Thorne entered the grand ballroom alongside Alden, the sounds of music and laughter washing over him as they descended the marble staircase. The room was a sea of color and light, a dizzying display of opulence that took his breath away.

  Everywhere he looked, nobles moved about in elaborate outfits, the men in finely tailored suits, the women in gowns that glittered like jewels. At the center of it all, an orchestra played a lively tune, their music accompanying dancers whose outfits changed color with each spin and twirl. It was a scene of pure decadence, a world so far removed from his own that for a moment, Thorne felt a pang of unease.

  As they reached the bottom of the staircase, Thorne’s eyes swept across the room, cataloging every detail with practiced precision. He noted the exits—two large doorways at either end of the ballroom, each flanked by discreetly armed guards. The servants moved through the crowd like shadows, barely noticeable in their efficiency. The chandeliers above cast a warm, golden light over the scene, their crystals sparkling like stars.

  Alden, ever the chatterbox, began speaking rapidly, pointing out nobles and sharing the latest gossip with a gleeful smile. “That’s Lord Fenwick over there,” he said, nodding towards a rotund man in a deep blue robe, “and you see Lady Cressida? She’s been having an affair with her steward for months, but her husband has no idea.”

  Thorne barely listened, his focus elsewhere as he tried to take in everything at once. The noise, the movement, the sheer magnitude of it all—it was overwhelming. A waiter passed by, and Alden flagged him down, grabbing two crystal glasses from the tray. “This is Aetherwine,” Alden said, offering one to Thorne. “Imported from the capital. Costs a fortune.”

  Thorne accepted the glass, feeling its cool surface against his palm. He took a sip, letting the rich, velvety liquid coat his tongue. It was unlike anything he’d ever tasted—sweet, with a subtle hint of spice. But he didn’t dare drink more. He needed a clear head tonight, and the reassuring weight of the glass in his hand reminded him to stay grounded. As he glanced down, he noticed the liquid swaying slightly. His hand was trembling. Thorne took a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves.

  Alden, oblivious to Thorne’s internal struggle, continued to chatter away, his excitement palpable. “Come on, I want to introduce you to some people,” Alden said, pulling Thorne through the crowd. “You’ll love them—they’re a riot.”

  They joined a group of young nobles, most of whom Thorne had met in passing over the last few nights. They were a lively bunch, their conversations animated as they gossiped about the other guests. “Did you see Lady Ivora’s gown?” one of them asked. “It must have cost a fortune!”

  “I heard someone from the capital is here,” another whispered, her eyes wide with excitement. “Can you imagine?”

  Thorne smiled politely, nodding along as they spoke, but his attention was elsewhere. He barely contributed to the conversation, his mind racing with thoughts of the mission ahead. As he scanned the room, he noticed a disturbance on the far side of the ballroom. The crowd parted like waves, making way for a man who walked with effortless grace. He greeted the nobles with hearty handshakes and lively laughs, his presence commanding respect and admiration.

  Thorne elbowed Alden lightly, nodding towards the man. “Who is that?”

  Alden glanced over, then leaned in close. “That’s Lord Alistair Valewyn, the Warden of the West,” he whispered. “The most powerful man in this region. Some say he’s even more influential than the king himself in these parts. His family founded this city, giving it its name.”

  Thorne felt a chill run down his spine. He had hoped that the man described in his brief wasn’t his target, but the description matched perfectly. Lord Valewyn was in his fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair and an elaborate mustache. He had the body of a seasoned warrior, his clothing accentuating his impressive physique, and a gravitas that few could match. Even from across the room, there was no denying the man’s power.

  Just as Thorne was absorbing this information, he felt a gaze lock onto him, a sensation that sent a shiver down his spine. He resisted the urge to turn around immediately, instead letting his eyes sweep across the room as if merely observing the spectacle. His gaze briefly locked with Seraphina’s, who quickly turned her attention back to Percy and the group of older men she was with. Still, the odd sensation didn’t dissipate, and a sense of dread began to creep into Thorne’s mind. Had he been discovered? Did someone know who he truly was?

  The impulse to leave was strong, but Thorne forced himself to remain calm. He smiled and responded to a question from one of the nobles in his group, but his mind was racing. He needed to complete his mission as soon as possible. His eyes darted back to Lord Valewyn. Should he attempt to kill him here and now? It was a reckless thought—attacking the Warden in such a public place would be disastrous. The moment he struck, the guards would be on him, and there was no guarantee he could kill Valewyn in a single blow. The man was likely several levels above him.

  Alden interrupted his thoughts by whispering that he wanted to introduce Thorne to some of his father’s friends. Thorne welcomed the distraction. Alden led him away, almost forcefully, through the throng of guests until they reached a group of older men engaged in a heated discussion.

  "The western provinces are slowly but assuredly withering away," one of the men said, his voice laced with frustration. "The closer one goes to the borders, the scarcer the aether becomes."

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  Another man, his face red with anger, jabbed a finger in the air. "It's the elves, mark my words! When I was a lad, the aether was so rich that even a baker possessed magical skills. Now? Now, even the most talented mages struggle to maintain their power."

  A third man, dressed in an opulent robe, shook his head. "I visited the capital earlier this year. The difference in aether was astounding. It’s no secret that the elves are behind this. They’re siphoning our aether, draining our lands to fuel their own magic."

  "But the ley lines have been drying out for years," another argued. "We can’t afford to sow discord with the elves. Another war would be catastrophic. The last one nearly brought the kingdom to its knees."

