Thorne lay sprawled out on the attic floor, too tired and in too much pain to keep standing. His body ached from the brutal events in the forest, and though his Lunar Regeneration had helped, the moment he stepped inside, the healing had stopped, leaving him to deal with the full brunt of his injuries. He winced, shifting slightly to find a less painful position, but his whole body felt like one giant bruise.

  Jonah sat nearby, waiting for Ben to emerge from his Alchemical Trance. His friend kept glancing at him, his eyes narrowing in suspicion every time they landed on Thorne’s numerous cuts and bruises. Jonah wasn’t stupid. They’d been friends too long, and he could tell when something was off.

  Finally, Jonah spoke, his voice low but probing. "What happened to you, Thorne?" His tone carried more than just casual concern—it was edged with suspicion. His eyes scanned the bruises, the gashes, the barely healed wounds. "You look like you fought a damn war."

  Thorne sighed, avoiding Jonah’s gaze. "Just got into a bit of trouble. It’s nothing."

  Jonah wasn’t having it. "Trouble? You look half-dead." He leaned forward, his brow furrowed. "And I’m not just talking about some random fight, either. You’ve been… off, ever since the explosion. Were you out there when it happened? Did you see it?"

  Thorne hesitated, not really wanting to share what had truly happened. He didn’t want to lie, but he couldn’t just tell Jonah that he had caused the catastrophe that had swept through the forest and transformed the city. He regretted, but kept silent, not trusting himself to speak.

  Jonah’s eyes narrowed further, and after a long, tense pause, realization crept into his expression. “Wait… no.” His voice dropped, incredulous. “You… you weren’t involved, were you?” He leaned closer, his face tight with disbelief. “Thorne. Tell me you didn’t have anything to do with that… that thing. The explosion. Please.”

  Thorne stayed silent.

  Jonah’s disbelief turned into a sigh, and he ran a hand through his hair in exasperation. “You’ve got to be kidding me, man,” he muttered. “I—Thorne, seriously?”

  Thorne still couldn’t meet his eyes. The truth sat on the edge of his tongue, but he swallowed it down. He didn’t want to lie to Jonah, but he couldn’t exactly reassure him, either.

  Jonah groaned, getting up from his seat and rummaging through a small crate. Bottles clinked together as he dug through them, muttering to himself. Finally, he pulled out a small vial filled with a shimmering red liquid. "Here," he said, tossing the health potion toward Thorne. "I was supposed to sell this in my shop, but I guess I owe you for giving me my new skill." His voice was more annoyed than grateful, but the gesture was appreciated.

  Thorne caught the potion with a nod of thanks. He uncorked it, the sharp, almost metallic scent filling his nose. He drank it in one gulp, feeling the warmth of it spread through his body, mending his deeper wounds. It wasn’t instantaneous like the moon’s power, but it helped. Inside the tavern, with no moonlight to touch his skin, his Lunar Regeneration had ceased. The potion was a necessary relief.

  "Thanks," Thorne said, finally able to sit up without wincing.

  Jonah waved a hand dismissively, still pacing around the attic. "Yeah, yeah, don’t mention it. Besides, with this skill of mine, I’ll be swimming in potions soon. Gold’s Whisper is already paying off."

  Thorne managed a smile, but his mind was elsewhere. "What about Darius?" he asked, trying to shift the conversation away from his own situation.

  Jonah shrugged. "He came by earlier to check up on us. Stayed for a minute, then rushed off with his guard buddies. Apparently, they’re running all over the city trying to keep people calm. You know, with the whole ‘magical explosion’ and all." Jonah’s tone was casual, but Thorne could tell his friend was still thinking about the earlier conversation.

  Before Thorne could respond, Ben finally stirred.

  The large boy took a deep breath, his chest heaving as if he had been holding it underwater for far too long. Thorne’s Veil Sense hummed in the back of his mind, alerting him to a sudden spike of aether coming from Ben. It wasn’t aggressive, but the surge was undeniable.

  Ben blinked, his eyes a bit glassy as he came out of the Alchemical Trance, and then his face lit up with excitement. He immediately started signing with his hands, his fingers moving rapidly.

