“No.”

  Thorne said, his voice low, tight, barely containing the fury threatening to boil over.

  Uncle’s smirk didn’t waver. He closed his ledger with a soft snap and set it on the small table beside him, leaning back in his chair as if he had just made a perfectly reasonable request. “You heard me, boy. I want you to make an impression on young Lady Ravencourt. A lasting one.”

  Thorne’s fists clenched at his sides, his knuckles turning white. “You’re asking me to... to ruin her reputation? To manipulate her into sleeping with me?”

  Uncle raised an eyebrow, his expression as calm and condescending as ever. “Manipulation is the currency of power, Thorne. Surely you’ve learned that by now. Or do you think the Ravencourts would hesitate to do the same to us if the opportunity presented itself?”

  Thorne’s jaw tightened, his fury simmering dangerously close to the surface. “She’s done nothing to deserve that,” he bit out.

  “And that makes her the perfect target,” Uncle said smoothly. “Her reputation is pristine, her family well-regarded. If we’re ever forced to leverage our position, the fallout from such a scandal could be... beneficial.”

  “You’re disgusting,” Thorne spat, his voice trembling with barely restrained rage.

  Uncle finally met his eyes, his expression darkening. “Watch your tone.”

  Thorne didn’t flinch. For the first time in his life, he didn’t feel fear under Uncle’s gaze—only a searing, blinding anger. “I won’t do it,” he said, his voice steady now, firm.

  Uncle’s eyes narrowed. “You forget your place, boy.”

  “No,” Thorne said, taking a step closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “I’m finally finding it.”

  The air between them crackled with tension, the room heavy with unspoken words. Uncle leaned forward in his chair, his smirk returning, though there was a sharpness to it now, a predatory gleam in his eyes.

  “Don’t pretend you will ignore my command,” he said, his voice soft but laced with steel. “You always go through with them in the end.”

  Thorne took a slow, deliberate breath, forcing himself to stay calm. The aether stirred around him, a subtle hum in the back of his mind, tempting him to lash out, to show this man just how much he had grown.

  But no. Not yet.

  “I’ll do what I must for the family,” Thorne said finally, his voice cold and detached. “But I won’t be your pawn anymore.”

  Uncle’s smirk faltered for the briefest moment, replaced by a flicker of something Thorne couldn’t quite place, anger? Fear? Amusement?

  “I’ll see you after the party,” Thorne said curtly, turning on his heel and striding toward the door.

  “Be careful, boy,” Uncle called after him, his voice dripping with venom. “Arrogance is a dangerous game to play.”

  Thorne didn’t respond. As he stepped into the hallway, the tension in his chest began to loosen, replaced by a cold determination.

  He would go to the party. He would play the game.

  But he would do it on his own terms.

  Thorne walked through the chaos, trying to rein in the aether. The chaos of his emotions caused the wild aether around him to grow agitated, its currents spiraling erratically. His eyes flickered in intensity along with the storm raging inside him. The faint bluish-white glow of his irises cast faint halos of light onto the dim walls around him.

  A couple of servants happened to cross his path, their arms laden with linens, but they stopped abruptly. Their gazes locked onto his glowing eyes and the murderous expression he wore, and fear rooted them in place for an instant before they dropped everything and fled in terror.

  He barely noticed them. His strides remained steady, purposeful, his breaths deep and controlled as he pushed forward. The biting wind of the courtyard hit him as soon as he stepped outside, cutting through his turbulent thoughts. For a moment, the cold air brought him back, his emotions dulled by the sharpness of the night.

  Then he heard them. Soft footfalls, blending unnaturally well with the night’s stillness. Thorne stopped, his instincts sharpening as he turned. He forced his expression to neutralize, though his eyes still glowed faintly as he faced the source of the noise.

  Trailing behind him were Eliza and Jareth, their figures outlined against the dim lantern light of the courtyard. Eliza’s eyes rounded as they met his glowing gaze, and she clasped her hands to her mouth in exaggerated delight.

  “Well, that is actually cool!” she exclaimed, her voice loud enough to echo slightly. “What skill did that to your eyes? Can I get that too?”

  Her wistful and excited expression was so at odds with her attire that it made Thorne roll his eyes. She was dressed in her usual professional attire, a sleek set of black leather armor, knives strapped across her hips and torso, with small crossbows barely visible beneath her sleeves. And yet here she was, acting as if he’d shown her a rare piece of jewelry.

