Their eyes remained locked across the grand room, but Thorne’s focus was shattered as an older noble approached him, cutting through the gathering crowd with an outstretched hand and an overly polished grin.

  “Lord Silverbane! A pleasure, a true pleasure,” the man effused, his enthusiasm almost cloying. His golden-embroidered waistcoat gleamed under the chandelier light, and the jewels on his fingers caught the same glimmer as his watchful eyes. “We crossed paths at the Lockridge estate last time, didn’t we? Surely, you remember.”

  Thorne blinked, his expression a mask of polite neutrality, though his thoughts churned. Did they? He could scarcely recall the man, but the genuine eagerness in his demeanor was striking.

  “Yes, of course,” Thorne said smoothly, his tone giving nothing away. The man’s grin widened, clearly taking the vague acknowledgment as affirmation.

  No sooner had he nodded than another noble, a younger man with slicked-back hair and an air of forced nonchalance inserted himself into the conversation. “Lord Silverbane,” he began, his voice laced with intrigue, “I’ve heard fascinating rumors about your ventures. Tell me, is it true that where you hail from, the ambient aether is far denser? It would explain some of the... peculiar phenomena surrounding you.”

  Thorne’s jaw tightened imperceptibly. “Peculiar phenomena?” he echoed, arching a brow in mock curiosity.

  “Oh, no offense meant, my lord,” the younger man said quickly, offering a nervous laugh. “Simply that your, ah, talents seem unparalleled. One hears things, you know. Tales of battles fought, impossible odds overcome... and, of course, those remarkable eyes.” His gaze flickered to Thorne’s glowing irises.

  Thorne gave a thin smile. “Tales have a way of exaggerating reality,” he said coolly, though the words rang hollow even to him.

  The knot of nobles continued to grow, their presence hemming him in like a pack of wolves scenting fresh prey. Questions were hurled at him, each one more probing than the last.

  “Lord Silverbane, do you believe Alvar could harness its aether more efficiently with your expertise?”

  “Is it true you’ve studied under a Valewind mage?”

  “I heard you single-handedly defeated a beast of pure aether! What was it like?”

  “Tell me, my lord, do you think such phenomena are natural or a sign of instability in the aetheric flow?”

  Thorne forced himself to remain calm, offering curt replies that revealed nothing. Out of the corner of his eye, he searched for Eliza and Jareth. They had entered together, but now they were nowhere to be seen.

  Where had the Lost Ones gone? Had they melted into the shadows, as was their way, or did Uncle have other plans for them, plans Thorne was now excluded from since he was no longer part of the guild?

  He stretched his Veil Sense outward, searching for their presence, but the dense hum of overlapping energy signatures in the crowded estate blurred his efforts. He caught faint echoes of them deeper in the room but had no time to focus as another noble stepped forward, clasping his hand as though they were old friends.

  “You must tell us, Lord Silverbane,” the man said, his breath tinged with wine, “how does one gain such a commanding aura? Truly, you must have studied under a master tactician. Your every move speaks of discipline and... elegance.”

  Thorne resisted the urge to roll his eyes, offering only a murmured, “Your words flatter me, my lord.”

  Another noblewoman chimed in, her voice high and musical. “And where did you acquire such exquisite attire? The stitching, remarkable! Is it from the Valewind tailors?”

  Thorne bit back a sigh. Just weeks ago, these same nobles had barely acknowledged his existence, treating him as little more than Uncle’s pawn, a curiosity at best. Now they flocked to him like moths to a flame.

  As the nobles’ questions grew sharper, Thorne leaned on one of his most practiced tools, Tactful Deflection. With a calm smile and a measured tone, he offered vague but polite answers, steering the conversation away from himself with the precision of a fencer parrying blows.

  “Ah, but isn’t that a question for the scholars of Alvar?” he replied smoothly to a query about aether density. “I merely follow where circumstances lead.”

  Another noble leaned closer, asking about his rumored battle with an aether beast. Thorne chuckled softly. “Exaggerations, I’m afraid. The beast wasn’t nearly as grand as the tales would have you believe.”

  A faint chime echoed in his mind as a notification appeared at the edge of his vision:

  Skill Level Up: Tactful Deflection!

  The faint hum of satisfaction from the notification did little to ease the growing irritation simmering beneath Thorne’s skin. For now, he forced himself to remain composed, relying on the skill to navigate the relentless barrage.

