rustle of fabric, the faintest inhale of breath.
There.
It was faint, almost imperceptible. But he caught it, a shallow, controlled breathing, nearly masked by the chatter of the nobles. It took him a moment to be certain it wasn’t his imagination.
He honed his Veil Sense in the direction of the sound, reaching out with careful precision. Relief washed over him as the familiar presence of Eliza registered in his mind.
But his relief was short-lived.
As he expanded his ability, letting the threads of his senses stretch further, his heart sank.
Not far from Eliza, the pulsing vortex of energy he had been tracking moved steadily closer. Its weight bore down on him even from a distance, an oppressive force that made his stomach churn.
“No,” he muttered under his breath, his fists clenching.
There wasn’t time to waste. Eliza and Jareth had no idea what they were walking into.
Pushing off the wall, he slipped into the nearest corridor, his movements quick and deliberate. He would find them. He had to.
Thorne moved with practiced precision, his Stealth skill shrouding him in silence as he slipped through the dimly lit corridors of the estate. The urge to sprint gnawed at him, his instincts screaming to move faster, to reach Eliza before it was too late. But experience tempered that urgency, he knew better than to rush blindly into danger. Years of training had taught him that haste could mean death.
His senses were razor-sharp, tuned to every faint noise, every shift of light. His Veil Sense painted a vivid map in his mind: the restless movement of passing servants, the hushed whispers of nobles slipping away from the ballroom for their clandestine rendezvous, and, most alarmingly, the steady approach of the mysterious man from the capital.
The aura was an oppressive force, coiling through the air like a predator stalking its prey. Thorne felt it growing closer with every step, a suffocating reminder of the power that loomed nearby.
His steps faltered as dread curled in his stomach. He clenched his fists, forcing himself to push through it. He had to find Eliza.
Minutes stretched into an agonizing eternity as he moved through the winding halls, urgency driving him forward. A flicker of relief sparked in his chest as his Veil Sense pinpointed Eliza’s location. She was stationary, unmoving. At least for now, she wasn’t running headlong into danger.
He quickened his pace, but not enough to break his cover. Shadows clung to him, his movements silent as a wraith.
Finally, he arrived at a long hallway, its walls lined with imposing suits of armor standing like sentinels. The light of flickering sconces cast jagged shadows across the polished floor. At the center of the hallway was a single door, heavy and ornate, its edges worn from years of use.
Thorne’s pulse quickened. Behind that door were two presences: Lord Ravencourt and Jareth.
His jaw tightened as he cursed under his breath. What was Jareth doing here?
He reached for the door, but paused. The oppressive aura was drawing closer, each pulse of energy sending a shiver down his spine. He scanned the hallway again, trying to make sense of the situation. Where was Eliza?
Activating his Tracking skill, the hallway sprang to life with faint traces: scuff marks from hurried steps, the uneven dragging of a carpet corner, the subtle depressions of heavy boots. His eyes darted to the rug that ran the length of the hallway, noticing a small curling at its edge.
Eliza’s handiwork. Sloppy, but helpful.
He approached the nearest armor set, a towering figure clad in shining steel, its gauntlet resting slightly askew. Something about it caught his attention, the way the metal seemed worn in stark contrast to the pristine shine of the rest.
Cautiously, he activated his Aether Vision, scanning the area for any signs of magic. The gauntlet revealed no trace of aether, no hidden enchantments.
He hesitated, his fingers hovering over the cold metal. Every instinct screamed at him to be wary, to tread carefully. With a steadying breath, he reached out and pushed.
The gauntlet moved soundlessly, and with a soft click, a section of the wall behind the armor shifted, revealing a narrow opening.
Thorne stepped back, his heart pounding as the concealed entrance slid open. The dark void beyond was uninviting, oppressive.
He hesitated for only a moment before slipping inside. The wall closed behind him with a muted thud, and he was swallowed by darkness.
The narrow space was suffocating, the air thick and stale. His glowing eyes adjusted quickly, casting faint light over the rough stone walls and the steep staircase that ascended into the unknown.
Thorne rushed forward, urgency overriding caution. He climbed the steep staircase two steps at a time, his breaths coming quick and sharp. The oppressive darkness seemed to close in around him, the narrow walls amplifying the sound of his footfalls.
