Thorne was surprised by the effort put into the party. Banners bearing the sigil of House Lockridge—a helmet adorned with a long spike on top—fluttered gently above the guests, casting long shadows on the marble floor. Garlands of autumnal leaves draped from the vaulted ceiling, their warm hues adding a splash of color to the otherwise austere hall. The music of a string ensemble drifted through the air, soft and elegant, yet the notes felt somewhat hollow in the vastness of the room.

  The hall itself was expansive, almost too large for the gathered nobles of Alvar, and despite the lively decorations, it had an air of emptiness. Several tables lined either side of the room, each set with silver platters filled with delicacies, but the space between them was yawning. The nobles moved in small groups, their voices subdued, their laughter occasional and reserved.

  At one end of the hall, a troupe of jugglers and fools entertained a cluster of guests. Their faces were painted in bright, garish colors, their clothing exaggerated with oversized ruffles and bells that jangled with every movement. They performed acrobatics, tossing flaming torches back and forth, drawing polite applause and the occasional genuine laugh from the onlookers. It was a spectacle meant to amuse, to distract from the underlying tension that seemed to permeate the evening.

  Thorne’s eyes roamed over the crowd, noting familiar faces from Lady Langston’s brunch. There was Lady Langston herself, her face a careful mask of politeness as she conversed with a stout man who looked vaguely familiar. The Lockridges, as expected, were the center of attention. Lady Elena Lockridge, a tall, imposing woman with sharp features and an air of command, stood near the head of the room, conversing animatedly with a small group of older nobles. Her son, Bastian, the birthday boy and heir to the house, was surrounded by a gaggle of younger nobles, his expression one of barely concealed boredom as he nodded and smiled at their fawning compliments.

  Thorne couldn’t help but notice the stark difference between the nobles of Alvar and those of Valewind. There was a simplicity, almost a bluntness, to the way they carried themselves. They weren’t used to the elaborate games of power and intrigue that the nobles of Valewind reveled in. There was no need for it here in this small city where there was little to be gained through scheming. They were content, or had been until the recent turmoil that Uncle had so carefully sown. The Lockridges, the Thornfields, the Ravencourts—all pawns in Uncle’s grand design, though most of them didn’t even realize it yet.

  His eyes landed on Lord Thornfield, who stood near the center of the hall, his laughter booming over the soft hum of conversation. He was holding a goblet of wine in one hand, gesturing animatedly with the other, his face flushed and his eyes slightly glazed. It was clear that he had already indulged in the night’s offerings, and Thorne could see the way his gaze kept drifting towards the female servants, his interest in them far outweighing that in the conversation around him.

  By his side, much more subdued and reserved, was his son, Kellan, looking uncomfortable and out of place despite the elegant but plain woman who stood beside him. Her resemblance to Kellan was uncanny—his mother, no doubt, Thorne thought, observing the quiet way she seemed to watch over her son, her eyes flicking to Lord Thornfield with thinly veiled disdain whenever his voice grew too loud.

  Thorne’s attention shifted as the large double doors of the hall swung open, and a new wave of guests entered. He recognized the Farroway the aging patriarch leading the way with his wife on his arm, followed by their daughter, who cast a furtive glance around the room before settling her eyes on Thorne. He gave her a polite nod, but his mind was already elsewhere, searching for the Ravencourts.

  But they were nowhere to be seen. He wondered if their absence was intentional, a calculated move to make a grand entrance and remind everyone that they were still a force to be reckoned with despite the recent struggles between their house and the Thornfields.

  He turned slightly to address Rielle and Devon, who stood a few steps behind him. They were both dressed inconspicuously, their dark clothes blending in with the more muted tones of the evening attire around them. “Make yourselves invisible,” Thorne murmured, his voice low and steady. “You know what to do.”

  Devon nodded, his eyes sharp and alert. “Casualties?” he asked quietly, his tone giving away none of the anxiety that simmered just beneath the surface.

  Thorne shook his head. “We don’t need anyone dying tonight. Just observe, gather information. Don’t make any mistakes that we’ll have to clean up later.”

  Devon’s mouth twitched in a brief smile. “Understood.” With that, he melted into the crowd, his movements almost unnaturally fluid for a man of his size and build. He disappeared quickly, becoming just another shadow among the many that flickered along the walls.