  The crowd pressed closer, voices blurring into an incessant hum. Thorne scanned their faces, noting the greed and calculation lurking beneath their polished exteriors. These weren’t casual acquaintances or curious peers. These were opportunists, hungry for alliances and desperate to discern his secrets.

  The sea of bodies parted suddenly, silencing the questions as Selene Ravencourt stepped into view.

  Her presence was magnetic, her movements graceful. her pale pink gown shifting to deep red with every step, petals of fabric fanning around her as though she were the heart of a blooming flower. A hush fell over the gathering, the nobles instinctively deferring to her commanding presence.

  “Gentlemen,” she said, her voice warm yet laced with authority, “I must apologize for interrupting. But my father, Lord Ravencourt, wishes to meet Lord Silverbane.”

  The words landed like a decree. The nobles hesitated, their disappointment palpable as they exchanged resigned glances.

  “Of course, my lady,” one murmured, stepping aside with a bow.

  Selene’s eyes met Thorne’s again, her lips curving into a subtle smile. “If you would follow me, my lord?” she said, a faint glimmer of mischief in her gaze.

  Thorne nodded, inclining his head to the nearest noble. “Excuse me,” he said smoothly, stepping away from the suffocating crowd.

  As he followed Selene through the parting throng, the tension in his chest began to ease. He cast a final glance over his shoulder, catching fleeting glimpses of the disappointed nobles, their whispers following him like shadows.

  As they made their way through the grand hall, Thorne could feel the weight of countless eyes following his every step. Murmurs trailed behind him like an invisible shadow, a ripple of curiosity and speculation spreading through the crowd. He leaned slightly toward Selene, his voice low enough to blend with the rustling of fabric and the clinking of goblets.

  “What is going on?” he asked, careful to keep his tone neutral.

  Selene didn’t pause, her graceful stride unbroken. Without looking at him, she replied in the same hushed tone, her words light yet laced with amusement. “You’ve made quite a name for yourself, Lord Silverbane.”

  Thorne arched an eyebrow, though he doubted she saw it.

  “They saw the guards carry you back from the site of the aether manifestation,” she continued, her voice steady but hushed. “And the guards were more than willing to share what they found there. You, unconscious but unharmed. An older gentleman dying. And the earth itself… shattered as if by the hands of a god. Now you stroll into this gathering with glowing eyes. What did you expect?”

  Thorne huffed softly in disbelief. “And that’s all it takes to make me a spectacle?”

  “Hardly,” Selene said, glancing back at him with a sly smile. “You’re something exotic now. No longer the peculiar lord from a distant land but someone powerful. Someone who might be... useful.”

  Thorne chuckled under his breath, though the sound held no humor. “Useful,” he muttered, shaking his head. Of course. Everyone always wanted something. Everyone was scheming, angling for leverage.

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  They had no idea who they were dealing with. Uncle, for all his cruelty, had taught him to see through flattery and manipulation as easily as spotting a poorly played card.

  As they passed through the crowd, Thorne’s gaze swept the room once more, searching for the familiar figures of Eliza or Jareth. But the Lost Ones were nowhere to be seen, their absence gnawing at the edges of his mind like a splinter.

  “Did anyone see the battle up close?” he asked, careful to keep his voice even as he turned his attention back to Selene.

  Selene didn’t stop or falter, though she did glance back at him. Her reply was smooth, though faintly tinged with curiosity. “I’ve heard rumors, as I’m sure you can imagine. What’s true and what’s not, though... that’s harder to tell. They say there were aether attacks, powerful spells, and so much raw energy that even those watching from the city walls could feel it. Some say there was a mage with you, someone powerful enough to turn the tide.”

  “A mage?” Thorne asked, his brow furrowing as he processed her words.

  Selene nodded faintly, her expression thoughtful. “They’re calling it a savior. Someone from the capital, perhaps from Meridia Academy... or even Aetherhold.” She gave a small, dismissive shrug. “But honestly, I think most of it is nonsense. People love a good story.”

  Thorne cataloged the information carefully, his mind weighing the implications. A savior? The rumors were as absurd as they were convenient. He debated his next move, considering how best to shape the narrative surrounding the events. Should he let them believe in this mysterious mage, redirecting the attention away from himself? Or should he claim the credit, cementing his newfound reputation? Remaining vague could also be an option, preserving the mystery and keeping the nobles guessing.

  What was clear, however, was that his involvement in the aether manifestation had thrust him into an unwelcome spotlight. Every noble in Alvar seemed to know his name now, and with that came a dangerous level of scrutiny.

