Chapter 156

  The moment seemed to freeze. Thorne’s eyes locked on the cruel smirk of the Lost One, his dagger ready to slit Jonah’s throat.

  Jonah’s bruised, terrified face stared back at him, helpless and resigned. Something inside Thorne snapped, breaking apart the careful restraint he had clung to.

  The aether surged through him, an unstoppable tide that demanded release. He didn’t resist.

  Before the Lost One could move, Thorne’s hand shot up, invisible threads of aether weaving outwards. The dagger-wielding man let out a startled yelp as he was yanked off his feet, his body slamming into a wooden support beam with a sickening thud. The dagger clattered uselessly to the floor, Jonah’s neck left unscathed.

  The silence that followed was deafening.

  Then Thorne moved.

  The air around him crackled with energy, faint motes of light dancing around his form. His once-muted eyes blazed now, twin storms of white and blue aether, radiant and impossible to ignore. He stepped forward, his movements fluid and deliberate, each one carrying an aura of authority and menace.

  “You wanted a fight,” Thorne said softly, his voice carrying an undercurrent of danger that made Rafe stiffen. “Then let’s fight.”

  Rafe’s grin vanished as he exchanged uneasy glances with his remaining cronies. “Oh, so you’re finally done hiding, are you?” he sneered, but his voice lacked its usual bravado. “Good. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  Thorne didn’t dignify him with a response. He raised his hand, curling his fingers ever so slightly, and the aether obeyed. From the swirling energy around him, shimmering threads coalesced into solid form. Long, razor-thin tendrils that sliced through the air like deadly whips. He didn’t waste time. With a flick of his wrist, the threads lashed out.

  The first Lost One, the man who had been circling cautiously, didn’t even have time to react. The tendrils wrapped around his legs, yanking him off balance, and with another flick, Thorne sent him crashing into the ground, hard enough to crack the floorboards.

  Rafe cursed and darted forward, his enchanted blade aimed straight for Thorne’s chest. But Thorne was faster. He sidestepped effortlessly, his enhanced reflexes turning Rafe’s strike into a clumsy miss. Aether threads snapped toward Rafe’s sword hand, forcing him to disengage.

  “Is that it?” Thorne taunted, his voice cold.

  He didn’t wait for an answer.

  With a burst of speed, Thorne closed the distance between them, his enhanced physicality making him seem more a blur than a man. He struck Rafe’s side with a brutal kick, sending him skidding across the warehouse floor. Rafe groaned, clutching his ribs, but Thorne didn’t let up.

  The second lost one, the illusionist, appeared, his face twisted in panic. He conjured a half-dozen copies of himself, surrounding Thorne in a chaotic blur of identical figures. The illusions darted forward, swiping at Thorne with shadowy blades, trying to overwhelm him.

  Thorne’s aether vision flared.

  To Darius and Jonah, the battlefield must have seemed a confusing mess of movement and deception. But to Thorne, it was painfully clear. His enhanced sight pierced through the illusion, revealing the true figure amid the fakes.

  He smiled grimly.

  “Nice trick,” he muttered, “but not nice enough.”

  Aether surged through his hand as he thrust it outward, releasing a pulse of energy. The wave rippled through the air, shattering the false images like glass. The illusionist stumbled, his position exposed. Thorne didn’t give him a chance to recover. He extended a hand, and threads of aether shot forward, wrapping around the man’s throat and pulling him toward Thorne.

  “Let’s even the odds, shall we?” Thorne said, tightening the threads just enough to make the man gasp. He hurled him into a stack of crates, leaving him crumpled and groaning.

  From the corner of his eye, Thorne saw the third Lost One, the one with the Cruel Touch skill, moving in again, his dagger glowing with malice.

  Thorne turned to face him, his expression cold and unyielding.

  The man lunged, but Thorne was ready. With a subtle gesture, he called forth the ambient aether, shaping it into a solid barrier for a brief moment. The dagger’s glowing tip struck the barrier and skittered off harmlessly. Thorne stepped forward, closing the distance with frightening speed, and delivered a crushing blow to the man’s chest, sending him flying into a wall.

  “You’ll have to do better than that,” Thorne said, his voice dripping with disdain.

  But then Rafe was on him again, his enchanted blade slashing in a flurry of precise strikes. “What kind of freak are you?” Rafe snarled in frustration as Thorne danced back, avoiding most of the blows, but one cut grazed his arm, the enchantment sizzling against his skin. He hissed in pain, his anger flaring.

  “You’ve gotten stronger,” Thorne admitted, his tone almost conversational. Then his eyes narrowed. “But not strong enough.”

