Thorne turned a corner, his thoughts still tangled with the conversation he had just had with Seraphina and Percy. The information he had pried from them was useful, he finally had a clear way to Bea. There were complications he had to solve, but after years of no progress, he now had something to look forward to.

  Suddenly, that piercing gaze returned—sharp, almost tangible, as if someone had driven a dagger into his back. He didn’t hesitate this time. His hands flew to the daggers, hidden beneath his waistcoat, and in a fluid motion, he whirled around to confront his stalker.

  He expected to see a guard, or perhaps one of the nobles who had followed him from the ballroom, but what he found was entirely different.

  Standing before him was a small, older woman. She was beautiful, but in a peculiar, almost ethereal way, as if she didn’t quite belong in this world. Her short, spiky hair was a striking silver, contrasting with her bright green eyes, which glinted with intelligence and something else—something darker. She wore a forest green gown that clung to her slender frame, and around her neck hung a single necklace with a green gem that seemed to pulse with its own light.

  Before Thorne could react, the woman began to berate him, her voice sharp and commanding, cutting through the air like a blade. "You’re an idiot," she snapped, her tone leaving no room for argument. "Using primal magic in a place like this—are you out of your mind? Any mage worth their salt would have immediately figured out what you’ve done! The aether disturbance you caused... I could sense it all the way from the ballroom."

  Thorne’s mouth opened, but no words came out. He had so many questions—Who was this woman? How did she know about his magic? Why was she so concerned?

  But she seemed intent on not giving him a chance to ask any of them. She paced back and forth in front of him, muttering to herself, occasionally glancing up at him with a look that made him feel like a misbehaving child.

  Her eyes suddenly narrowed, focusing on his sternum as if she could see straight through his chest. Without warning, she reached out, her hand moving with surprising speed, and plunged it into his shirt. Thorne tried to pull away, but her grip was like iron, her fingers wrapping around the pendant he wore.

  “Where did you get this?” she demanded, her voice low and dangerous. The calm, almost detached demeanor she had shown earlier was gone, replaced by something fiercer, something primal.

  Thorne stammered, caught off guard by the sudden change in her demeanor. “My mother,” he managed to say. “My mother gave it to me.”

  The woman’s eyes widened in shock, and for a moment, she seemed to forget where she was. She stepped back as if she had been slapped, her grip on the pendant loosening until she finally let go. The color drained from her face, and she stared at him with an expression that was a mix of disbelief and something else—fear, perhaps.

  “Your mother?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

  Thorne nodded, his mind racing. Who was this woman? How did she know about his pendant? How had she felt his magic?

  But before he could voice any of his questions, the woman seemed to regain her composure. Her expression hardened, the brief moment of vulnerability vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. “Never use the primal aether in the presence of others again,” she said, her voice cold and final. Then, without another word, she turned and vanished, dissolving into the shadows as if she had never been there.

  Thorne stood there, in the now-empty hallway, the ancient statue beside him his only companion. The events of the last few minutes swirled in his mind, each question feeding into the next, creating a storm of confusion and uncertainty.

  Who was she? And what did she know about his mother?

  As the silence pressed in around him, Thorne realized just how much he didn’t know—and how dangerous that ignorance could be.

  Thorne remained where he was for a few precious moments, confusion and worry swirling within him. The encounter with the mysterious woman had shaken him more than he cared to admit. His hand instinctively touched the pendant beneath his shirt. Why did she care so much about his mother’s pendant?

  But as much as he wanted to dwell on those questions, he couldn’t afford to let them distract him now. There was a mission to complete, and if he failed, it could cost him far more than answers. He let out a slow breath, forcing his emotions to settle. That’s something he could deal with later.

  Now, he had to focus.

  Looking around, Thorne realized Seraphina had dragged him so far from the ballroom that he had no idea where he was. The stone walls, flickering with soft light from sconces and torches, seemed to close in on him, and he gritted his teeth in frustration. He strained his hearing, trying to pick up any sounds that might guide him back. Distant voices, the hum of music, and the low murmur of conversation drifted faintly toward him.

  That would do.

