Thorne lay paralyzed on the cold floor, his body a prisoner to the poison coursing through his veins. Each breath felt like a monumental effort, his muscles refusing to respond to his commands.

  All he could do was lie there, helpless, as Corwin approached with slow, deliberate steps. The usual jittery energy that characterized Corwin was absent; instead, there was a cold, cruel expression on his face that made Thorne’s blood run cold.

  Corwin crouched down in front of Thorne, a smirk twisting his lips as he placed the serrated edge of his knife against Thorne’s cheek. “Well, well,” Corwin said softly, his voice almost a purr. “Looks like you’ve had a rough night, Thorne.”

  Thorne tried to speak, to summon some semblance of strength, but all that came out was a low, hoarse whisper. “Corwin...”

  Corwin crouched lower, his smirk widening as he reached out to brush a strand of hair from Thorne’s forehead. “Shh, don’t waste your energy. You’ll need it for what comes next.”

  Thorne’s vision blurred, his thoughts becoming sluggish as the poison continued to work its way through his system. He struggled to focus, to find some way out of this, but his options were rapidly dwindling.

  “You know,” Corwin continued, his tone conversational, “I’ve always admired you, Thorne. You’re strong, clever, ruthless when you need to be. But you’ve got one fatal flaw—you are too cocky. You dismiss those you think are beneath you.”

  Thorne’s fingers twitched, a feeble attempt to reach for a weapon, any weapon. But Corwin noticed the movement and tutted softly, shaking his head.

  “Don’t bother,” he said. “You’re done. That poison is strong—it’ll keep you down for hours, long enough for me to finish what I came here to do.”

  Thorne’s heart pounded in his chest, his mind screaming at him to move, to fight, to do something. But his body remained stubbornly unresponsive, pinned down by the poison sapping his strength.

  “Just to be clear, this is not personal, mate,” Corwin said, his tone almost friendly, but there was no mistaking the malice behind it. The blade pressed into Thorne’s skin, drawing a thin line of blood. “Just doing a favor for a friend... for a price, of course.”

  Desperation clawed at Thorne's mind as he tried to summon the last vestiges of his strength. He reached deep within himself, trying to call upon the aether that had saved him so many times before. He activated Aether Surge, but his drained body didn’t respond. It was as if the aether was slipping through his fingers, just out of reach. If only... if only he could reach it...

  Corwin stood up, pacing leisurely, playing with the knife as if he were savoring the moment. He seemed to relish seeing Thorne so helpless, the power dynamic completely in his favor.

  “You know,” Corwin began, his voice almost conversational, “you have more enemies than you realize. Actually, there’s an enemy around every corner. Uncle’s protection is the only thing shielding you from their hands. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t plotting, bidding their time, waiting for the right opportunity.”

  Thorne’s mind raced, his thoughts frantic. He activated Aether Vision, desperate to find a way—any way—to do something, anything.

  He tried to use Aether Burst, but his mind was too foggy, his body too drained. A small cluster of aether motes imploded weakly, the effects too insignificant to cause any real damage. A faint ripple flowed through the room, and Corwin narrowed his eyes, taking a step closer.

  “Here, away from Uncle’s clutches, is the perfect opportunity,” Corwin continued, his voice low and dangerous. “An opportunity your enemies weren’t willing to pass up.”

  Thorne was desperate. He had known. He had known something like this was coming. One night, while wandering through the base’s tunnels, he had overheard his name whispered.

  It had become a habit of his to use Stealth and Shadow Meld to train, leveling up his skills in secret. He hadn’t been noticed, but he had seen Corwin talking to someone, being handed a small vial and instructed to use it when the time was right to kill him. Thorne had wanted to see the face of the speaker, but the shadows had concealed them.

  Later that night, Thorne had sneaked into the washroom and found the poison. He had taken a few drops back to Ben, who had managed to create an antidote—imperfect, but it was all they had. Ben had warned Thorne that the antidote might take time to work, given the lack of proper ingredients. Ever since, Thorne had carried the small bottle with him everywhere.

