The world seemed to hold its breath.

Eliza's words hung in the air, unfinished yet heavy enough to crush the space between them. Thorne felt a sharp pulse in his chest, a mixture of dread and disbelief.

Darius.

Jonah's hands slowly slipped from his hair, his grief momentarily overridden by confusion and fear. Ben, ever silent, had gone pale, his lips moving soundlessly as if trying to form words that wouldn't come.

Thorne's voice broke the silence, tight and low. "What happened?"

Eliza shook her head, her eyes shining with something more than just exhaustion. "I... I don't know. I lost him. We were fighting near the northern gate. He... he was holding the line with the others when the Lockridge commander..." Her voice faltered, breaking like glass. "He was hurt. Bad. I tried to get to him, but... I was too late."

The words hit like a punch to the ribs.

"No," Jonah whispered, his voice trembling. "Not Darius. He... he was stronger than any of us! He wouldn't just..." His voice cracked, and he clenched his fists as if trying to keep himself together.

Ben took a stumbling step forward, his hands moving so rapidly they blurred. You're wrong! You must have seen someone else. Darius wouldn't fall. He can't... he wouldn't...

Eliza flinched, shaking her head. "I wish... I wish I was wrong."

Thorne felt the tension coil tighter, the edges of his control fraying. He needed to be calm, to think but his mind kept spiraling back to Darius's steady presence, the way he'd always been the anchor in their group. Solid. Unshakable.

He couldn't be gone.

"Did you see his body?" Thorne demanded, his voice sharper than he intended. He wasn't sure if he was desperate for hope or bracing for the final blow.

Eliza hesitated, then shook her head slowly. "No. I lost him in the chaos... I thought he fell." She swallowed hard, voice barely a whisper. "But I... I couldn't find him after."

Ben's expression twisted into something pained, his hands falling to his sides. Jonah staggered back a step, his face ashen, mouth moving soundlessly before he clenched his jaw and turned away.

The silence that followed was unbearable.

Finally, Thorne exhaled shakily, the knot in his chest hardening. "Then he's not dead," he said, his voice cold and resolute. "Not until we know."

Eliza's eyes widened, but before she could respond, Jonah rounded on Thorne, his grief giving way to raw anger. "And what if you're wrong? What if..." He bit off the words, his face twisting in pain. "What if we're hoping for a ghost?"

Thorne met his gaze, unwavering. "Then we find the truth."

The next few hours blurred together, a haze of smoke, ash, and desperation. The four of them had rushed toward the northern gate, driven by a shared, silent hope, yet weighed down by the horror that awaited them.

Thorne felt numb.

The air reeked of blood, burnt wood, and decay. The streets, once filled with the bustling life of Alvar, were now barely recognizable, churned earth, collapsed walls, and a silence punctuated only by the moans of the wounded and the grim commands of Thornfield and Viremont soldiers still patrolling the ruins.

Jonah and Ben weren't prepared for this.

Thorne caught the way Jonah's hands trembled at his sides, his usual easygoing demeanor shattered. His face had gone pale, his steps unsteady. Ben had stopped signing altogether, his face twisted in shock as his eyes glazed over, barely processing the destruction. They hadn't seen death like this. Not like he had. Not like Eliza had.

They had to stop several times as Jonah and Ben turned away from the carnage, retching onto the broken cobblestones, their stomachs unable to handle the stench of blood and burning flesh. Thorne and Eliza exchanged grim looks but said nothing, focusing on the task at hand. There were no words for this horror.

Still, they pushed forward, their destination clear. The barracks.

The further they went, the more difficult it became. Thornfield and Viremont patrols still prowled the streets, their armor bloodstained and their weapons drawn. The tension was palpable. These soldiers were still riled up from the fight, eager for any excuse to spill more blood.

And then there were the bodies. So many bodies.

Some stacked in makeshift piles. Some slumped where they had fallen, swords still clutched in lifeless hands. Some, too broken to be recognized.