  He began moving toward the sound, following it as his only guide through the maze-like hallways. For minutes, he wandered aimlessly, turning corner after corner with no idea if he was getting closer to the grand ballroom or further away. He tried to ignore the unease building in his chest, forcing himself to focus. He had barely seen any servants, and that worried him.

  Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Thorne spotted a hurried-looking servant carrying a heap of towels. He stepped into the servant’s path and without hesitation, demanded directions to the ballroom.

  The servant pointed down another long corridor, barely sparing him a glance before rushing off again.

  Thorne exhaled, righted his clothes, and slicked his hair back into place as he walked. Activating his Mask of Deceit skill, he allowed his outward appearance to return to the calm, composed noble he was pretending to be. As the sounds of the party grew louder, his focus sharpened. He was nearing the grand ballroom again—back where he was supposed to be.

  But as he moved down an elegant hallway with wide arches and flickering candelabras, something caught his attention from the corner of his eye—movement.

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  His heart skipped a beat as his gaze locked onto the figure ahead. Lord Valewyn, his target. The warden of the west.

  He stopped dead in his tracks, indecision warring within him. Should he return to the party and rejoin Alden and the nobles, or should he follow his target now? His task was supposed to be networking, not assassination. The kill had been assigned to Jareth and Rhea. They were the ones meant to handle that part of the mission.

  But here he was, right in front of him. An opportunity had presented itself.

  Before he could second-guess himself, Thorne acted. He activated Shadow Meld, his body blending seamlessly into the dim lighting of the corridor, followed by Stealth, muffling any sound he made as he moved silently in pursuit of Lord Valewyn.

  The noble turned right into a narrow side corridor—one far less decorated, with plain stone walls and a cramped feel. Clearly, it was a passage used by the servants. Thorne closed the distance between them, moving as quickly as he dared without compromising his stealth.

  As he crept closer, he realized that Lord Valewyn wasn’t alone.

  Damn it.

  The presence of a second person complicated things, but he couldn’t afford to back out now. He needed to know what was going on, to gather any information that might be useful.

  Keeping his breathing steady, Thorne followed the two men as they made their way down the dimly lit corridor. Their voices were low, but the acoustics of the narrow space allowed snippets of their conversation to reach his ears.

  As Thorne moved closer, careful not to make a sound, he strained to hear the content of their conversation. Lord Valewyn’s deep, commanding voice was unmistakable, but the other man spoke in hushed tones, his words barely audible.

  They came to a stop in front of a large wooden door at the end of the corridor. Thorne’s pulse quickened as he realized they were about to enter an office, a place that was likely to contain valuable information. He pressed himself against the wall, watching as Lord Valewyn pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked the door.

  The two men stepped inside, and Thorne hesitated for a brief moment before following. The door had not closed all the way, leaving a small gap just wide enough for him to slip through.

  He slid into the room silently, his heart pounding as he took in his surroundings. It was an opulent office, decorated with rich, dark wood and heavy, luxurious drapes. A large desk dominated the center of the room, covered in papers and ledgers, while the walls were lined with bookshelves filled with ancient tomes and artifacts.

  Thorne kept to the shadows, his eyes fixed on the two men as they moved toward the desk. Lord Valewyn gestured for the other man to sit, and the conversation resumed, this time in tones that Thorne could just barely make out.

  The man that Lord Valewyn was with lacked the polish of the other nobles, but his relaxed posture and casual demeanor indicated that he didn’t care much about the Warden of the West. Thorne observed the blond man closely, noting his plain attire and the confidence with which he carried himself—a confidence that spoke of power, but not the kind that came from wealth or title.

  "So? Are we ready?" Lord Valewyn demanded, a note of impatience in his voice.

  The other man had an uninterested look on his face, his eyes lazily sweeping the room. For a brief moment, his gaze lingered on Thorne’s hiding spot, causing Thorne’s heart to pound in his chest. But thankfully, the man’s eyes returned to Lord Valewyn.

  “The chancellor will decide when the time is right,” the man replied with a tone of casual authority. “He hasn’t reached the position he’s in by acting on impulse.”