  The conversation was growing more heated by the second, but Alden intervened, cutting his father off mid-sentence. “Gentlemen, I’d like you to meet my friend,” Alden said, introducing Thorne with a flourish. He recited Thorne’s fake name, family name, and the city he supposedly came from.

  Alden’s father, an older, more shrewd version of Alden, turned his gaze on Thorne, scrutinizing him with a keen eye. The older man was silent for a moment, his gaze piercing. "A pleasure to meet you," he finally said, his tone polite but reserved.

  Thorne returned the greeting, doing his best to project confidence. But as the older men began to question him, Thorne felt a subtle pressure building in his mind. It started as a slight discomfort, a nagging sensation that made it difficult to focus. He could feel their social skills probing at his defenses, testing his resolve.

  His Mindguard skill kicked in, working overtime to protect him from their subtle manipulations. Despite his best efforts, Thorne felt himself slipping, making several small but critical mistakes. He fumbled a detail about his supposed lineage, struggled to keep up with the intricate rules of noble etiquette, and found himself unsure of how to respond to a particularly pointed question.

  Sensing that he was losing his grip, Thorne excused himself hurriedly, muttering something about needing fresh air. He could feel the penetrating gaze still locked on him, observing his every move as he made his way towards a side entrance.

  The adjoining rooms were filled with guests, but Thorne pushed forward, his heart pounding in his chest. He didn’t know where he was going—he just needed to escape the pressure, the scrutiny, the relentless eyes that seemed to follow him everywhere.

  He found himself in a dark side corridor, away from the noise and the lights of the ballroom. The silence was a welcome relief, and Thorne stopped to take a breath, trying to regain his equilibrium. But just as he began to calm down, voices tickled his ears—two male voices approaching from the other end of the corridor.

  Thorne quickly activated his Shadow Meld skill, slipping behind a tapestry and blending into the darkness. He strained to hear the conversation, his heart racing once more.

  “—spent a fortune on this ball,” one of the voices said, dripping with disdain. “The coffers are nearly empty, and he’s throwing parties like this?”

  “The Warden holds too much power,” the other voice replied, his tone cold and calculating. “He’s stifling the growth of the other families. But his time will come soon. With our alliance and the crown’s backing, we’ll topple him and make the west a superpower once again.”

  The voices faded as the men continued down the corridor, their conversation growing fainter with each step. Thorne remained hidden, his mind racing. So Lord Valewyn had enemies, even among his own kind. Powerful enemies, by the sound of it. The realization didn’t bring Thorne any comfort. It only made his task more complicated.

  When he was sure the coast was clear, Thorne emerged from his hiding spot, his thoughts spinning. He needed to stay focused, to find a way to complete his mission despite the mounting obstacles. He decided to return to the ballroom, but as he moved through the grand halls, he couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was still watching him.

  Reentering the ballroom, Thorne swept his gaze across the room, searching for his target. He found Lord Valewyn near the dancers, not too far from where Alden and the group of men were standing. Thorne gritted his teeth, forcing himself to rejoin the conversation with the obnoxious nobles. Some of them made cutting remarks, veiled in niceties, but Thorne barely heard them. His eyes were on the Warden of the West.

  Alden quietly inquired where Thorne had been, and Thorne almost jolted in surprise, having forgotten that Alden was right next to him. He murmured a vague excuse under his breath just as a man directed a question at him.

  Thorne froze momentarily, recognizing the voice as one of the men he had overheard in the corridor. Just as Thorne was about to respond, Seraphina appeared, placing her arm through the man’s and smiling sweetly. “Father, have you met Thorne?” she asked, her voice dripping with charm.

  They exchanged pleasantries, but Thorne’s mind was elsewhere. He was still trying to piece together what he had overheard, to understand the web of intrigue that surrounded the Warden. And all the while, he felt that piercing gaze, as if someone was drilling into his very soul.

  A hypnotic, lyrical voice suddenly filled the room, accompanied by the sound of dozens of instruments. A bard had begun to sing, his voice echoing around the grand ballroom, drawing everyone’s attention. The lyrics told the story of a small kingdom, poor but proud, beset by enemies on all sides—beasts, barbarians, petty kings, and murderous elves. The kingdom came close to ruin, but a brave king fought back with a ferocity that rivaled the dead gods and the primal people, the first people. As the lyrics unfolded, the aether in the air took shape, crafting elegant illusions that held every noble in awe.

  Thorne was equally transfixed, staring at the expertly crafted illusions with wonder. The story seemed to resonate with him, its themes of survival, strength, and resilience striking a chord deep within. He could almost see himself in the brave king, fighting against impossible odds, trying to carve out a place for himself in a world that sought to crush him.

  A hand touched his arm, breaking him from his reverie. The simple gesture made his mind go slack, his thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind. He turned his head and saw Seraphina, her eyes twinkling as she batted her lashes coquettishly. “Follow me,” she whispered, her voice sultry and inviting.

  Thorne was unable to refuse. How could he, when such a divine creature of elegance and beauty wanted to be alone with him? His mind was fogged with her charm, his thoughts muddled and confused. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, a small voice warned him that something was wrong, but he was too enamored, too entranced to listen.

  Seraphina led him out of the crowd and through a side door, her grip on his arm gentle yet firm. The only thing that registered in Thorne’s mind was the burning intensity of the gaze that followed him as he left the ballroom, but even that soon faded into nothingness as he followed Seraphina into the unknown.

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