Chapter 155

  Thorne, Darius, and Ben strode into the warehouse, their footsteps echoing ominously on the creaky wooden floor. The faint tang of salt mixed with the acrid stench of damp wood and old sweat, making the air oppressive. Moonlight streamed through cracks in the warehouse roof, casting jagged patterns on the ground.

  They made no effort to mask their presence, their resolve as stark as the sound of their boots.

  The trio of figures standing near the center turned at their approach. Jonah knelt on the ground between them, his hands bound behind his back, his face battered almost beyond recognition. A dark bruise swelled one of his eyes shut, and blood crusted along his temple and the corner of his mouth.

  “Well, well, well,” Rafe said, his voice carrying a mocking sing-song quality as he stepped forward. His grin was sharp and full of malice. “The faithful dogs come sniffing after their wounded pup. How heartwarming.”

  Darius’s breath hitched, his fists clenching so tightly his knuckles turned white. “Rafe,” he spat, his voice trembling with fury. “What the hell is wrong with you? Jonah is your friend! We are your friends!”

  “Friend?” Rafe arched an eyebrow, his tone dripping with disdain. “Is that what you think? That I ever considered you lot my equals? Spare me, Darius. You were nothing more than a pack of pitiful orphans. Charity cases, clinging to each other because no one else wanted you. Pathetic, scrabbling for scraps while I rose above.”

  Ben stepped closer to Darius, placing a hand on his arm and signing something quickly. Darius shook him off but stayed rooted in place, muttering under his breath.

  Thorne’s gaze shifted between the three figures standing over Jonah. His face was unreadable, calm and composed, but inside, the sight of Jonah’s beaten form was igniting something deep and dangerous. His Acting skill cloaked his emotions in a perfect facade.

  “You always did love the sound of your own voice, Rafe,” Thorne said, his tone even and dispassionate. “I see that hasn’t changed.”

  Rafe’s grin faltered for the briefest moment before it returned, wider and meaner. “Ah, Thorne,” he sneered, stepping closer. “The golden boy himself. Still putting on a show, I see. And now, with those freaky eyes, what’s that? You aiming to scare someone? Joining a traveling freak show?”

  Thorne ignored the jab, his gaze moving to the two men flanking Rafe. He recognized them immediately. They were older Lost Ones with reputations for cruelty and greed, men whose whispers in the guild had been rife with stories of their illicit dealings and sadistic tendencies. Thorne’s Veil Sense skill hummed faintly, marking their positions and subtle movements as they began to fan out, forming a semi-circle around him, Darius, and Ben.

  “You’ve really fallen in with the worst sort, haven’t you?” Thorne remarked, his tone dry.

  Rafe chuckled, spreading his arms. “Better company than you three, that’s for sure.”

  Thorne’s eyes locked on Rafe, cold and unblinking. “Does the guild know what you’re doing here?” he asked, his voice quiet but sharp.

  Rafe’s grin widened into a mocking smirk. “What do I care?” he said with a shrug. “I’ve made it very clear I’m not their lapdog anymore. They turn a blind eye to a little freelancing, so long as it doesn’t step on their precious rules. And this…” He gestured to Jonah with a flourish. “…is just a side hustle. Nothing personal, you understand. Just some extra coin in my pocket. And experience for the next level, of course.”

  Thorne’s expression didn’t change, but his jaw tightened imperceptibly. “Is that what you tell yourself? That you’re not breaking the rules? That you’re not acting like a desperate thug?”

  Rafe’s expression darkened for a moment, but he quickly masked it with a laugh. “Spare me the lecture, Thorne. Always so righteous, aren’t you? Acting like you’re better than the rest of us. But you love the attention, don’t you?” His smirk turned predatory. “You love when people whisper about you, speculate about you. Even now, look at those freaky eyes. What’s the show this time, huh? Another performance?”

  Thorne didn’t respond, his gaze shifting back to Jonah. The man’s one good eye was filled with terror, darting between Rafe and Thorne as if begging for salvation. Thorne exhaled slowly, his voice dropping to a cold, dangerous calm. “Let him go.”

  Rafe laughed, the sound echoing in the cavernous warehouse. “Oh, I don’t think so,” he said, shaking his head. “Not until he pays what he owes my employer. And you lot?” He looked between Thorne, Darius, and Ben, his grin widening. “You’re free to try and take him. I’m sure that’ll end well.”

  Darius surged forward, his voice a roar. “Untie him right now, or I swear I’ll...”