  Rielle lingered for a moment longer, her eyes locking onto Thorne’s with an intensity that was almost palpable. There was something unspoken between them, a tension that neither seemed willing to acknowledge openly. Thorne held her gaze, his face carefully neutral, though inside he felt a complex mix of emotions—resentment, curiosity, maybe even a flicker of something like regret.

  Rielle’s lips parted slightly as if she wanted to say something, but then she simply gave a small nod and turned away, disappearing into the crowd just as Devon had. Thorne watched her go, his mind racing with thoughts he quickly suppressed. He couldn’t afford to be distracted, not now.

  With a final sweep of the room, Thorne adjusted the cuff of his dark, tailored coat and took a deep breath. Time to play the part.

  He wove through the crowd with practiced ease, offering polite nods and smiles to the nobles who glanced his way, their eyes curious, some even appraising. He could feel the weight of their scrutiny, the unspoken questions hanging in the air. Who was this young lord, and what was he doing here, flanked by two strangers who seemed to belong more in the shadows than in the light of this gilded hall?

  It didn’t matter. Thorne knew that his presence here was meant to cause a stir, to draw attention. He was the outsider, the unknown factor that everyone would be trying to figure out tonight. He could use that to his advantage.

  Thorne plucked a glass of wine from a passing servant, the dark red liquid swirling like blood as he moved towards the Thornfields. He didn’t join the conversation but lingered close enough to catch snippets of their exchange. Lord Thornfield’s booming laughter echoed across the hall as he regaled a small group of nobles with tales of a past duel that Thorne suspected was more fiction than fact. His anecdotes shifted from exaggerated battles to his opinions on the best wines and ales, each declaration more pompous than the last. Thorne fought the urge to roll his eyes.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Kellan noticed him hovering and frowned slightly before turning back to the conversation. Thorne raised his glass in a subtle, mocking salute, but the young Thornfield didn’t seem to notice. He appeared more focused on the intricacies of the wine his father was describing than on Thorne’s presence.

  Despite Lord Thornfield’s obnoxious storytelling, Thorne observed something curious. Whenever a new guest entered the room, the lord’s eyes would flicker towards the entrance, his shoulders stiffening for a moment before loosening in apparent relief. Was he expecting someone? Perhaps dreading the arrival of the Ravencourts or, more likely, Uncle? The thought brought a smirk to Thorne’s lips. He filed the observation away, another piece of the puzzle falling into place.

  The rest of the guests paid Thorne little mind. Occasionally, he felt a curious glance or a lingering stare, but their interest quickly waned. He debated moving around the hall, seeing what useful information he could glean. The most interesting secrets often lay hidden in the quiet corridors and darkened rooms away from the main festivities. Maybe there were documents about the Lockridge army's numbers or their economic situation, something that could tip the scales in Uncle’s favor.

  He was just about to slip away when a hand clamped down on his shoulder, spinning him around forcefully. Thorne had to rein in his instincts, his muscles tensing for a split second as he turned to face a pair of bespectacled eyes, wide with excitement.

  “It’s you!” the young man exclaimed, his voice bubbling over with enthusiasm. Thorne blinked, struggling to place the face in front of him. Then it clicked—the young man he had saved from the aether golem. The scholar's eyes shone with barely contained excitement as he launched into a torrent of words, his speech almost incoherent in his haste.

  “I can’t believe it! The aether waves, the aether constructs, the wild conjuctions of magic—I’ve been thinking about it nonstop! What caused them, what could sustain such powerful manifestations? But then I saw you! I didn’t know that the savior of the merchant district was the southern lord everyone’s talking about!”

  He paused only to take a quick breath before continuing, his gaze unwavering, almost unnervingly intense. “I wouldn’t have guessed someone dressed like you would be such a fine fighter! Are you an adventurer as well? I saw you use magic! Do you have aether skills? Maybe spells? I’ve been pestering my father to send me to the Meridia Academy in the capital, just like he did, but he says it’s too much money. I’d prefer Aetherhold, of course, but that’s a wild dream! If Meridia is expensive, I can’t even imagine what the payment for Aetherhold would be!”

  Thorne remained silent, his expression controlled as the young man’s words poured out in a seemingly endless stream. He waited patiently, letting the scholar exhaust himself. When the young man finally stopped to take another breath, Thorne raised an eyebrow and spoke in a cool, measured tone.