  Thorne felt his heart squeeze painfully at the mention of the chancellor—the man who had ordered his family’s death. He looked at the mysterious man with renewed interest, memorizing every detail of his face, every subtle expression, and mannerism.

  “The operation,” the man continued, “must be a complete success. No witnesses, no survivors. Complete extermination.”

  Lord Valewyn opened his mouth several times as if trying to speak, but it took him a moment to find his voice. “But... but he has to act now!” he finally stammered. “The nobles are already suspicious. There is talk about them... I’m worried they will act against me!”

  The other man scoffed. “You have no need to fear. As long as the chancellor is by your side, there is no danger of the western provinces falling into another family’s hands. You are safe.”

  Despite the reassurance, Lord Valewyn didn’t seem convinced. His eyes darted around the room, his mind clearly racing through a million different contingencies. “It may be so... but...” He licked his lips nervously as if trying to find the courage to speak. “It sets a bad precedent... if they find out... it is more prudent to act now...”

  The other man cut him off, his tone sharp. “The chancellor will not make a move until he is assured of success. Mere warriors and soldiers are not up to the task. He will need someone who can annihilate an entire army.”

  Lord Valewyn’s eyes widened in shock. “He is willing to deploy HIM?” The noble’s voice quivered, all the confidence drained from him. He sat heavily on an armchair, as if his legs could no longer support him.

  The other man smirked. “Of course. The chancellor doesn’t like to leave his missions up to chance, and he’s not very forgiving. They’ve infringed on his territory, questioned his authority, and they have to pay.”

  Lord Valewyn nodded weakly, his face pale as a ghost. “Do not take the kindness he showed you for granted,” the man continued, his voice low and menacing. “He took you back despite your betrayal because you are useful. But that doesn’t mean he won’t change his mind once you are no longer useful to him.”

  The noble, who had exuded confidence and entitlement earlier in the ballroom, now looked like a scared little child. “Of course, of course! I am a faithful servant to the chancellor!” he hurried to reassure, his voice trembling. “I’ve done everything he asked of me—collecting information and using them as per his instructions!”

  The other man nodded, looking bored as he stood up and picked at an invisible lint on his black jacket. “Very well. We should return to the ballroom. Your absence would have been noted, and I have a few more contacts to get in touch with.”

  Lord Valewyn nodded, but he remained seated, his hands clutching the armrests of the chair as if he were too terrified to move. “I’ll return shortly,” he mumbled. “I have... some obligations to take care of...”

  The other man smirked, clearly aware that Lord Valewyn was too frightened to leave the room. He crossed the room toward the door, and as he did, Thorne felt an unsettling sensation wash over him. To his shock, he could feel the man’s core—a powerful, oppressive energy that radiated from him like heat from a furnace.

  Thorne nearly lost his grip on his Shadow Meld skill, the realization hitting him like a physical blow. This man was no ordinary man—he was something far more dangerous. The sheer power emanating from his core was overwhelming, and Thorne knew that he was in the presence of someone far beyond his level.

  The man’s pace slowed as he neared Thorne, and Thorne didn’t dare breathe. Every instinct screamed at him to run, but he remained rooted to the spot, hidden within the shadows.

  The man passed by him, mere meters separating them, and opened the door. But before he could leave, Lord Valewyn spoke up, his voice trembling. “How long?”

  The mysterious man paused, his hand on the door, and responded without turning around. “Just a few months.”

  With that, he stepped out of the room, the door closing behind him with a soft click. Thorne remained where he was, his heart pounding in his chest as he processed what he had just heard. The chancellor’s reach extended further than he had imagined, and the forces at play were far more dangerous than he had anticipated.

  It couldn’t be a coincidence that the day he had found information about Bea, was the day he heard about the cursed man that had ordered the execution of his family. He gritted his teeth, anger and frustration bubbling up in a dangerous cocktail inside him.

  He needed to get out of here—now. But as he turned to leave, his eyes fell on Lord Valewyn, still seated in the chair, his face pale and drenched in sweat. The man looked utterly defeated, a far cry from the powerful noble he had appeared to be in the ballroom.

  He couldn’t just leave now. Now that his target was alone and helpless. He had to complete his mission.

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