  “Trust me,” Thorne muttered, turning back around and resuming his walk as if nothing had happened. “Glowing eyes are overrated.”

  Eliza chuckled, clearly undeterred. “Fancy another trip to Valewind, Jareth?” Thorne asked, his tone almost hopeful. “I could use a change in scenery.”

  Jareth, who had shown no discernible reaction to Thorne’s eyes, responded in his usual soft, unhurried tone. “I much prefer Alvar. It’s… predictable.”

  Thorne scoffed, nodding toward the gate as he approached. Dalen, stationed there as usual, gave him a curt nod. “Young master,” Dalen muttered under his breath, opening the gate with practiced ease.

  Thorne stepped into the waiting carriage, straightening his shirt sleeves as he climbed in. Eliza and Jareth followed soon after, settling into their seats as the carriage lurched into motion.

  “Playing bodyguards again?” Thorne asked as he leaned back in his seat, his voice tinged with sarcasm. “Don’t worry. Nothing interesting will happen tonight.”

  Eliza scoffed. “With you, no one can know for sure,” she retorted. A moment of silence passed before she suddenly leaned forward, her fingers tugging at Thorne’s eyelids. “Open them! I want to see them!”

  Groaning, Thorne swatted her hands away. “Leave me alone.”

  “Fine, young master!” she mocked, settling back into her seat with an exaggerated pout.

  Thorne ignored Eliza’s incessant questions, her playful tone doing little to soothe the roiling chaos inside him. His hands rested on his lap, clenched just tight enough that his nails bit into his palms. Every time she leaned forward with another quip or inquiry, he’d shift slightly, refusing to meet her gaze. It was an effort to stay calm, to keep his emotions and the aether under control.

  Jareth, on the other hand, sat motionless, his arms crossed and his hood drawn low over his face. He seemed content to let Eliza do the talking, though his occasional glances toward Thorne were heavy with meaning. Jareth had always been the quiet observer, but Thorne had learned long ago that his silence was far from complacent.

  Eliza finally huffed and leaned back in her seat, pouting slightly. “You’re no fun tonight. What’s gotten under your skin?” she teased, though there was a faint edge to her words, her usual antics masking a sharp curiosity.

  Thorne raised an eyebrow but didn’t reply. His gaze drifted to the window, the dark streets of Alvar blurring past as the carriage rattled along the uneven cobblestones.

  The carriage jolted slightly as it hit a pothole, shaking him from his thoughts. He could feel Eliza watching him again, her sharp eyes undoubtedly noting every flicker of tension in his frame.

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  “Careful,” she said after a moment, her tone unusually serious. “If you keep brooding like that, you’ll end up scaring everyone at the party.”

  Thorne let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, a quiet chuckle escaping him despite himself. “You think I’m going to scare them?” he asked, his voice dry. “You’re the one armed to the teeth.”

  “Fair point,” Eliza replied with a grin, tapping one of the knives strapped to her side. “But at least I’m charming about it.”

  The carriage began to slow, the clatter of hooves and wheels fading as it pulled to a stop in front of the grand Ravencourt estate. The gates loomed ahead, intricate ironwork gilded in silver and gold, glinting faintly under the light of the moon. Beyond them, the sprawling mansion was alight with activity, the sounds of music and conversation spilling into the cool night air.

  Thorne adjusted his sleeves once more as Eliza straightened her posture, her playful demeanor shifting into something more composed. Jareth remained still, his gaze fixed on the gates as if analyzing every detail.

  As soon as the carriage approached the Ravencourt estate, Jareth leaned forward, peering through the small window with a sharp gaze. “The security is heavy,” he noted, his voice low and even.

  Thorne followed his line of sight and frowned. At the grand iron gates, a veritable small army of guards stood, armed to the teeth. Their rigid stances and sharp eyes scanned every incoming carriage, creating a slow-moving line of inspections. Each guard carried an assortment of weapons, and more troublingly, several bore glowing crystals, each shining with faint magical energy.

  As their turn came, the carriage rolled to a halt, and two guards strode forward, one gripping the hilt of his sword while the other held one of the shining crystals aloft. Both men radiated authority, their every movement precise and practiced. Thorne’s Veil Sense tingled, feeding him their details: one was level 32, the other level 34. Well-trained, formidable.

