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CHAPTER 162

  The door swung open with an eerie creak, and the man strode in as though the room were his stage. His gait was unhurried, almost lazy, his hands tucked into the deep pockets of his sleek coat. He moved with the kind of confidence that wasn’t taught but inherent, born from the absolute knowledge that no one in the room could challenge him.

  The oppressive energy that preceded him settled heavily into the room, turning the air cold and stifling. It pressed against every surface, every breath, until it felt like the very walls might buckle under the weight of his presence.

  Thorne leaned closer to the peephole, unable to tear his gaze away. His heart pounded in his chest, a drumbeat of instinctive dread. The man was deceptively ordinary in appearance, blond hair cropped short, sharp features, and a wiry build that gave no immediate hint of the raw power radiating from him. But there was something about his eyes. They gleamed with a predatory light, dark and bottomless, as if they saw far more than what was in front of them.

  He strolled past the ornate furnishings with a careless air, his gaze flicking over the opulent surroundings as if assessing their worth and finding them lacking. His boots made no sound on the polished floor, yet every step seemed to reverberate in the silence.

  When he reached the middle of the room, he stopped, his head tilting slightly as he studied the armchair nearest to him. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. Without a word, he plopped down into the chair with a sharp exhale, lounging in it as if he owned the estate and everything in it.

  Lord Ravencourt, who had been standing stiffly by the table, practically jumped at the sound. The glass in his hand trembled as he set it down with fumbling fingers, spilling amber liquid across the polished surface. His mouth opened, and his voice came out thin and brittle.

  “My lord, welcome...”

  The man’s chuckle cut him off, sharp and disarming. It wasn’t a laugh of amusement but something closer to disdain. He leaned back further in the chair, throwing one leg over the other and folding his hands loosely in his lap.

  The man said nothing at first, merely raising an eyebrow as if amused by the noble’s obvious fear. He tilted his head slightly, studying Ravencourt as though deciding what to do with him.

  “I’m no lord,” he finally said, his voice smooth and mocking, the barest hint of an accent that Thorne couldn’t place. “But I suppose you’re too polite to call me what I really am.”

  Ravencourt flinched at the words, his composure crumbling further. “I... I didn’t mean...”

  “Relax,” the man interrupted, waving a hand lazily as though swatting away the noble’s stammering. “You’re making this awkward.”

  He turned his head slightly, his gaze sweeping the room as if searching for invisible threats or perhaps amusement. Thorne felt the intensity of that gaze even from his hidden perch, and he instinctively held his breath.

  A jolt of fear shot through him as his Veil Sense pinpointed Jareth’s presence, hidden behind a tapestry on the far side of the room. The faint ripple of aether surrounding him suggested he was using some kind of stealth skill, one that cloaked him in an almost impenetrable shroud of energy, blending him seamlessly into the background.

  But Thorne’s dread deepened. The mysterious man was no ordinary opponent. A man of his level, radiating such overwhelming power, would likely find such defenses laughable.

  Thorne’s palms grew clammy as he focused on the interplay of aether in the room, his attention flicking between Jareth’s concealed position and the man’s piercing gaze. As the man’s eyes swept past the tapestry, Thorne’s breath caught.

  The gaze didn’t linger.

  No pause.

  No sign of recognition.

  Relief flooded Thorne, but it was short-lived. Was the man truly oblivious to Jareth’s presence, or was he simply playing a cruel, calculated game? Thorne’s instincts screamed the latter, though the man gave no indication of anything other than casual disinterest as he leaned back in the armchair.

  Lord Ravencourt stood frozen in place, the usual self-assured noble now reduced to a quivering shadow of himself. “... I have what you asked for,” he finally managed, reaching into his coat. His movements were shaky, almost desperate, as if he feared the consequences of even the smallest misstep.

  From their vantage point, Thorne could see the tension in every line of Ravencourt’s body. The proud lord who had moments ago been holding court with such ease now looked as if he might crumble under the weight of the man’s gaze.

  Thorne couldn’t look away, his mind racing. What was Ravencourt handing over? Information? Resources? A bribe? The tension in the room was rising with every breath.

  Eliza shifted beside him, her movements deliberate and quiet. Thorne glanced at her, and she mouthed a single word: Go.