  As his thoughts churned, Selene led him deeper into the hall. Before he knew it, they were standing before a man whose very presence seemed to command the room.

  “Father,” Selene said smoothly, her voice pitched perfectly for the gathering ears around them. “This is Lord Silverbane.”

  Lord Ravencourt turned, his imposing figure draped in an impeccably tailored coat that shimmered faintly under the chandelier light. His eyes, cold and distracted, settled on Thorne for a moment before they fleeted away.

  Thorne’s back straightened instinctively as he met the man’s gaze, his expression calm but alert. He dipped his head slightly in greeting, the beginnings of a measured smile curling at the corner of his lips.

  “Lord Ravencourt,” he said, his voice steady. “It’s an honor.”

  Thorne stood before Lord Ravencourt, the man’s presence looming larger than ever now that the spotlight had shifted fully to him. He could feel the eyes of the room on him, the weight of their collective attention pressing down, as if they were all waiting for something. An answer, a revelation, an act of power to solidify his newfound importance.

  Lord Ravencourt was older, with salt-and-pepper hair and a gaze that seemed to weigh every detail in front of him. He gave Thorne a sharp, appraising look, then a curt nod, his sharp, calculating eyes focusing on him before they snapped back somewhere behind him.

  "Lord Silverbane," Ravencourt said, his voice smooth, polite, and precise, but his eyes were still trained somewhere in the room “It’s an honor to have you here tonight. Selene speaks highly of you. Your name is making the rounds, as you may have noticed.”

  Thorne barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Another noble who saw him only as a potential tool. His mask of calm never wavered, though, even as his mind churned with the implications.

  Selene, always the social one, stood by with a knowing smile, her arms folded as she watched her father evaluate Thorne with a practiced gaze. The small exchange did little to ease the tension building in the room; if anything, the nobles surrounding them seemed even more expectant. They had likely never seen Lord Ravencourt show interest in someone outside his immediate circle.

  “Thank you for the invitation, my lord,” Thorne responded, using his most formal tone. The words felt hollow, but it was necessary for the time being. “I trust the evening will be... enlightening.”

  Ravencourt’s lips quirked into a brief smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Enlightening, indeed. Our city is at the crossroads of change, and Alvar needs individuals like you, strong, influential, and capable to help shape the future.” He paused, his eyes flicking back to Selene before settling on Thorne once again. “There are those who would see you as an ally, and others who may view you as a rival. I trust you’ll make your own path clear.”

  Thorne didn’t speak at first. He was calculating, absorbing the meaning behind Ravencourt’s words. They weren’t merely greetings; they were tests, probing questions wrapped in flattery. But Thorne was no fool, he had been raised on manipulation and subterfuge. He could see through it all. Ravencourt wasn’t just interested in him; he was measuring him. And so were all the other nobles here.

  “Indeed,” Thorne said, after a moment’s pause, “I intend to.” His words were simple, but they carried weight.

  Despite his calm facade, Thorne’s mind raced to decipher the subtext. The man’s every sentence seemed layered, designed to lure him into some undefined alliance or perhaps to test him. And yet, something else gnawed at Thorne’s attention: Ravencourt’s eyes.

  They flitted to the room’s exits, tracing each with the precision of a hawk. The man’s gaze lingered on the guards near the door, then darted toward a servant carrying a tray of drinks, before returning to Thorne. Even as he spoke, Ravencourt’s focus seemed fractured, his peripheral attention elsewhere.

  Was he expecting someone? Or perhaps he feared someone already present?

  “...to help shape the future,” Ravencourt concluded, his voice as smooth as the polished floors of the estate.

  Thorne gave a slow nod, his expression unreadable, as his Mask of Deceit skill worked its magic. He felt its weight as it concealed the turmoil beneath, presenting him as calm, composed, and impenetrable. A faint shimmer of acknowledgment from his Veil Sense told him Ravencourt noticed nothing amiss.

  A notification flashed in his mind.

  Skill Level Up: Mask of Deceit!

  Level 40 ? Level 41.

  He hid his satisfaction behind a faint smirk.

  “And what do you believe my role in shaping that future should be, my lord?” Thorne asked, letting the question dangle just enough to appear intrigued but not overly eager.

  Before Ravencourt could respond, a sharp voice cut through the air.

  “Father!”