  The crystal flared as it passed the edge of the carriage, illuminating the interior.

  Thorne stiffened as both Eliza and Jareth lit up like a beacon under the crystal’s influence. The blades hidden beneath their cloaks gleamed ominously, betraying their presence. Even his own daggers, stowed discreetly in his boots, shone faintly through the leather.

  Curiously, the short sword he’d taken from Rafe remained inert at his back, offering no reaction at all. That detail gnawed at him, how could it not be enchanted?

  The guards jolted in alarm at the sudden flare of light and immediately called for reinforcements. Four more men surged to the carriage doors, their swords drawn and ready.

  The tension inside the carriage rose palpably as both Lost Ones moved as if triggered by instinct. Eliza sprang to her feet, a dagger materializing in each hand as her palm twitched, ready to release a concealed crossbow bolt. Jareth followed suit, his movement fluid and deliberate, his weapons already gleaming wickedly in the dim light.

  The air thickened with danger, and Thorne knew disaster was one wrong word away.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Thorne demanded, his voice sharp and indignant. He reached deep for his Sculpted Persona skill, letting it envelop him like a second skin. The unsettling sensation of becoming someone else sent a shiver through him, but he embraced it. He needed to defuse this situation before it spiraled out of control.

  His words, laden with feigned outrage, cut through the tension like a whip. “Is this how the Ravencourts treat their guests? I was under the impression they were a noble house.”

  The guards hesitated, their eyes darting between each other and the passengers inside. Thorne rose slowly, deliberately, drawing all attention to himself. “At least that is what this invitation indicated!” His voice swelled as he tossed the parchment into the carriage doorway, letting it flutter to the feet of the lead guard. “To be treated like common criminals! What a disgrace!”

  He crossed one leg over the other and leaned back with an exaggerated sigh, shaking his head with theatrical disappointment. “Where I come from, such an insult would mean immediate social death. The scandal this behavior would cause…” He let the thought trail with a dismissive wave of his hand.

  The guards exchanged uncertain glances, their grips on their weapons loosening. The lead guard bent to pick up the invitation, his eyes skimming the lines quickly. He cleared his throat, his tone careful. “Who are you, my Lord?”

  Thorne snapped his attention to the guard, his glowing eyes piercing through the dim night like twin blades. The effect was immediate, every guard within sight stiffened, their gazes locking on him in uneasy fascination.

  Thorne’s lips curled into a disdainful sneer. “Such incompetence,” he muttered, loud enough for them to hear. “I am Lord Thorne Silverbane,” he declared, his tone imperious. “A personal guest of Lord Edric Ravencourt. And you… are wasting my time.”

  The lead guard’s face twitched, his composure faltering as he took a small step back. His eyes flicked nervously between Thorne and the glowing invitation in his hand. “I apologize, my Lord, but… these individuals with you,” he gestured to Eliza and Jareth, his voice struggling for authority, “why are they carrying half an armory?”

  Thorne frowned, his disgusted expression sharp and cutting. “Are you daft, or simply incompetent at your job?” he retorted icily. “There is a war in this godforsaken city. You expect me to walk unprotected through streets riddled with danger? What if Lord Thornfield’s men retaliated simply because I had the audacity to attend this party?”

  His voice grew louder, the outrage carefully exaggerated as he activated Echoes of Truth, lending weight to his words. “A party I am going to be late for, if you continue with these pointless questions!”

  The guards shifted uneasily, their stances faltering under the pressure of Thorne’s righteous indignation. Another guard stepped forward and whispered something urgently into the lead’s ear, his voice barely audible, but Thorne caught every word.

  “I know who he is. He’s the mistress’s personal guest.”

  The lead guard stiffened, his eyes widening slightly before he schooled his features. Thorne raised an eyebrow, noting the subtle signs of a social skill at work, a polished mask hiding what lay beneath. The man straightened, pasting a strained smile on his face as he gestured to the other guards to step aside.

  “You may enter, my Lord,” he said smoothly. “Enjoy the party.”

  The carriage doors shut with a quiet finality, and Thorne allowed himself a small smirk as he leaned back into his seat. The tension ebbed slightly, though he couldn’t ignore the sounds of retreating footsteps. More than a dozen guards had surrounded the carriage during the brief exchange.

  Eliza plopped back into her seat, letting out a low whistle. “Well, that was fun,” she said, her grin equal parts amusement and approval.

