Thorne leaned back against the wooden planks of the cart, feeling the rough texture dig into his shoulders. The cart jolted slightly as it rolled over uneven patches of the dirt road, but Thorne barely registered the movement. His thoughts were elsewhere, tangled in a web of uncertainty and unease.

  Jareth and Rhea, seated across from him, had wasted no time in bombarding Sid with questions as soon as the man had climbed into the cart. Their voices overlapped, urgency and tension evident in their tones.

  “What was all that about?” Rhea demanded, her voice tinged with frustration. “The mission was way more dangerous than what we signed up for!”

  Jareth nodded in agreement, his expression dark. “The folder we found—it had names and faces of the guild members. How did Lord Valewyn get his hands on that? And why weren’t we informed?”

  Sid, ever composed and unreadable, held up a hand to silence them. “Let me see the folder,” he said, his voice firm and leaving no room for argument.

  Jareth handed over the heavy folder without hesitation. Sid flipped through the pages, his sharp eyes scanning the contents with meticulous attention to detail. When he was satisfied, he closed the folder and tucked it securely into his coat.

  “This document,” Sid began, his tone measured, “is a serious breach of the guild’s security. The mission was more than just an assassination; it was about containing the damage, preventing this information from reaching the wrong hands.”

  “Who would be interested in such information?” Rhea asked, her brow furrowed in confusion.

  “Any number of factions,” Sid replied, his gaze hardening. “Rival guilds, enemies of the Lost Ones, or even the Crown itself. The West is a critical region, and the power balance is delicate. This information, if used correctly, could cripple the guild and its operations.”

  “So what happens now?” Jareth pressed, his voice edged with concern.

  “Now,” Sid said, his tone leaving no room for debate, “you keep your mouths shut. No one outside this cart is to know what you found or what you did. The guild will handle the rest. Your job is done.”

  Rhea and Jareth exchanged uneasy glances but nodded in agreement. Sid’s authority was absolute, and they knew better than to question it further.

  As the conversation continued, Thorne found himself withdrawing into his own thoughts. The words around him blurred, becoming a distant hum as he focused on something else entirely. His new skill, Invisible Threads, fascinated him. The delicate balance required to form and control the aether strings intrigued him, and he couldn’t resist the urge to test its limits.

  Without the others taking notice, he wove a series of threads, creating intricate patterns that only he could see. The motes of aether responded to his will, dancing in the air before him. The threads intertwined, forming delicate webs that shimmered with an ethereal glow. It was a small, private escape from the chaos of his thoughts, a way to regain a sense of control over something, anything.

  He glanced out of the cart, his eyes scanning the roadside for potential targets. A small rock lay just off the path, half-buried in the dirt. Thorne extended his will, forming an aether thread with careful precision. The thread snaked out, invisible against the backdrop of the forest. It wrapped around the rock, tugging it gently from the ground.

  The rock lifted slightly, then dropped back down as Thorne released the thread. He frowned, noting the effort it had taken to move even such a small object. The skill was still new, and he needed to understand its limitations.

  Next, he targeted a low-hanging branch, its leaves rustling in the breeze. The thread coiled around it, and with a bit more focus, Thorne managed to pull the branch downward. It wasn’t much, but it was progress. He could feel the aether flowing through him, responding to his commands, but he also felt the strain it put on his already exhausted body.

  As the cart rolled on, Thorne continued his experiments. He moved from rocks and branches to more challenging targets. A squirrel darted across the road, and Thorne tried to latch onto it with his threads. The squirrel hesitated, as if sensing the aether, then bolted into the underbrush before Thorne could fully ensnare it.

  Thorne let out a frustrated sigh, rubbing his temples. The skill was powerful, but it required a level of finesse and control that he had yet to master. The strain on his body was noticeable, and he knew he couldn’t push himself too hard, not in his current state. The poison had drained him, and even though the antidote had worked, he was far from fully recovered.

  Sid noticed Thorne’s unusually quiet demeanor, his sharp eyes narrowing as he studied the young assassin. “Something on your mind, Thorne?” he asked, his tone probing.

  Thorne snapped out of his reverie, the aether threads dissipating into nothingness as he met Sid’s gaze. “Nothing,” he muttered, forcing a casual tone. “Just… thinking.”

  Sid didn’t press further, but Thorne could feel the weight of his gaze lingering. He knew better than to show weakness, but in that moment, he couldn’t help the weariness that settled over him thinking again and again about that night.