  Rafe snarled and lunged again, but this time Thorne didn’t dodge. Instead, he raised his hand, and the aether answered his call. A swirling vortex of energy formed in his palm, and with a flick, he sent it hurtling toward Rafe. The force slammed into him, throwing him backward and leaving him sprawled on the ground.

  Thorne didn’t let up. The power coursing through him was intoxicating, and he relished the way his opponents faltered before him. He raised both hands, drawing in more of the ambient aether, shaping it into jagged projectiles that hovered in the air around him. With a thought, he sent them flying.

  The projectiles rained down on the Lost Ones, each strike precise and unrelenting. One shattered a dagger aimed at his back. Another struck the illusionist’s leg, sending him to his knees. The Cruel Touch wielder managed to dodge a few but was eventually struck in the shoulder, his scream echoing in the warehouse.

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  Darius and Jonah watched in stunned silence. Darius clutched his injured side, his face pale, while Jonah simply stared, his expression a mix of awe and fear.

  “Thorne…” Darius managed to croak, his voice shaking. But Thorne didn’t hear him. The aether sang in his ears, urging him to push further, to show these men the true extent of his power.

  He stepped forward, his eyes blazing like twin stars, and raised his hand for the final blow.

  Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement. The Cruel Touch wielder had disappeared again, but not to attack him.

  He was standing over Darius, his dagger pressed to the man’s throat, a red line of blood trailing down his friend’s throat.

  Thorne froze.

  The Lost One smirked, his breathing labored but his grip steady. Blood dripped from his wounds, but his eyes gleamed with malicious glee. He tightened his hold on Darius, his intent clear.

  For a moment, everything hung in the balance.

  The cruel touch wielder smirked, his dagger pressed to Darius’s throat. For a heartbeat, the world seemed to hold its breath. But then, with a sharp flick of his wrist, the man hurled his dagger, not at Darius, but at Ben.

  Thorne’s heart stopped.

  Ben barely had time to react. The blade sailed through the air, deadly and precise, burying itself deep into his stomach. The mute man staggered, his hands trembling as they rose to clutch at the hilt protruding from his body. Blood seeped through his fingers, staining his tunic a dark crimson. His knees buckled, and he crumpled to the floor with a soundless cry of agony.

  The air around Thorne erupted.

  The faint glow of his eyes flared into twin infernos of searing white-blue light. His connection to the aether exploded outward, the energy around him shifting from a controlled hum to a roaring storm. The ground beneath his feet cracked, shards of debris lifting into the air as if gravity itself had been undone.

  Rage burned through him, hotter and fiercer than anything he’d ever felt.

  He didn’t think.

  He didn’t hesitate.

  He acted.

  The aether surged into his hands, raw and unrefined. He didn’t shape it into threads or precise forms. Instead, he allowed the pure energy to condense into blazing orbs of power that shimmered with dangerous instability. They pulsed in his palms like living entities, hungering for release.

  With a guttural cry, Thorne hurled one orb at the Cruel Touch wielder.

  The impact was cataclysmic. The man had no time to scream before the orb detonated on contact, a shockwave of pure energy tearing through his body and reducing him to nothing more than a smoldering crater. The sound reverberated through the warehouse, shaking its very foundation.

  The illusionist, scrambling to retreat, froze in terror as Thorne turned his blazing gaze on him.

  “You think you can hurt my friends and walk away?” Thorne’s voice was cold, devoid of the humor that usually laced his words. He raised his hand, aether coalescing into jagged spears of light around him, their edges crackling with unrestrained power.

  The illusionist managed a pitiful whimper before the spears shot forward with blinding speed. Each one found its mark, piercing through his body like a swarm of predatory birds. The man’s form convulsed, his mouth agape in a silent scream, before collapsing into a lifeless heap.

  Only Rafe remained.

  Rafe’s bravado had vanished. His enchanted blades trembled in his hands, his confident smirk replaced by wide-eyed panic. “Thorne, wait!” he stammered, stumbling backward. “It was just a job! I...”

  Thorne didn’t care. He didn’t even hear him. The aether consumed him, its intoxicating power feeding his fury. He could feel it coursing through every fiber of his being, demanding justice, demanding blood.

  With a flick of his wrist, Thorne unleashed a shockwave of raw energy that sent Rafe flying. The man crashed into a pile of crates, wood splintering under the force, scattering debris around him as he struggled to his feet, coughing and wheezing.

  “You wanted to see my tricks, didn’t you?” Thorne snarled, his voice dripping with venom. He stepped forward, deliberate and slow, his movements exuding an aura of inescapable dominance. Aether coiled around him like a living beast, responding to his fury, shimmering in erratic patterns. “Come on, Rafe. Don’t you have some new skills to show me?”