As he neared the landing, a sharp hiss cut through the air, a knife. His instincts took over, honed from years of training and the reflexive edge granted by his Combat Reflexes skill. He ducked, the blade sailing over his head and embedding itself with a dull thud into the wall behind him.
“Eliza!” he hissed, his voice low and sharp, his heart pounding.
There was a tense silence before her voice came, hesitant and slightly breathless. “Thorne? What are you doing here?”
He growled, stepping cautiously into the room, his senses still on high alert. “I could ask you the same!”
The space was suffocatingly small, forcing him to stoop to avoid the low ceiling. Shafts of dim light pierced the gloom from small peepholes in the walls, casting jagged patterns on the floor.
Eliza crouched on the far side of the room, her silhouette barely visible in the dim light. Her dagger was still clutched tightly in her hand, her posture defensive.
Thorne advanced carefully, ensuring she wouldn’t attack again. “Where did you find this place?” he asked, his voice tinged with curiosity despite the situation.
Eliza gestured toward the peepholes without looking at him. “We’ve been scoping out this estate ever since your girlfriend brought you that invitation,” she said matter-of-factly.
Thorne’s eyes followed her gesture, landing on the scene below. The peepholes overlooked Lord Ravencourt’s private meeting room, a lavish space lined with bookshelves, crystal pedestals housing curiosities, and a large table surrounded by plush armchairs. At the center of the table was laid out a large map, with expensive looking bottles surrounding it. The room exuded comfort and power, a place for the lord to relax and plan his moves.
Seated on one of the sofas was Lord Ravencourt himself, his posture restless as he tapped his foot anxiously.
“To what purpose?” Thorne asked, though he already suspected the answer.
Eliza didn’t look at him, her tone dispassionate, professional. “He’s our target,” she said simply. “We have to take him out.”
Thorne’s chest tightened as he processed her words. Selene’s face flashed in his mind, but his thoughts quickly turned to the broader implications. He knew Uncle had orchestrated this, had ordered Ravencourt’s elimination to pave the way for Lord Thornfield.
But Thorne couldn’t shake his reservations. It wasn’t just Selene; it was the chaos this would bring. Lord Ravencourt was predictable, his reluctance to escalate the feud offering a fragile stability. If he was gone, his hotheaded son would take his place, a man whose reckless ambition had already caused bloodshed among the nobility of Alvar. The spectacle he had provided when he had challenged the young Thornfield was still being whispered among the nobles.
“Stop it!” Thorne’s voice was sharp and low, but the urgency in it cracked through the oppressive air like a whip.
Eliza’s head snapped up, her frown deepening. “What’s your problem?” she hissed, irritation lacing her tone. “I can’t just stop, Thorne. You know that. I don’t have the luxury of defying Uncle like you do!”
Thorne shook his head violently, his chest rising and falling as his breaths quickened. Every second felt like sand slipping through his fingers. The looming dread twisted in his gut, a suffocating weight pressing down on him.
“You don’t understand!” he hissed, his voice trembling with desperation. “We have to leave. Now. Get Jareth out of here, out of the estate, right now!”
Eliza’s frown turned into a glare, confusion and frustration written on her face. “What are you even talking about? What’s going...”
Her words cut off as the air seemed to shift around them, a suffocating pressure settling like a storm cloud.
From below, the faintest sound reached them, a creak, like the slow opening of an ancient door.
Thorne froze, every muscle locking in place. His heart thudded painfully in his chest as a wave of oppressive power surged through the air.
No, no, no…
Eliza noticed his change instantly. “What is it?” she demanded, her voice sharp.
But Thorne couldn’t answer. His attention was fixed entirely on the presence below, a force so overwhelming it was like standing at the edge of a raging abyss. His Veil Sense screamed at him, the oppressive aura cutting through the room like a blade.
The man was here.
Thorne’s breath came in short, shallow gasps as the air itself seemed to thrum with energy. His mind raced, panic clawing at the edges of his control.
The footsteps below were slow, deliberate, each one echoing ominously in the oppressive silence.
“It’s him,” Thorne whispered, his voice barely audible.
Eliza’s eyes widened as the full weight of Thorne’s panic sank in. “Who?” she asked, her voice trembling.
But before he could answer, the man stepped fully into the room below. His presence was like a black hole, drawing all attention, all energy, to him.
Thorne’s breath hitched.
It was too late.
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