  *

  The night air was cool and crisp as Thorne wandered through the streets of Valewind, his head throbbing with a persistent headache. He had hoped the fresh air might ease the pain, but as he moved through the city, the tension that gripped him only seemed to tighten.

  Valewind was beautiful, especially at night. The city was alive with energy, a festive atmosphere that seemed to spill out of every building and onto the cobblestone streets. The soft glow of lamplights cast a warm, golden hue over everything, the flickering flames creating an enchanting ambiance. As Thorne walked, he passed by grand buildings, their exteriors adorned with intricate carvings and tall, arched windows. The architecture here was unlike anything he had ever seen in Alvar. Everything was meticulously crafted, every detail designed to showcase the wealth and power of the city’s elite.

  But despite the beauty surrounding him, Thorne felt a sense of disconnection, as if he didn’t truly belong here. He walked down wide, elegant boulevards lined with trees that rustled softly in the breeze. The leaves, golden and red in the autumn air, fluttered to the ground, carpeting the streets in a blanket of color. Couples strolled along, hand in hand, their laughter and quiet conversation drifting through the night. Thorne watched them for a moment, envying their ease, their simplicity.

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  He continued his walk, finding himself on a bridge that spanned a small river. The water below flowed silently, reflecting the lights of the city like a shimmering ribbon of gold. Thorne leaned on the railing, gazing out at the view. From this vantage point, the city of Valewind stretched out below him, a sea of twinkling lights that seemed to go on forever. For a moment, he allowed himself to forget everything—the mission, the lies, the danger. He was just Thorne, the orphan boy who had grown up in the dirty streets of Alvar.

  But even here, in this peaceful moment, the weight of the upcoming ball never truly left his mind. Tomorrow would be crucial, and he needed to be ready. The headache that had driven him from the inn still pulsed in his temples, a constant reminder of the stress and tension that had been building over the past few days.

  After a long while, Thorne pushed himself away from the railing and began to make his way back to the inn. He had walked far, almost losing himself in the city, and now he had to return. The streets were quieter now, the earlier bustle dying down as the night grew late. He passed by elegant shops with their windows darkened, their wares hidden from view. A few late-night revelers stumbled out of a nearby tavern, their laughter loud and boisterous as they made their way down the street.

  As he neared the inn, Thorne felt the urge to slip back into his role as the noble Thorne Silverbane. But the thought of running into another noble at this hour, of having to entertain them with polite conversation, was more than he could bear. Instead, he activated his Stealth skill, allowing himself to fade into the shadows, and decided to use the back entrance. The inn had a reputation for hosting the wealthy and influential, and it wouldn’t be surprising if someone was watching him.

  He moved through the dimly lit streets, the flickering lamplights casting long shadows on the cobblestones. Just as he was about to turn into the alley that led to the inn’s back entrance, a voice stopped him in his tracks—a voice that sent a chill down his spine.

  Corwin.

  The constant murmur of the city faded into the background as Thorne’s focus zeroed in on that single voice. Dread coiled in his stomach, tightening with every step he took. He didn’t want to hear this conversation—he knew that—but something compelled him to move forward, as if he were a moth drawn to a flame.

  He activated Shadow Meld and slipped into a side alley, scaling the steep wall of a small shop with practiced ease. His fingers found purchase on the roof, and he pulled himself up, moving with silent precision until he crouched at the edge, peering down into the narrow alley below.

  There, standing in the dim light, was Corwin... and Rhea.

  Thorne’s heart pounded in his chest as he watched the two of them, their heads close together, their voices low. He strained to hear, focusing on every word that passed between them.

  “This is ridiculous,” Corwin muttered, his voice a mix of frustration and fear. “Why do I have to use that poison? Why not something that would kill him instantly?”

  Rhea’s response was a low growl, her tone dripping with irritation. “Because, you idiot, we don’t know how many health points Thorne has. If we mess up the dose and he survives, he’ll figure it out, and we’re both finished.”

  Corwin scowled, still not convinced. “But what if it doesn’t work? What if he notices something’s off?”

  Rhea’s eyes narrowed, her expression cold and calculating. “Then that’s where you come in. You’ll be the one to finish him off if anything goes wrong.”

  Corwin’s face twisted in dismay. “Of course, I’ll be the one sticking my neck out. And what about you? You just get to sit back and watch?”