  The interruption came from a young man who strode toward them, shoulders squared and chest puffed out with the kind of bravado that turned heads. Alaric Ravencourt was Selene’s older brother, a brash and hot-blooded man whose temper was as famous as his family name.

  Thorne had met him only once, and the encounter had been... memorable.

  Alaric approached with long strides, ignoring Thorne entirely as his piercing green eyes locked on his father. “The Lockridges are demanding your attention,” Alaric said tersely, a hint of irritation in his tone. “Something about tariffs and supplies.”

  Ravencourt’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Tell them I’ll attend to them shortly,” he said coolly, waving a dismissive hand.

  Alaric frowned but didn’t argue. Instead, he turned his gaze to Thorne, his eyes narrowing in scrutiny. “And who’s this?” he asked, his tone dripping with disdain.

  “Alaric, this is Lord Silverbane,” Selene interjected quickly, stepping in before tensions could rise further. “Our guest.”

  “Guest?” Alaric’s brow furrowed. His eyes flickered to Thorne’s glowing irises, and his lip curled in something between a sneer and intrigue. “Interesting eyes for a lord. Tell me, Silverbane, are they a sign of some grand accomplishment, or are you just trying to stand out?”

  Thorne’s expression remained cool, but inwardly he weighed his options. He could trade barbs or deflect the question entirely. He chose the latter, leaning into his Sculpted Persona skill to deliver his response.

  “Some might say they reflect the path I’ve walked,” Thorne replied smoothly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Others might say they’re a distraction for men who can’t see the bigger picture.”

  A sharp notification echoed in his mind.

  Skill Level Up: Sculpted Persona!

  Level 12 ? Level 13.

  Alaric bristled but didn’t respond. Ravencourt gave his son a pointed look, and Alaric stepped back begrudgingly.

  “Forgive my son,” Ravencourt said smoothly. “He has a tendency to let his temper overshadow his manners.”

  “No offense taken,” Thorne replied, though his eyes lingered on Alaric for a moment longer than necessary.

  As the conversation resumed, Ravencourt leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a quieter, more deliberate tone. “You’ll find, Lord Silverbane, that the world favors those who can make allies of their enemies. I trust you’ll keep that in mind as you navigate Alvar’s shifting tides.”

  The statement was veiled but pointed. Thorne couldn’t help but wonder if Ravencourt was aware of his connection to the Thornfields. The possibility made him uneasy. Was this invitation to align with the Ravencourts genuine, or was it a test, a trap to gauge his loyalties?

  “I appreciate the advice,” Thorne said, keeping his tone light and noncommittal. “Though I’ve found the world also favors those who tread carefully.”

  Ravencourt chuckled, a dry sound that held little humor. “Indeed. Careful steps, Lord Silverbane. But not too careful, opportunity rarely waits.”

  As Ravencourt’s eyes flicked toward the room’s farthest exit for the third time in their brief conversation, Thorne’s suspicions deepened. Whatever game Lord Ravencourt was playing, it wasn’t confined to the surface-level power struggles of Alvar’s nobility.

  And Thorne had no intention of being caught off guard.

  Thorne stood frozen in place as Lord Ravencourt abruptly excused himself, the older man’s movements hurried and uncharacteristically careless. No explanation was offered; no parting pleasantries exchanged. The murmurs began almost instantly among the gathered nobles, their whispers a symphony of confusion and speculation.

  Thorne, however, wasn’t paying attention to the crowd.

  His Veil Sense flared, an insistent hum in the back of his mind. The aether around him shifted, rippling as if caught in the gravitational pull of something vast and immeasurable. He felt it before he truly understood it, an aura so potent it seemed to press against his very being, suffocating in its intensity.

  His breath hitched. He had only encountered something like this once before.

  At Valewind.

  Thorne closed his eyes, focusing every ounce of his will on his Veil Sense. The room around him faded into a blur, the murmurs of the nobles dimming to a distant hum. His awareness extended outward, tracing the edges of the overwhelming presence.

  No...

  His pulse quickened as dread curled in his stomach. The aura wasn’t just powerful, it was familiar.

  The weight of it was unmistakable.

  Selene’s voice startled him, her words cutting through the storm in his mind. “Thorne? Are you all right?”

  He forced his eyes open, his glowing irises catching the dim light of the room. Selene’s face was filled with concern, her hand resting lightly on his arm.

  “I’m fine,” he lied, his voice tight.

  But he wasn’t fine.

  Far from it.

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