  He shook his head minutely. Leaving now would draw attention, and the man’s aura suggested that he would sense the faintest misstep. They had to wait, had to watch but with every passing second, Thorne’s unease grew.

  The man watched the shaking lord, his expression one of idle curiosity, but there was a dangerous edge to his stillness.

  “Good,” he said after a long moment. “Let’s not waste time, then.”

  Ravencourt withdrew a slim envelope from his coat and placed it on the table with trembling hands, his head bowed as if presenting an offering to a god.

  The man leaned forward, his movements precise and deliberate, and plucked the envelope from the table. He broke the seal with a casual flick of his fingers, unfolding the paper inside and scanning it with the same languid air.

  For a moment, there was nothing but the rustle of paper and the sound of Ravencourt’s uneven breathing.

  Then the man folded the paper neatly and placed it back into the envelope, setting it on the table with a soft tap that sounded deafening in the silence.

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  The mysterious man said, “Are you sure about the contents?” He gestured toward the envelope before him, his tone light but laced with something unsettling.

  “I... I...” Lord Ravencourt hesitated for a moment, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air. Then, as though steeling himself against unseen forces, he nodded. “My informant was very well-informed,” he said with a confidence that rang hollow, even as his hands trembled slightly.

  From his perch, Thorne noticed the faint quiver in the lord’s voice, the way his fingers curled inward as though trying to suppress their shaking. Beside him, Eliza cast Thorne a glance, her frown mirroring his own confusion. What was going on? What did this man want with Alvar?

  “And are you sure you can trust him?” the mysterious man inquired, tilting his head as if genuinely curious.

  Ravencourt shifted uneasily, his mouth tightening. “Trust him? No... but I believe that what he shared was true.”

  “Is that so?” The man’s tone was impossible to read, balanced precariously between genuine inquiry and mocking amusement.

  Lord Ravencourt nodded again, this time more vigorously, like a man trying to convince himself. “I believe in his motive,” he said, his voice firmer now.

  The man raised a brow, his faint smirk returning. “Which is?”

  “Revenge,” Ravencourt replied, a small smirk of his own curling his lips as if he found strength in the word.

  The man chuckled softly, his amusement brief and cutting. “Such petty motivations,” he scoffed, as if the concept were beneath him. He leaned back in his chair. “Good enough,” he murmured.

  A lull settled over the conversation, the oppressive silence pressing down like a physical weight. Ravencourt shifted again, his discomfort palpable. Then, as though desperate to fill the void, he blurted, “Where are my manners? Would you like something to drink?”

  The man shrugged, his indifference evident. “Sure.”

  Ravencourt practically leaped, hurrying to the large table at the center of the room. The clink of delicate glasses echoed through the room as his hands fumbled with the bottles. “My lo...” Ravencourt caught himself, coughing uncomfortably before continuing. “So... you will proceed as planned?” His voice trembled slightly, the earlier veneer of confidence slipping away.

  The man studied his fingernails, his expression bored. “Yes.”

  Ravencourt froze, the word hitting him like a blow. “Is it really necessary?” he asked, his tone uncertain. His hands paused mid-pour as though the answer might change his course.

  “Yes,” the man repeated, with the same air of finality as before.

  Ravencourt exhaled sharply, his shoulders sagging. He finished pouring the drink and brought it to the man, careful not to meet his gaze as he placed it on the table. Then, he sat opposite him, his hands wringing together.

  “I’m not sure I agree with the plan,” Ravencourt began hesitantly. “Such senseless violence... Alvar has been in constant turmoil over the past few years. That’s true, but... I find such actions... deplorable.”

  The mysterious man’s lips curved into a faint, humorless smile as he cradled the delicate glass. He swirled its contents lazily, watching the liquid catch the faint light. “Deplorable, you say?” he murmured, his tone detached yet laced with a dangerous edge.

  Ravencourt flinched, his fidgeting hands betraying his nerves. “Y-Yes,” he stammered. “I understand that... measures must be taken. But Alvar is already on the brink. The people are restless, the merchants are tightening their belts, and the feud... we are pushed to the edge of a knife. Another disruption...”

  “Would be inconvenient,” the man interrupted, his voice sharp enough to cut steel. His eyes, cold and unyielding, locked onto Ravencourt’s trembling form. “But necessary.”

  Thorne’s heart thudded in his chest as he strained to piece together their cryptic conversation. Senseless violence? What plan? And why did Ravencourt, for all his posturing and power, look like a cornered animal before this man?