  One of Rafe’s companions stepped forward, a dagger glinting in his hand as he growled. “I’d love to see you try.”

  Rafe held up a hand, stopping his ally with an easy gesture. “Now, now,” he said smoothly. “Let’s not be hasty. After all…” His eyes flicked back to Thorne. “…I was hoping this would happen.”

  Thorne’s gaze narrowed as Rafe took another step forward, his posture shifting, his grin sharpening into something almost feral. “When I heard Jonah was the idiot trying to cut a deal with my employer, I couldn’t resist. I volunteered for this one personally. Couldn’t pass up the chance to catch up with old friends.”

  He chuckled softly, darkly. “And now that you’re here, Thorne…” He gestured grandly. “Why don’t we settle old scores? See just how much you’ve really grown.”

  Thorne tilted his head slightly, his voice calm but edged with steel. “Do you really want to fight me, Rafe? Because if I recall correctly, the last time you tried, it didn’t end well for you.”

  A flush of anger crossed Rafe’s face, but it was quickly replaced with a predatory grin. “That was a long time ago,” he said, his voice low and menacing. “I’ve changed since then. Haven’t stopped fighting. Haven’t stopped leveling up. And thanks to those aether manifestations…” He raised his arms, his grin widening. “I’ve got some new tricks to show you.”

  As if on cue, the two men flanking Rafe disappeared, melting into the shadows like ghosts.

  Rafe laughed, his glee almost manic. “This is going to be fun,” he said, his voice echoing in the stillness.

  Thorne’s hand brushed the hilt of his dagger, his face calm, unreadable. His Acting and Mask of Deceit skills held his emotions in check, but the storm beneath the surface was ready to explode. “We’ll see,” he murmured.

  Rafe wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a smug grin stretching across his face. Slowly, with a flourish, he drew a small vial from his belt, the red liquid inside glimmering ominously in the dim warehouse light.

  He held it aloft like a prize, tilting it slightly so the liquid shimmered. “You see this?” he said, his voice dripping with arrogance. “Premium stuff. Cost a pretty coin, but… well, I’ve made some lucrative arrangements lately.”

  Thorne’s eyes narrowed as Rafe popped the cork and downed the potion in one smooth motion.

  Rafe exhaled, rolling his neck as a faint red glow pulsed briefly along his veins. “Now that’s more like it.”

  With a theatrical flourish, he unsheathed his twin short swords, their blades gleaming wickedly. But one of them caught Thorne’s eye, the unmistakable glint of an aether-enchanted weapon.

  Thorne felt his stomach twist. An enchanted blade? Where the hell did Rafe get something like that?

  Before he could dwell on the implications, Rafe was moving. The speed was startling, a blur of motion that had him closing the gap between them in seconds. Thorne braced himself, readying Burst of Speed, but Rafe veered sharply at the last moment, pivoting with fluid precision.

  The move took him straight to Darius.

  Rafe’s blade slashed just below Darius’s knee, drawing a spray of blood, and with a quick sweep of his legs, he sent the towering man crashing to the ground. Darius’s sword clattered from his grip as he hit the floor hard, groaning in pain.

  “Darius!” Ben signed frantically from the shadows, his hands trembling.

  Rafe danced away before Thorne could retaliate, his laughter ringing out. “City guards are such a joke,” he mocked, his voice light and scornful. “You should’ve joined the Lost Ones, Darius. We’d have whipped you into shape. Right, Thorne?”

  Thorne didn’t respond, his Veil Sense flaring as he tracked the subtle shifts in the aether around him. He turned his gaze sharply to the figure standing just outside a pool of shadows, clutching a dagger.

  Something was off.

  The man shimmered faintly, and then another identical form appeared a few feet away, both clutching daggers and glaring ominously.

  Illusions.

  Thorne swore under his breath as a second wave of figures began to form, circling them in a widening arc.

  “Nice, isn’t it?” Rafe said, his voice thick with smug satisfaction. “We’ve all picked up some fancy tricks over the years. Let me guess, your little act still consists of hiding behind Uncle’s shadow?”

  Thorne ignored him, his focus on the multiplying figures. His Veil Sense thrummed, honing in on the subtle difference between the real attacker and the illusory copies.

  Darius groaned, dragging himself to his feet, his leg shaking under his weight. He retrieved his sword, his face twisting in pain but set with determination.