  Rafe lunged, desperation driving his movements. His enchanted blade flashed in the dim light as he aimed for Thorne’s chest, a frenzied glint in his eyes.

  Thorne didn’t move.

  The blades struck the aether swirling around him, stopping inches from his skin. The energy warped and twisted, trapping the swords in an invisible vice. Rafe’s arms trembled as he tried to pull them free, but the aether held firm.

  Thorne raised his hand, and the aether obeyed. The enchanted swords wrenched from Rafe’s grip by Invisible Threads, spinning through the air before they were hurled at the other side of the warehouse.

  Thorne’s lips curled into a mocking smile. “Is this it?” His tone was cruel, derisive, like a cat playing with a wounded mouse.

  Rafe’s eyes darted around, searching for an escape. He turned to run, but Thorne was faster. He raised his hand, and aether erupted beneath Rafe’s feet, launching him into the air. The man screamed as he slammed against the ceiling with bone-jarring force. Wooden beams cracked under the impact, splinters raining down as he hung suspended for a moment, helpless and vulnerable.

  Thorne’s fist clenched, and the aether obeyed. It yanked Rafe back down, slamming him into the ground with sickening finality. The force of the impact left a shallow crater in the floor, dust billowing up around his battered body.

  “Stop!” Rafe rasped, blood trickling from his mouth as he crawled backward, his limbs trembling. “Please, Thorne! I’ll leave! You’ll never see me again!” His voice cracked, unable to hide his fear.

  Thorne’s expression didn’t soften. If anything, it grew colder.

  He loomed over Rafe, his silhouette wreathed in the chaotic glow of aether, his glowing eyes boring into the man’s soul. “You always did talk too much,” Thorne said, his voice quiet but laden with menace. “All those years, your snide remarks, your pathetic arrogance... Did you really think I wouldn’t remember?”

  Rafe’s lips quivered as he tried to form a response, but Thorne didn’t give him the chance. With a wave of his hand, aether lashed out, spectral hands appeared wrapping around Rafe’s limbs. They hoisted him into the air, leaving him dangling like a marionette on strings.

  “Look at you now,” Thorne whispered, stepping closer, his tone almost conversational. “So weak. So small.” He twisted his fingers, and the hands constricted, drawing a strangled gasp from Rafe as his joints popped under the pressure. “You wanted to see what I could do, didn’t you? Let me show you.”

  The spectral hands of his Aetheric Grip skill jerked suddenly, slamming Rafe against a nearby pillar. He groaned, blood smearing the wood as Thorne released him, letting him crumple to the ground.

  “Get up,” Thorne ordered, his voice like a whip crack.

  Rafe whimpered, trying to crawl away, but Thorne’s hand shot out, pulling him back with Invisible Threads. He held the man there as aether began to coalesce in his palm.

  The energy took shape, forming a blade of pure, searing power. It hummed dangerously, its edges flickering with volatile energy.

  “You made a mistake, Rafe,” Thorne said, his voice icy and detached. “You hurt my friends. And you thought I’d let that go?”

  Rafe’s eyes widened in terror, his breath coming in shallow gasps. He tried to speak, to plead, but no words came out.

  Thorne raised the blade, his glowing eyes unblinking as he stared into Rafe’s panic-stricken face.

  “Goodbye, Rafe,” he said simply.

  The blade came down, a shower of blood stained his clothes and face as a flash of blinding light illuminating the warehouse. When it faded, silence reigned. Rafe’s lifeless body crumpled to the floor, the faint glow of residual aether dissipating into the air.

  Thorne stood over him, the blade in his hand flickering before vanishing. His chest heaved, his breath ragged, as the intoxicating rush of power slowly ebbed.

  For a moment, he felt nothing.

  No guilt, no remorse. Just the lingering hum of the aether, whispering in his ears.

  He turned slowly, his glowing eyes meeting Darius and Jonah’s stunned gazes. Darius’s mouth hung open, his injured side forgotten as he stared at Thorne as though he were a stranger. Jonah, still bound and battered, looked at him with a mixture of apprehension and fear.

  But it was Ben who drew Thorne’s attention. The young man lay slumped against the wall, his breathing shallow, his hands still clutching the dagger buried in his stomach.

  The glow in Thorne’s eyes dimmed as the reality of what had just happened crashed down on him.

  “Ben,” he whispered, his voice breaking.

  He ran and dropped to his knees beside his friend, the aether around him quiet and subdued now, as if mourning along with him.

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