  “Thorne Silverbane,” he said, inclining his head slightly. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  The young man’s eyes widened, and he slapped his forehead in sudden realization, his cheeks flushing red. “Where are my manners? I’m Valen Moreau.” He looked thoroughly embarrassed as he continued, “I got so excited when I saw you that I forgot my manners. It’s not every day you see someone fight with such artistry, especially someone our age! So tell me, do you have skills that use aether? I’ve been studying aether since I was a kid, unfortunately, I only possess scholarly and social skills, but I have a few that are very useful.”

  He straightened proudly, and Thorne struggled not to smile at the young man’s earnestness. “I have the ‘Lore of the Elements’ skill,” Valen said, his eyes lighting up. “It allows me to identify elemental aetheric signatures and understand the fundamental properties of any magical construct I study. And I have ‘Aetheric Insight,’ which helps me analyze aetheric phenomena and break down the mechanics behind them. Oh, and ‘Aetheric Histories,’ which is more academic, but it’s fascinating to learn how aether has shaped civilizations!”

  Thorne didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The young man’s intensity was both amusing and overwhelming. He hadn’t expected such a whirlwind of enthusiasm, especially not at a noble’s birthday party. Valen’s eyes were alight with excitement, his words pouring out faster than Thorne could process them.

  “What did it feel like?” Valen continued, leaning in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “When you fought the golem, I mean. Did you sense its aetheric core, or was it more of an instinctual thing? Oh, and the way you manipulated the aether—was that innate, or have you trained to control it? Did you use a specific focus, or was it purely raw manipulation? I’ve read theories about how different methods can affect the stability of the construct’s form…”

  Thorne blinked, momentarily taken aback. This was more than just curiosity. Valen seemed almost...obsessed. The fervor in his eyes reminded Thorne of the deranged scholars he’d heard about, the ones who pushed the boundaries of magic and science so far that they broke themselves in the process.

  “Valen,” Thorne said slowly, choosing his words with care. “I don’t think I’m the best person to discuss this with.”

  Valen waved his hand dismissively. “Nonsense! You’re the perfect person! No one else in this city has had such a direct encounter with aether constructs! Besides, the way you fought—it’s like you have an innate understanding of aetheric structures. I’ve been trying to study something like that for years, but it’s all theoretical! You have practical experience!”

  Thorne glanced around, hoping no one was overhearing this conversation. The last thing he needed was for someone to start wondering why a supposed southern lord knew so much about fighting aether beasts.

  “I’ve...had some training,” he said cautiously. “But it’s more intuition than anything else.”

  “Intuition!” Valen’s eyes practically sparkled. “That’s amazing! Do you think it’s something you were born with, or did it develop over time? I’ve read accounts of people developing unique aetheric abilities due to prolonged exposure, but those cases are so rare. Were you exposed to concentrated aether at a young age?”

  Thorne resisted the urge to groan. This conversation was quickly spiraling out of control. Valen was like a dog with a bone, and Thorne didn’t know how to shake him off.

  “I really couldn’t say,” Thorne replied, his tone as polite as he could manage. “It’s not something I’ve thought much about.”

  “Fascinating,” Valen murmured, more to himself than to Thorne. He fished a small notebook from his coat pocket and started scribbling furiously, his eyes darting back and forth between Thorne and his notes. “I’ll have to run some calculations on aetheric exposure and skill development. I wonder if there’s a threshold for spontaneous manifestation or if it’s more gradual…”

  Thorne sighed, trying to maintain his composure. “Valen, maybe we can discuss this later?”

  Valen looked up, blinking as if he’d forgotten where he was. “Oh, of course! I didn’t mean to impose. It’s just...you’re such a fascinating subject! I mean, aether skills are rare in Alvar! At least they used to be, now new aether skills seem to pop out every day. You must have some incredible stories.”

  Before Thorne could respond, the grand doors at the far end of the hall swung open again, drawing everyone’s attention. Lord Thornfield’s shoulders tensed more than usual, and Thorne felt the change in the atmosphere as the Ravencourts finally arrived.

  Leading the group was Lord Edric Ravenncourt, tall and imposing, his graying hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. Beside him walked his eldest son, Alaric, his handsome features marred by a scowl that only deepened as he surveyed the room. He exuded a kind of raw, magnetic energy that drew the eyes of everyone around him. But it was the young woman trailing behind them, her face partially hidden by a delicate veil, who caught Thorne’s attention. Selene Ravencourt, looking every bit the noble lady with a composed, almost ethereal grace.

  Thorne felt a surge of satisfaction. The game was about to begin in earnest, and he was ready.

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