  “I’m going to kill you,” he growled at Rafe, his voice trembling with rage.

  Rafe smirked, giving a mock bow. “By all means, give it a try.”

  As if on cue, the third Lost One appeared, darting forward with terrifying speed. His dagger glinted a dangerous red, the blade slick with an ominous sheen.

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  Thorne’s eyes widened. “Darius, look out!” he shouted.

  Darius raised his sword just in time to deflect the strike, but the attacker redirected with a quick flick of his wrist. The dagger plunged into Darius’s side, drawing a bloodcurdling scream from the man.

  The Lost One didn’t stop. Seizing the opportunity, he drove the blade into Darius’s back, the red glow of the dagger intensifying as it bit into flesh.

  Darius’s scream reached a fever pitch, his body folding in on itself as the pain overwhelmed him.

  “Cruel Touch,” Rafe said conversationally, leaning against a nearby crate. “The skill doesn’t just wound, it amplifies pain. Tenfold, I think. Or is it twenty? It’s hard to keep track.”

  Thorne didn’t listen. He didn’t care to listen.

  All he saw was Darius crumpled on the ground, his friend writhing in agony, while Rafe stood there, smirking like it was all a game.

  The anger he’d kept so carefully buried surged, the aether around him vibrating in response. His grip on his dagger tightened, and for the first time since entering the warehouse, he felt the familiar heat of the aether begging to be unleashed.

  Rafe’s grin faltered as the air shifted, a faint glow flickering at the edges of Thorne’s frame.

  “Oh,” Rafe said, his tone suddenly cautious. “What’s this? You’ve been holding out on us, haven’t you, Thorne?”

  Thorne raised his head, his expression blank. His gaze locked on Rafe, and for a moment, the mocking bravado slipped from the man’s face.

  “Let him go,” Thorne said, his voice low and deadly.

  Rafe hesitated, his fingers tightening around his enchanted sword.

  Thorne stepped forward, his presence radiating an undeniable menace. “This is your last chance.”

  Rafe’s laugh echoed through the warehouse, mocking, arrogant, and utterly maddening. His gleaming enchanted sword caught the faint light spilling from the rafters, its aura humming with power as he twirled it confidently. Meanwhile, the illusions of his companion multiplied, circling like wolves stalking prey. The aether surrounding them vibrated with dissonance, an almost palpable hum of tension that grated against Thorne’s sharpened senses.

  Darius’s bloodcurdling cry snapped Thorne’s attention to the towering man. His friend was on his knees, the blade buried in his back, crimson spreading rapidly across his tunic. The jagged sound of Darius’s breathing was laced with pain, his cries sending a chill down Thorne’s spine.

  Thorne’s heart pounded furiously, but his face remained impassive, the practiced calm of his Acting skill keeping his rage from boiling over. He forced himself to assess, to calculate, even as anger clawed at the edges of his mind.

  Thorne’s vision narrowed as the scene unfolded in a chaotic rush.

  Rafe’s laugh echoed through the warehouse, mocking, arrogant, and utterly maddening. His gleaming enchanted sword caught the faint light spilling from the rafters, its aura humming with power as he twirled it confidently. Meanwhile, the illusions of his companion multiplied, circling like wolves stalking prey. The aether surrounding them vibrated with dissonance, an almost palpable hum of tension that grated against Thorne’s sharpened senses.

  Darius’s bloodcurdling cry snapped Thorne’s attention to the towering man. His friend was on his knees, the blade buried in his back, crimson spreading rapidly across his tunic. The jagged sound of Darius’s breathing was laced with pain, his cries sending a chill down Thorne’s spine.

  Thorne’s heart pounded furiously, but his face remained impassive, the practiced calm of his acting skill keeping his rage from boiling over. He forced himself to assess, to calculate, even as anger clawed at the edges of his mind.

  “Cruel Touch,” Rafe said, smirking as if explaining the finer points of a game. “It’s a fun skill, isn’t it? I bet it feels like fire crawling under your skin, doesn’t it, big guy?”

  Darius groaned, barely able to lift his head, but Thorne didn’t spare him another glance. There was no time for comfort or reassurance, only action.

  His Veil Sense pulsed, honing in on the rapid, overlapping patterns of movement around him. The third man darted back into the shadows, vanishing almost as soon as he’d appeared. Meanwhile, the illusions of the second man shimmered, splitting into three more identical forms. They surrounded them now, illusory daggers gleaming ominously.