  I learned a new recipe, Ben signed, his eyes wide with enthusiasm. My new skill showed me how to make it. I don’t know if that’ll happen every time, but… I did it. I created something new.

  Thorne smiled. Ben was practically glowing, but beneath that excitement, he noticed the boy looked drained. Exhausted, even.

  Jonah, ever the opportunist, leaned in eagerly. “Wait, wait. What potion? Let me see it!” His eyes gleamed with a mix of curiosity and greed as Ben reached for the small vial sitting on his workstation.

  With a somewhat hesitant look, Ben handed the potion to Jonah. It was a deep azure color, shimmering slightly in the dim attic light.

  Jonah’s eyes widened as he turned the vial over in his hands. "What is this? What does it do?"

  Ben signed quickly, his excitement not fading despite his exhaustion. It’s called the Elixir of Flow. It increases the flow of aether in the body for a short period of time. Not a huge boost, but it can help with channeling magic. Or… at least, that’s what it’s supposed to do. I’ll need to test it.

  Jonah’s grin stretched ear to ear. "This… this could be huge!" he muttered, almost to himself. "If this works, we could sell it for a fortune! Ben, do you have any idea what this means for us?"

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  Thorne, however, was watching Ben closely. The boy looked pale and drained, as if he’d just gone through a battle of his own. His hands shook slightly, and he swayed on his feet, catching himself on the edge of the potion station.

  Without a word, Thorne stood and crossed the room to him, gently guiding Ben away from the workstation. "You need to rest," he said firmly, helping him to the bed. "That skill took a lot out of you. Don’t push yourself."

  Ben didn’t resist, his eyelids already drooping as he settled onto the mattress. His large frame sagged against the pillows, and within moments, he was blinking sleepily, his energy spent.

  Jonah, meanwhile, was still turning the vial over in his hands, his mind clearly racing with possibilities. "Do you have any idea what this could mean?" he repeated, his voice full of excitement. "This could be our big break."

  Thorne shot him a glance, his patience running thin. He crossed the room and lightly slapped Jonah on the back of the head. Jonah yelped, glaring up at him.

  "What was that for?" Jonah demanded, rubbing the back of his head.

  "Ben needs rest. You should, too," Thorne said, his voice firm but not unkind. "We’ve all been through a lot, and you’re already dreaming up merchant empires. Let it wait."

  Jonah grumbled but didn’t argue, his eyes still lingering on the potion. "Fine," he muttered, tucking the vial away for later. "But don’t think I’m letting this go. We’re talking about this later."

  Thorne managed a tired smile, shaking his head. "I’m sure we will."

  With a final glance at his friends, Thorne turned and headed toward the door. His body still ached, and his mind was spinning with everything that had happened, but there was one more thing he needed to do before he could rest.

  "Where are you going?" Jonah asked, his voice more curious than accusatory.

  "To Uncle's mansion," Thorne replied, pausing at the door. "I need to check on something."

  Jonah frowned but didn’t push further. With a last look at Ben, who was already drifting off to sleep, Thorne stepped out of the attic and made his way back into the night, the weight of the day pressing down on him as he headed toward the mansion.

  As Thorne made his way toward the noble quarter, his footsteps echoed through the empty streets. The fish market, which was normally bustling with shady characters lurking in the shadows, was eerily quiet. Upturned stalls littered the area, broken crates spilling their contents across the cobblestones. Not even the usual night dwellers were around. The only movement came from a stray cat, its glowing yellow eyes following him as it meowed softly from atop an overturned barrel. The sight was unsettling in its own way—Alvar had always had a pulse, even in the darkest hours. Now, it felt like the city was holding its breath.

  As he passed deeper into the heart of the city, Thorne noticed the damage became less severe. The center of Alvar looked almost intact, with only a few signs of destruction here and there—broken shutters, a toppled sign, a cracked window. It wasn’t enough to suggest total chaos, but something about the quiet stillness left him uneasy.

  Then, something ahead stopped him in his tracks.

  Guards clustered in a wide circle, their shouts cutting through the night air. In the middle of them stood a man, his face feverish, wild-eyed with a manic grin stretching across his features. The guards were yelling at him, tightening their perimeter, their weapons drawn but not yet attacking. Thorne could tell something was wrong—terribly wrong.