  Eliza shifted beside him, her expression as grim as his own. She glanced at Thorne, her unspoken question clear: Do we act? But Thorne gave the slightest shake of his head. Not yet.

  Ravencourt swallowed audibly, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Necessary,” he repeated weakly. “Perhaps. But... Alvar’s stability is fragile. If it were to crumble entirely...”

  The man set his glass down with deliberate care, the faint clink reverberating in the room like a death knell. “Do I look like I care about Alvar’s stability, Lord Ravencourt?” His voice was deceptively soft, but it carried the weight of a hammer.

  Ravencourt visibly recoiled, his composure fraying. “No, of course not,” he said quickly, bowing his head slightly. “But... we must consider the broader consequences. Surely, you can achieve your goals without...”

  “Without what?” The man’s question hung in the air, ice-cold and merciless. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his sharp gaze pinning Ravencourt in place. “Without blood? Without sacrifice? Don’t insult me by pretending to care about consequences when you have already agreed to my intervention.”

  Thorne’s mind raced as he listened, his unease deepening. Intervention? This man wasn’t just an outsider meddling in Alvar’s affairs, he was someone Ravencourt made an alliance with.

  Ravencourt’s hands clenched into fists on the table. “I agreed to help you, yes. But the scope of what you propose...”

  “Is what’s required,” the man finished coldly. He sat back, the smirk returning to his lips as though he found Ravencourt’s protestations amusing. “You knew what we were planning when you agreed. Don’t grow a conscience now.”

  Ravencourt’s shoulders sagged, the fight draining out of him. He looked down at his hands, his face a mixture of defeat and self-loathing. “I just...”

  “Enough,” the man said, cutting him off. He reached for the envelope and tapped it against the arm of the chair. “You’ve made your choice, Lord Ravencourt. Regrets won’t undo it.”

  Ravencourt flinched at the finality in the man’s voice. His trembling hands curled into fists atop his knees as the man’s gaze bored into him with a casual intensity, the kind that made lesser men crumble.

  “You are simply a useful ally,” the man continued, his voice taking on a clipped, businesslike tone, “but we don’t need you. And don’t you forget that.”

  Thorne froze, every muscle in his body locking into place. The dread that had coiled in his chest since sensing the man’s aura solidified into something sharper, colder, like ice driving into his ribs.

  Eliza, beside him, blanched. Her wide eyes darted between Thorne and the man below as if she had only now realized the enormity of their situation.

  The man leaned forward slightly, a smirk curling his lips as he swirled the empty glass in his hand. “Your house is to benefit greatly from our deal, especially now that Uncle”, he scoffed the word, as though it were a bad joke, “has directed his attention to you.”

  Thorne’s breath hitched. It wasn’t the use of the word that rattled him, it was the way the man said it, with an ease that implied understanding, familiarity, and, most disturbingly, intent.

  The man continued, oblivious to or perhaps reveling in the storm he had unleashed. “Well, you will benefit, assuming you manage to survive.” His smirk widened as Ravencourt paled, the color draining from his face until he resembled parchment.

  The man laughed softly, his amusement filling the room like a tangible force. With a wave of his free hand, he dismissed Ravencourt’s visible panic, lifting the glass in his other hand with a flourish.

  “I... I will follow through,” Ravencourt stammered, his voice weak, defeated.

  The man nodded, looking pleased as though he had just won a particularly dull game. Ravencourt’s trembling hands found the glass of amber liquid he had poured earlier, lifting it to his lips in a futile search for courage.

  “Ah,” the man said, his tone suddenly playful, almost teasing. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

  Ravencourt froze, the rim of the glass barely brushing his lips. His brows furrowed as he glanced at the man, confusion flickering across his face.

  The man raised his hand still holding his glass, and with an air of careless nonchalance, tipped it upside down. The amber liquid spilled onto the plush carpet below, spreading in a dark stain.

  Ravencourt’s frown deepened, his eyes darting to the spilled drink and then back to the man.

  The man chuckled, a low, chilling sound that seemed to sap all warmth from the room. “You see, my dear lord,” he said, his voice light but carrying an unmistakable edge, “some Lost Ones appear to have lost their way and wandered into your home.”

  Thorne’s heart plummeted.

  He knew.

  He knew.

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