  Rafe was grinning again, the red glow from the potion still pulsing faintly in his veins. His enchanted blade glinted ominously in the dim light as he twirled it lazily.

  “Come on, Thorne,” Rafe goaded, his tone smug. “Let’s see what you’ve got. Or are you scared I might actually beat you this time?”

  Thorne’s response was a cold glare, his jaw tightening as his eyes flicked toward the other two Lost Ones. He didn’t want to use his aetheric abilities just yet, he had been bedridden for two weeks and he wasn’t willing to repeat that, just so he could beat Rafe.

  The second man darted around the edges of the warehouse, leaving shimmering copies of himself in his wake. The illusions hovered in and out of view, each one moving unnervingly like the original.

  The third assassin was more patient, lingering in the shadows, his glowing dagger poised for an opportune strike.

  The aether whispered to Thorne, begging to be unleashed, but he forced it back. Not yet. If he revealed his powers now, he couldn’t guarantee that he’d stop before they all lay dead, and he wasn’t ready to cross that line.

  Without warning, Rafe lunged. His enhanced speed sent him hurtling toward Thorne, his enchanted blade flashing. Thorne sidestepped the strike, his dagger coming up to deflect the second slash with a loud clang.

  Rafe’s strikes came fast and precise, his twin blades weaving a deadly dance. But Thorne met him move for move, each parry and counter flowing like water.

  Still, the battle wasn’t as one-sided as Thorne hoped. Rafe’s potion was giving him an edge, and his skills had clearly improved.

  The rogue pivoted suddenly, feinting left but striking from the right. Thorne blocked just in time, but Rafe’s second blade sliced across his arm, leaving a shallow cut.

  “Sloppy,” Rafe taunted, darting back out of range. “That’s not like you, Thorne.”

  Thorne ignored the barb, his mind working furiously. His stamina was draining faster than usual. Each dodge and parry felt heavier than the last.

  His eyes flicked to Rafe’s enchanted blade. Of course. The weapon wasn’t just enchanted for damage, it was leeching his stamina with every strike.

  Rafe smirked as if sensing the realization. “Starting to feel it, aren’t you?” he jeered. “This sword’s a beauty. Got it from a little venture to a smuggler outpost. Cost me a fortune, but worth every coin.”

  Thorne’s eyes flickered, glowing faintly, though he kept the aether in check. He refused to give in to the temptation of overwhelming power, not yet.

  He could handle this.

  “You’re awfully quiet, Thorne,” Rafe mocked, his grin stretching wider. “What’s the matter? Got nothing flashy to say this time?”

  Thorne ignored the taunt, his eyes darting between his opponents. The second Lost One lingered at the edge of his vision, another illusion already shimmering into existence. The third assassin with the glowing dagger crouched low, watching for an opening like a predator stalking prey.

  Rafe lunged without warning, closing the distance with enhanced speed. His blades danced in fluid arcs, each swing forcing Thorne to pivot and parry with precision. Sparks flew as their weapons collided, the sharp clang of steel reverberating through the warehouse.

  Thorne countered with a low slash aimed at Rafe’s leg, but the rogue twisted, narrowly avoiding the blade. “Nice try,” Rafe sneered, retaliating with a feint to Thorne’s left before spinning and slicing upward.

  Thorne leaned back just in time, the enchanted blade missing his throat by a hair’s breadth. He struck out with his dagger, forcing Rafe to retreat, but the rogue only laughed.

  “You’re faster than I remember,” Rafe admitted, his expression darkening. “But I’m faster, too.”

  Rafe activated another skill, his form becoming a blur as he surged forward with a series of rapid strikes. Thorne’s reflexes kicked in, his dagger moving in a blur to intercept the blows. His Combat Reflexes skill kept him one step ahead, but the relentless assault forced him back.

  A sudden jab from the second Lost One broke his concentration. Thorne dodged, but the illusion shattered harmlessly as his dagger sliced through it. The real Lost One darted in from another angle, a cruel grin on his face.

  Thorne pivoted, blocking the dagger just in time, but the distraction gave Rafe an opening. The rogue’s blade slashed across Thorne’s side, drawing blood.

  “See?” Rafe taunted. “Not so untouchable now, are you?”

  Thorne didn’t respond, his mind racing. The aether whispered, begging to be used, but he shoved it down. Not yet. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing his full power.

  The third Lost One joined the fray, his glowing dagger leaving trails of red light in the air as he struck with brutal precision. Thorne deflected most of the strikes, but one grazed his shoulder, sending a burst of searing pain through him.