  But now he realized he had been poisoned too late. If only he could reach it... Wait...

  Corwin continued talking, unaware of Thorne's struggle. “Actually, I quite like you, Thorne. Even if you are an arrogant ass. But then, the great ones usually are.” He smirked, his eyes gleaming with a twisted sense of amusement. “I have a confession to make—I’m an arrogant ass as well. I even had you fooled! I think we may have a similar skill. Mine’s called ‘Face of Lies.’ It makes me look jittery and scared.”

  His smirk faded into a frown. “Though, to be honest, I would’ve preferred if I didn’t have to look like a weakling.”

  Thorne wanted to curse, but his body refused to obey. He tried again to form strings of aether, to bind the small bottle in his pocket and bring it to his mouth. The plan was simple enough in theory, but the execution was anything but.

  After years of working with the aether, he had come to understand its intricacies, how to manipulate its motes and force them into solid constructs. Still, there was a fine Iine he had to grasp. The reaction of the aether motes turning solid was brief and happened when a specific force was applied to them. Too much and they would implode, too little and they would flee. In theory it wasn’t too complicated, but his exhausted mind made the process infinitely more difficult.

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  Still, he persisted.

  Corwin walked over to the window, looking out at the sprawling city below. “You know, I’m quite good at spying and all that crap. I actually enjoy it. I like being the hunter, not the hunted. But that shithole we call a base? It’s full of scheming and politics, and I hate it. But I need the coins. Maybe after I kill you, I’ll disappear and try to strike it on my own. I’ve got the coins now.”

  Thorne’s focus narrowed as he finally managed to create a long string of aether motes. He realized he needed to use motes of a single color. He had experimented with different colors before—red was too unpredictable, yellow too unyielding, black too elusive. But brown... brown was steady, reliable. It followed his commands without hesitation.

  The string snaked toward his pocket, gathering more motes as it traveled, like a caterpillar feeding and growing longer.

  The string latched onto the bottle, and Thorne felt a flicker of hope. Maybe, just maybe, he could pull this off.

  “Sadly for you, I have to kill you,” Corwin continued, his tone almost regretful. “My employer was adamant about it. I wonder what you did to create such hatred, such envy.”

  Thorne applied more pressure to the string, feeling it change, becoming solid under his will. He tested his hold on it, willing the bottle to move. To his surprise, the small bottle shifted inside his pocket.

  His eyes darted to Corwin, who was still talking, still looking out at the city. With painstaking caution, Thorne willed the bottle to move closer. The fabric of his pocket rustled slightly as the bottle began to snake out. Thorne wanted to cry out in relief.

  A notification popped up in his vision, almost breaking his concentration:

  Congratulations!

  New skill Unlocked: Invisible Threads!

  Thorne saw the bottle hover in the air, just centimeters above his body. His tired mind stuttered for a moment, and the bottle wobbled, losing height. He quickly refocused, firming his will, and the bottle stopped its descent. His mind felt like it was wading through a sea of exhaustion, each thought and command slow and sluggish. The bottle moved, centimeter by centimeter, until it hovered above his mouth.

  Now came the most difficult task.

  His mind tunneled, focused solely on creating a second thread of aether. It didn’t need to be long—just a few motes to latch onto the stopper. The moment the thread was formed, two notifications popped up in his vision:

  Skill level up: Invisible Threads!

  Skill level up: Invisible Threads!

  Thorne guessed the difficulty of the task played a role in a skill's progression. The stopper fell with a faint pop, and the cold liquid inside began trickling down. At first, his aim was off, and the antidote spilled onto his shirt. But he corrected it by moving the bottle forward. His mouth was partially open, and most of the liquid fell to the side, but a few precious drops made it inside.

  Corwin, still talking, suddenly froze mid-sentence. He whirled around, his eyes widening in shock. “What the—?” he exclaimed, his voice thick with disbelief.