Every time his gaze landed on the city guard uniform, his heart lurched painfully. And every time, when the face was revealed and it wasn't Darius, a twisted sort of relief followed. Then the cycle began again, the dread pressing heavier with each step closer to the barracks.

He wouldn't be among them. He couldn't be.

When they finally reached the barracks, it was chaos.

The once-fortified structure was barely holding together, shattered stone and splintered wood marking where the Lockridge forces had broken through. The few surviving guards stumbled around the wreckage, bloodied and exhausted, their faces blank with shock.

There was no organization. No structure. Just confusion and pain.

Thorne stopped a blood-smeared guard stumbling by and grabbed his arm, his grip firm but not cruel. "Darius. I'm looking for Darius," he demanded, voice hoarse with strain.

The guard blinked, confused, his dirt-streaked face contorted in pain. "I... I don't know," he rasped, but when his gaze met Thorne's glowing eyes, his breath hitched, the unnatural intensity making him recoil slightly. "Ask... the officer." He pointed weakly toward a rugged man, his uniform torn, the emblem of the city guard barely visible through the grime.

Thorne released the guard and nodded sharply to the others. "Wait here."

Eliza started to protest, but he silenced her with a look before moving toward the officer. The man was speaking softly to a woman in tears, her sobs raw as she collapsed into his arms. He whispered something, and she was guided away by another guard, clutching a bloodstained piece of cloth to her chest.

The officer looked drained, exhausted, his face streaked with dirt, his eyes red-rimmed. The weight of loss was evident in every line of his face.

Thorne's heart pounded as he approached. He didn't want to ask. He didn't want to hear the answer.

He cleared his throat, but his voice still shook. "Excuse me... I'm looking for my friend."

The officer turned, startled, and blinked. His gaze narrowed, studying Thorne carefully before his expression softened into recognition.

"You're Darius's friend, aren't you?" the man said quietly. "I've seen you with him..."

Thorne nodded stiffly, his pulse hammering. "Yes. Is... is he...?"

He couldn't finish the sentence. He couldn't force the words out.

The officer's face split into a tired, yet genuine smile. "He's alive."

The words felt like a slap. Thorne's breath caught as his lips parted. "What?" The word was a strangled whisper, disbelieving.

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The others had heard. Eliza, Jonah, and Ben all rushed forward, their expressions shifting from despair to incredulous hope.

The officer nodded again. "He's alive. Badly wounded, but he made it. The commander was by his side when he fell. He has healing skills, managed to stabilize him until the proper healers arrived. He's... he's lucky. I'm not sure how, but... he's still breathing."

Relief struck like a hammer blow.

Thorne felt his knees threaten to buckle as the words echoed in his mind. Alive. Darius was alive.

For a moment, his control splintered. The tension, the fear, it all threatened to overwhelm him. The ache in his chest eased just slightly, and yet, yet the aether that had been drawn to his emotions surged uncontrollably.

His glowing eyes brightened further, flaring as motes of violet and blue danced in the air around him, responding to his volatile state.

The officer noticed the shift in energy, the unnatural brightness and instinctively took a step back, eyes widening in alarm. "Hey, are you...?"

"Thorne."

Eliza's voice cut through the haze, sharp and steady. Her hand was on his arm, grounding him. Her piercing gaze searched his, and the heat behind his eyes slowly began to fade.

The aether settled.

Thorne closed his eyes for a heartbeat, focusing on the steady rise and fall of his breath. Then he exhaled and opened them again, controlled.

"Take us to him," Eliza ordered the guard. Her voice, calm but unyielding.

The man hesitated only a moment longer before nodding. "Of course. Follow me."

And with that, they moved together, hope blooming cautiously as they followed the guard deeper into the shattered remains of the barracks, searching for their friend.

The officer led them up three flights of narrow, creaking stairs. This section of the barracks had clearly been repurposed into an infirmary. The scent of herbs, blood, and damp linen lingered, making the space feel stifling.