  Thorne glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, his smirk deepening. “The Ravencourts certainly aren’t playing with their security.”

  “Neither are we,” Jareth said quietly, his gaze steady.

  As the carriage rolled forward into the estate’s grand courtyard, Thorne’s smirk remained, though his mind was already turning.

  The carriage door swung open, and a footman stood waiting, his expression carefully neutral. “Welcome to Ravencourt Manor,” he said with a practiced bow.

  Thorne stepped out first, his eyes scanning the crowd gathering at the entrance. Nobles in elaborate attire mingled, their laughter and chatter a stark contrast to the weight he felt pressing down on his chest. He glanced back at Jareth and Eliza as they exited behind him, their dark clothing and lethal grace standing out amidst the opulence.

  “Remember,” Thorne murmured, his voice low enough for only them to hear. “We’re here to observe. Nothing more.”

  Eliza smirked. “Speak for yourself. I’m here for the wine.”

  Jareth didn’t respond, his gaze already sweeping the area with meticulous precision.

  Thorne took a deep breath, steeling himself as he approached the grand doors. The aether stirred faintly around him, a quiet hum of energy that both comforted and unnerved him.

  Thorne stepped into the grand estate, and the sheer opulence of the Ravencourt gathering hit him like a wave. The marble floors gleamed under the light of grand chandeliers, and towering columns framed the room, each etched with intricate carvings that told the story of the family’s ancient lineage. Tables laden with crystal goblets and exotic delicacies lined the walls, while a string quartet played a soft, elegant tune that drifted above the murmur of conversation.

  Everyone was there. The Ravencourts themselves stood near the far end, a beacon of refinement and poise. The Farroways, with their trademark ruby jewelry and loud, animated gestures, commanded a corner of the room. The Lockridges moved with sharp discipline, their severe dark attire contrasting with the vibrant scene. Even the Moreaus had made an appearance, an unusual sight for a family more renowned for their scholarly pursuits than their interest in high society.

  Thorne’s sharp gaze swept the room until it landed on the young Moreau, his piercing eyes and thin frame unmistakable. The last time they had met, the young scholar had bombarded Thorne with uncomfortable questions about the aether, questions that still lingered in his mind like an unsolved puzzle. The man was a curious one, no doubt taking this rare outing as an opportunity to gather more secrets and observations. Thorne marked his position and let his gaze move on.

  It was the first time Thorne had seen the nobles of Alvar in such extravagant finery. Even young Lord Lockridge’s birthday celebration, as grand as it had been, paled in comparison to this. The women wore flowing gowns adorned with jewels and embroidery so fine it caught the light in dazzling displays. The men, dressed in suits of pristine tailoring, exuded a confidence that bordered on arrogance. The wealth and power on display here could make even the haughtiest Valewind nobles green with envy.

  His arrival didn’t go unnoticed.

  A young lady from a minor house, her name just beyond Thorne’s grasp, spotted him first. Her eyes widened, and her hand flew to her mouth as she whispered to her companion. The murmurs spread like wildfire. Heads turned, their gazes drawn to him and to his eyes, glowing faintly in the low light of the ballroom.

  Thorne didn’t flinch under their scrutiny. He kept his head high, his mask of composure unbroken. He let the whispers wash over him, his expression remaining cool, indifferent. Inside, however, he bristled at the attention.

  He wasn’t here for them.

  He was here for her.

  His gaze found her easily, as if the room had been designed to lead him straight to her. Selene.

  She stood near the edge of the room, her soft laugh reaching him even above the din of the gathering. She wore a gown unlike anything he’d ever seen before, a pale pink that deepened to crimson near the hem, its layers fanning out like the petals of a blooming flower. It moved with her as she shifted, catching the light in an ethereal display. She looked like a dream, impossibly radiant and untouchable.

  Thorne’s eyes flared involuntarily, their glow intensifying as he took her in.

  And then she turned, her movements fluid, graceful. Her smile, small and private, bloomed as her eyes met his across the room.

  For a moment, the world stilled. The whispers, the music, the lights, all of it faded into the background. Her gaze held his, her smile warm and genuine, as if she had been waiting for him all along.

  The fire in Thorne’s eyes dimmed, the intensity giving way to something softer, something almost human.

  She looked like a dream. And for a fleeting moment, Thorne allowed himself to believe in it.

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