  “That’s the point,” Rhea snapped. “If something goes wrong, he won’t know I was involved. I’ll have another chance to kill him. You don’t get it, do you? We’re assassins. We don’t take chances. This is the best way to ensure he doesn’t see it coming.”

  Corwin muttered under his breath, clearly unhappy with the arrangement. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one risking your life.”

  Rhea’s gaze hardened. “You think I’m not risking anything? You don’t know half of what’s at stake here. And don’t forget who gave the order.”

  Thorne’s breath caught in his throat. Someone else was involved—someone who had orchestrated this betrayal. But who? And why?

  Corwin shot her a sidelong glance, a flicker of something like doubt crossing his face. “I thought you were friends with Thorne. You seemed close. I’m surprised you’re so eager to get rid of him.”

  Rhea’s expression darkened, a dangerous edge to her voice. “Shut it, Corwin. You know nothing about me, about him, or about what’s really going on. This isn’t about friendship. It’s about survival.”

  Corwin’s eyes flicked around the alley, as if checking to see if anyone else was listening. “I know that,” he said, his voice quieter now. “But I didn’t think you’d go this far.”

  Rhea’s lip curled in disgust. “I don’t have to explain myself to you. You are an assassin, do your job.”

  Corwin hesitated, then sighed, resigned. “I guess you’re right. We’re assassins. Trusting anyone is a fool’s game.”

  “Exactly,” Rhea said, her tone final. “Now, stop complaining and do what you’re told. When the time comes, we’ll both play our parts.”

  There was a pause, the silence stretching between them. Then Corwin spoke again, his voice quieter, almost hesitant. “So, what do we do if he doesn’t take the bait? If he suspects something?”

  Rhea’s eyes flashed with annoyance. “That’s why you’re going to be the one to administer it. You’re good at playing the fool, so use that to your advantage. Make him think you’re harmless, just like always.”

  Corwin let out a bitter laugh. “Playing the fool, huh? I’ve gotten pretty good at that. But what if it doesn’t work? What if he…”

  “Then you improvise,” Rhea cut him off sharply. “Figure it out. That’s what we do. We adapt.”

  Thorne’s stomach churned as he listened to their cold, calculated words. There was no hesitation, no doubt in their voices. They were planning his death as if it were just another job, just another target to eliminate.

  Corwin shifted uncomfortably, his gaze darting to the entrance of the alley. “And what about the others? Are they in on this too?”

  Rhea’s expression softened, just a fraction. “No. This stays between us. The fewer people who know, the better.”

  “So it’s just us?” Corwin asked, his voice tinged with relief.

  “For now,” Rhea replied, her tone firm. “And that’s how it’s going to stay. Now, let’s get back before someone notices we’re gone.”

  With that, the two of them turned and left the alley, their footsteps fading into the night. Thorne remained where he was, crouched on the roof, his mind reeling from what he had just heard.

  He stayed there long after they were gone, his body numb with shock. Rhea, the one person he had thought he could trust, was planning to kill him. And not just her—there was someone else, someone pulling the strings from behind the scenes.

  As the truth settled in, the headache that had been plaguing him returned with a vengeance, a sharp, blinding pain that made him double over. He tried to hold it back, to keep his composure, but it was too much. He leaned over the edge of the roof and vomited, his body shaking with the force of it.

  When it was over, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his vision blurred with tears of pain and betrayal. He wanted to scream, to lash out, but he knew it would do no good. He was alone, surrounded by enemies, and the only way to survive was to keep playing the game.

  *

  Thorne blinked, the vivid memory of that night fading as he returned to the present. His surroundings came back into focus—the gentle rocking of the cart, the rhythmic creak of the wooden wheels as they rolled over the uneven road.

  His eyes shifted to Rhea, who sat across from him, her attention focused on her greatsword. She was sharpening the blade with slow, deliberate strokes, her expression set in that familiar stoic mask. The metallic rasp of the whetstone against steel filled the silence between them, a sound that seemed to echo in Thorne's mind.

  He watched her, his thoughts churning. There was no hint of the cold, calculating woman he had overheard in that alley. Yet the memory of her words, the callousness with which she had plotted his death, was burned into his mind.

  At that moment, a cold realization settled over him—there was no other way. He had to kill her before she did. It was the only way to ensure his survival.

  As the cart continued down the road, Thorne's gaze never left Rhea. His expression remained unreadable, but inside, the decision had already been made.

  He would kill her.

  Before she killed him.

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