Thorne's glowing gaze swept the rows of makeshift beds as they passed. Wounded guards lay in various states, some sleeping soundly, others grimacing as healers in grey uniforms tended to their wounds with gentle, practiced hands. The air was thick with whispered prayers and quiet pain.

At the end of the hall, the officer stopped before a closed door and gestured with a nod. "In here."

Thorne didn't wait for permission. He shoved the door open, heart pounding in his chest as his eyes locked on the bed.

There he was. Darius.

His massive frame lay sprawled on the cot, his torso tightly wrapped in thick layers of gauze, a deep scarlet stain already seeping through the bandages, darkening with each shallow breath he took. Bruises bloomed over his arms and neck, dark purple and sickly yellow. Small cuts peppered his skin, some still raw and angry despite the healing efforts.

And yet, despite it all, his face was clear.

Pale. Peaceful.

Alive.

Relief crashed over Thorne like a wave, the tension in his chest uncoiling with a painful snap. He wanted to reach out, to touch his friend and assure himself this was real. But a sharp voice cut through the quiet.

"Step back!"

The stern-faced woman in the grey uniform had been sitting near the foot of the bed, and she rose swiftly, her hands outstretched as she herded them back. Her dark eyes narrowed in warning, and despite her slight frame, she exuded an aura of authority.

"You cannot crowd him like this. He needs peace, not a parade."

Thorne clenched his fists, swallowing the urge to snap back. Jonah, Ben, and Eliza had followed him into the room, crowding the space. Jonah's face had gone ashen, his lips pressed into a tight line, while Ben was already anxiously fiddling with the strap of his satchel, his hands trembling.

Thorne took a slow step back, but his voice was strained, raw. "Is he going to be all right?"

The healer's gaze softened slightly. She nodded, speaking gently this time. "Yes. Your friend was incredibly lucky. Despite the severity of his wounds, he will make a full recovery. We've done everything we can for him. Now, he just needs rest."

The words seemed to break something in all of them.

Jonah's knees gave out as he leaned against the wall, slowly sinking to the floor, his hands covering his face. His shoulders trembled, and Thorne could hear the shaky breaths as the tension left his body all at once.

Ben, meanwhile, had begun signing rapidly, his hands moving in frantic, sharp motions.

The healer blinked, clearly confused, and Thorne, still keeping his voice carefully even, translated.

"He's asking if you've given Darius a health potion. He's an alchemist... a good one," Thorne added, casting a pointed look at Ben, who nodded furiously. "He can brew a stronger one if you need it. Does he need anything else? Herbs? Poultices? Ben has some..."

The healer shook her head, her stern expression softening further. "You're a good friend, all of you. But no... We've already administered a potent elixir, and his body is responding well. Your friend needs rest more than anything now."

Ben let out a slow breath, his face still tight with worry. He signed something else, slower this time, and Eliza spoke up.

"He wants to stay. With Darius. We all do."

The healer hesitated, glancing back at the unconscious form on the bed, before giving a small, understanding nod. "You may stay. But do not wake him. He needs peace."

They agreed instantly.

The healer left them alone, the door closing softly behind her.

The room fell into a heavy silence, the only sound the soft, rhythmic rise and fall of Darius's breath.

Ben pulled a chair close to the bedside, his hands trembling slightly as he reached out, just enough to brush his fingers against Darius's uninjured arm. Jonah remained on the floor, staring blankly ahead, his face pale but his lips pressed together with quiet determination.

Eliza, arms crossed, stood leaning against the wall, her eyes fixed on the door as if expecting danger at any moment.

And Thorne...

Thorne stood at the foot of the bed, watching Darius, watching the fragile life clinging to his friend's face.

They stayed like that. Silent. Together. Waiting.

Hours passed, marked only by the shallow rhythm of Darius's breathing. The tension in the room felt like a physical weight pressing on their chests.