  Beside the man were two stone statues. But Thorne knew better.

  Before his eyes, a guard stepped just a little too close to the man, and a sickening crack filled the air. The guard’s skin began to gray, his movements slowing as the stone crept over his body, locking him in place. His expression was frozen in terror as the transformation took hold.

  Thorne’s blood ran cold. The man was rooted to the ground, focused intently on his new skill, the manic grin never leaving his face as he watched the guard turn to stone.

  It was only when the other guards seized their opportunity—rushing forward to tackle the man—that Thorne exhaled. They wrestled him to the ground, one of them pulling a sack over his head. The moment the sack was in place, the man stopped struggling, the stone spreading no further. They’d subdued him, but the sight of the statues and the helpless, now half-petrified guard left Thorne deeply disturbed.

  Not every skill is simple, he thought, his stomach twisting. Some are dangerous—deadly.

  He didn’t linger, knowing he couldn’t help here. But the scene weighed heavily on him. People were gaining unimaginable power overnight. For some, it was a blessing. For others, like the man with the petrifying skill, it was the kind of power they had always craved. Alvar had changed, and not for the better.

  Thorne continued on, his steps quickening. But the city had one more reminder for him.

  A few streets later, he heard desperate screams. His head snapped toward the sound as a man ran frantically through the streets, his voice hoarse with terror. The man glanced back over his shoulder, and Thorne followed his gaze, expecting to see a beast or something dangerous in pursuit.

  What he saw instead made his brow furrow in confusion—a grinning green skull, floating after the man like a child’s harmless prank.

  The skull’s grotesque grin was unsettling, but Thorne’s Veil Sense kicked in, giving him a clearer picture. The skull was barely giving off a twinge of aether. It wasn’t harmful—at least not in any real sense. It looked terrifying, but it lacked any significant power.

  Thorne shook his head, trying to stifle the uneasy laugh that bubbled up. Whether the skill was the screaming man’s or someone else’s, it seemed more nuisance than danger. The city was quickly filling with strange and unpredictable manifestations of magic.

  By the time Thorne reached his uncle’s mansion, the air felt thick with tension. The imposing structure loomed in the distance, the large iron gate standing as it always had—sturdy, impenetrable. The guards stationed at the gate eyed him warily as he approached, as if nothing had changed. But Thorne’s Veil Sense flared again, informing him of their levels: 24 and 32.

  He suppressed a smirk. He overleveled them both by a wide margin.

  The satisfaction that washed over him was hard to ignore. For so long, these guards had looked down on him, treating him like the dirt beneath their boots. But now, he was stronger than either of them, and the knowledge gave him a thrill he didn’t bother to hide. He approached the gate with his head held high, and as the guards glared at him, he couldn’t help but mock them.

  “Hope that aether wave blessed you with a decent skill,” Thorne said casually, his smirk deepening. “Because you’re going to need it. You suck.”

  The younger guard’s face reddened, and he took a step forward, his hand drifting toward the hilt of his sword. “What did you say, you—?”

  Before the boy could finish his sentence, the older guard grabbed his arm, yanking him back with a warning look. “Stop it,” he murmured under his breath, his voice just low enough that most wouldn’t hear.

  Most, but not Thorne.

  “Now that the dirty boy’s the master’s heir,” the older guard continued quietly, “you’d best keep your mouth shut if you want to keep your job.”

  Dirty boy. Thorne felt the spite rise within him like a flame, but he kept his expression neutral. He’d heard that insult too many times to let it faze him anymore.

  With his head held high, Thorne walked past the two guards, not bothering to look back. But as he reached the gate, a final retort slipped from his lips. “Careful not to trip over your dirty feet.”

  The older guard scowled and turned, but Thorne was already ready. With a subtle flick of his fingers, he formed Invisible Threads and looped them around the guard’s feet. One sharp tug, and the man lost his balance, stumbling forward. His armor clanged loudly against the cobblestone, the metallic sound echoing through the courtyard.

  Thorne stifled a laugh as the man cursed, struggling to get back to his feet. With a mock salute, Thorne turned and strode toward the mansion door, the satisfaction of the moment lingering as he stepped inside.

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