  The Cruel Touch skill amplified the pain tenfold, forcing a hiss of discomfort from Thorne’s lips. His Aetheric Skin absorbed some of the damage, but the pain was still agonizing.

  Rafe’s grin widened. “You’re outnumbered, outmatched, and out of options. Just give up already.”

  Thorne’s lips curled into a cold smile. “Funny. I was just thinking the same about you.”

  Rafe snarled and activated another skill, vanishing into the shadows. For a split second, Thorne lost sight of him, but his Veil Sense screamed a warning. He spun just in time to block a strike from Rafe’s enchanted blade, their weapons locking in a deadly struggle.

  The second Lost One capitalized on the moment, sending another illusion toward Thorne while the real attacker aimed a dagger at his back. Thorne sidestepped, slashing at the illusion before spinning and catching the real Lost One’s wrist. He twisted sharply, forcing the man to drop his weapon with a grunt of pain.

  The third Lost One lunged, his glowing dagger aimed at Thorne’s ribs. Thorne dropped low, narrowly avoiding the blade, and kicked out, sending the man stumbling back.

  Rafe reappeared, his speed unnervingly fast, and unleashed a flurry of strikes. Thorne parried most of them, but one blade nicked his thigh, another slicing across his arm.

  Blood dripped from the shallow wounds, but Thorne refused to slow down. His Mask of Deceit skill kept his expression calm, his movements fluid and controlled.

  “You’re good, I’ll give you that,” Rafe admitted, breathing heavily. “But you’re still not good enough.”

  Thorne’s eyes glowed brighter, his anger and frustration feeding the faint aura of aether around him. His mind raced, analyzing their movements, their strategies. The second Lost One relied heavily on illusions to distract and wear him down. The third focused on high-damage strikes, while Rafe relied on speed and stamina-sapping attacks.

  Together, they were formidable. But Thorne was better.

  He lunged at the second Lost One, his dagger slicing through another illusion. The real man darted back, creating more copies of himself, but Thorne was already moving. His Veil Sense locked onto the real attacker, and with a sharp throw, his dagger buried itself in the man’s shoulder.

  The Lost One cried out, stumbling as the illusions flickered and faded.

  Rafe growled, his eyes narrowing as he activated yet another skill. His blades glowed faintly, the air around them shimmering with heat. He lunged at Thorne with renewed vigor, his strikes faster and more precise.

  Thorne met him head-on, their blades clashing in a flurry of sparks. Rafe’s enchanted blade sapped more of his stamina with each clash, but Thorne pushed through, his movements sharp and calculated.

  The third Lost One tried to flank him, but Thorne spun, catching the man’s blade with his dagger. Their weapons locked, and Thorne’s Aetheric Skin absorbed most of the glowing dagger’s effect. With a sharp twist, he disarmed the man, sending the dagger skittering across the floor.

  Rafe’s attacks grew more frantic as he realized their power gap hadn’t closed as much as he’d thought. Thorne’s speed and precision outmatched his skills, even without the full force of his aetheric abilities.

  “You’re running out of tricks,” Thorne said coldly, his voice steady despite the chaos around him.

  Rafe sneered but didn’t respond, his frustration evident in his increasingly erratic movements.

  Thorne ducked under another of Rafe’s slashes, the enchanted blade slicing through the air inches above his head. His muscles burned from exertion, his mind a whirlwind of calculations. He could feel the fight tilting in his favor, Rafe’s attacks growing sloppier as desperation crept into his movements.

  Just a little longer, Thorne thought, his dagger deflecting another strike. Rafe grunted, frustration etched into his face as his enhanced speed faltered.

  A sharp hiss of movement behind him pulled Thorne’s attention for a split second. His Veil Sense screamed a warning, and he pivoted instinctively, expecting another illusionary trick.

  Instead, his stomach sank.

  His attention snapped to the man with the Cruel Touch skill, his blade now pressed against Jonah’s throat. The bound man’s chest heaved with fear, his one good eye wide with panic.

  The Lost One’s cruel smile deepened as he tilted the blade ever so slightly, his hand steady, his intent clear. Thorne froze, his body taut, his mind racing.

  The man’s muscles flexed, preparing to draw the blade across Jonah’s neck.

  The room seemed to contract around Thorne, the aether thrumming in concert with his rising fury.

  And then the dagger moved.

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