The door creaked open, and the healer returned, this time with a man at her side. His presence filled the room instantly, broad-shouldered, with dark circles carved beneath his eyes, his face smudged with grime. His armor was dented and dirty, streaked with dried blood, yet he still stood tall, the mark of a soldier who had fought through the worst and survived.

The healer spoke first, brushing her hands over her apron as she glanced between them and the commander.

"I already explained to the officer that Darius will be fine," she said firmly, yet gently, to the commander. "I've administered a soothing potion that will help him rest while his body recovers. The worst is past. Now, all he needs is time."

The commander nodded but remained silent, his gaze shifting to take in the four friends gathered around the bed. His eyes lingered on Darius before he finally spoke, voice rough with exhaustion.

"You should be proud of your friend," he said, the words slow and deliberate, as though the weight of them rested heavy on his tongue. "Without him, the entire city guard would have been put to the sword by those Lockridge dogs."

Thorne's brow furrowed, his lips parting slightly as confusion warred with disbelief.

The commander continued, unaware of the storm rising inside Thorne's mind. "He saved the day. When he struck down Bastian Lockridge, the attackers lost heart. They broke. Without their heir, their force collapsed into panic and retreated. He turned the tide of battle."

Bastian Lockridge is dead?

The words echoed in Thorne's mind, louder than the commander's voice, louder than anything else in the room. Dead.

What had begun as a simple clash for control between noble houses was about to evolve into something far more dangerous. It would not end with the battle for Alvar. This was the spark that would ignite a blood feud, a wound that would fester for generations.

Lady Elena Lockridge, Bastian's mother, would never let it go.

His mind conjured the memory unbidden: Bastian Lockridge, taller even than Darius, broad-shouldered, with a noble's arrogance and a warrior's presence. That insufferable sneer, the way he looked down on everyone who wasn't a Lockridge. And yet... Darius had killed him.

Darius had killed him. And somehow... had lived to tell the tale.

The commander lingered a moment longer, as if searching for the right words, then gave a tired nod. "Your friend is a hero today."

He left without another word.

The door clicked shut, and the room fell into complete silence once more, the weight of the revelation pressing down on them. Jonah's mouth was slightly open, as if he wanted to say something but couldn't find the words. Ben sat frozen, his fingers limp on his knees. Eliza's face was pale, her lips drawn tight as she stared at Darius, her thoughts a mystery behind her hardened eyes.

They stayed that way for hours.

Exhausted. Drained. Waiting for the moment Darius would stir.

A soft knock disturbed the quiet.

The door eased open, and a group of black-clad figures stepped inside. The Lost Ones. Their presence was silent, oppressive, and absolute. Riley stood at their head, his sharp features half-hidden beneath his cowl, but the moment his gaze landed on Thorne, he inclined his head in a shallow bow.

"Master has sent us to escort you to his estate."

Thorne's brows knitted together as the words sank in. He caught the subtle shift of Eliza's stance, her hand drifting toward her belt as if expecting a threat. Jonah and Ben exchanged confused glances, both clearly unsure whether they should be alarmed.

Riley's expression didn't waver. Calm. Controlled.

"We are to escort the young master safely... for the coming event."

Event? Thorne's stomach twisted. He didn't like the vagueness of those words.

The rest of the Lost Ones remained completely motionless, like statues forged from shadows. Their stillness was almost unnatural.

Thorne glanced back toward Darius, his chest tightening with hesitation. His friend was still unconscious, vulnerable. His friends still recovering from the horrors they'd witnessed.

But he knew better.

Uncle wouldn't ask, he would demand. Thorne knew he didn't have a choice.

He exhaled sharply and nodded, turning to Jonah, Ben, and Eliza. "I'll come back as soon as I can."

None of them looked satisfied with that answer, but they didn't protest.

The Lost Ones silently parted to allow Thorne through.

As he stepped past them and the door closed behind him, he couldn't help but wonder what absurd event had uncle already planned.

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