  Thorne tipped the bottle, letting the antidote splash onto his face. More drops fell into his open mouth, the bitter liquid sliding down his throat. Corwin dashed toward him, his face twisted in fury. “You motherfucker,” he seethed, “how did you do that?”

  He didn’t wait for a response. With a snarl, he plunged his knife toward Thorne’s heart. Thorne felt a sharp, piercing pain just as the fog in his mind began to lift. His vision cleared, and the world snapped back into focus.

  Corwin stared at him in disbelief, his eyes wide. “How many damn health points do you have?” he exclaimed in frustration. “I even used Devastating Blow—it deals twice the damage—and you’re still alive?”

  Thorne quickly checked his health. The blow had been catastrophic, reducing his health points by over four hundred, leaving him with less than three hundred remaining. He couldn’t afford to take another hit.

  Corwin raised his knife again, aiming for another killing blow. Thorne managed to move, just an inch, but it was enough. Instead of a fatal strike, the knife plunged into his side, sending a wave of searing pain through his body. He moaned, his breath ragged and shallow.

  “You’re like a cockroach!” Corwin hissed, his voice laced with venom.

  But Thorne was no longer helpless. The antidote had worked, and though his body was still weak, his mind was clear. Summoning what little energy he had left, Thorne raised his trembling hand and called upon the aether. With a flick of his wrist, he unleashed Aether Burst.

  A small explosion reverberated through the room, sending Corwin flying across the room. His body hit the wall with a sickening thud and crumpled to the floor.

  Corwin lay on the floor, his body twitching in pain as he struggled to rise. His face and body were riddled with wounds from the blast, his skin scorched and bleeding. Yet, with a grimace of determination, he pushed himself up, his movements fueled by sheer spite. His eyes, now wide with a mixture of disbelief and fury, flicked toward the door as if contemplating an escape.

  Thorne, seeing Corwin’s intentions, whispered hoarsely, "Oh no, you don’t." His voice was weak, barely more than a rasp, but it carried a steely resolve.

  With what little strength he had left, Thorne summoned another thread of aether, this one more powerful and controlled than before. The thread shot out, wrapping around Corwin's wrist just as he made a desperate dash for the door. The aether thread tightened like a vice, yanking Corwin off his feet and slamming him back onto the ground with a bone-jarring thud.

  "What the hell, man? What are you?" Corwin gasped, his voice tinged with fear as he struggled against the invisible force holding him down.

  Thorne didn’t respond. He couldn’t. His energy was spent, his body teetering on the edge of collapse. His stamina had just barely reached double digits, and he knew that if he tried to move, he would be writhing on the floor again, powerless. The only option left to him was the one thing he had tried to avoid using—the aether.

  The warning of the mysterious woman echoed in his mind, but in this moment, Thorne knew he couldn’t afford to be cautious. If he hesitated, Corwin would escape, and Thorne’s life would be forfeit. He had no choice.

  Gathering the remnants of his willpower, Thorne raised his trembling hands and called upon a skill he had only used a handful of times—Aether Grip. The aether around him responded, condensing into ethereal hands that materialized in the air, translucent and shimmering with a pale light. The hands swarmed toward Corwin, wrapping around him with the force of a vice, binding him in their unyielding grip.

  Corwin’s eyes widened in terror as the aetherial hands clamped down on him. He tried to scream, but one of the hands covered his mouth, muffling his cries. His body thrashed against the invisible bonds, but he was powerless against the strength of the aether.

  Thorne flicked his wrist, and the hands moved in unison, twisting Corwin’s body with a sickening crack. The sound of snapping bones echoed through the room as Corwin’s body contorted unnaturally, his spine snapping in two. The life drained from Corwin’s eyes as his body went limp, the light fading from his gaze.

  As soon as the deed was done, Thorne’s strength gave out completely. The aetherial hands dissipated into the air, vanishing as if they had never existed. Thorne collapsed onto the floor, his body utterly spent. He could feel his stamina slowly replenishing, but it wasn’t enough to give him the strength to move.

  All he could do was lie there, too weak to even crawl, next to Corwin’s twisted, lifeless body.

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