Thorne turned around, his body still shaking from the exertion of the battle, and his mouth grew dry as ash.

The man from the capital was here.

Stalking forward with a wolfish smile that didn't reach his cold, calculating eyes, the man exuded triumph, as though Thorne's shattered world were the prize he had just claimed. Every step he took was slow, deliberate, his boots crunching on debris with a sound that echoed far louder than it should have.

Behind him, a figure walked in eerie silence, a man in flowing red robes marked with intricate, glowing symbols, each thread seeming to pulse faintly with aether. The robes themselves were alive, bending and shifting subtly, as though whispering some forbidden truth. The man's face was hidden behind a mask adorned with sharp, angular lines and crimson accents, yet his presence alone was enough to turn Thorne's blood cold. Terror rooted itself deep in his chest, irrational and primal, as though every instinct screamed that this man wasn't entirely human. There was something... unnatural.

For a moment, Thorne's mind stuttered, struggling to comprehend the reality before him. His eyes flicked to his palm, and the blazing purple crow mark there throbbed painfully, its light pulsating with a furious glow. He hadn't even noticed it in the heat of the battle, the pain drowned out by adrenaline. But now, in the stillness after Uncle's death, it demanded his attention, and it seemed to scream that he was already too late.

"Well, well... a berserker," the mysterious man said with a low chuckle, his voice soft yet cutting. "Who knew? I didn't even know about this." His gaze slid lazily to Uncle's broken corpse, lying motionless at Thorne's feet. There was no grief or respect in his eyes, just cold, clinical interest, like a predator appraising a meal long gone cold.

Thorne forced himself to stand upright, ignoring the sharp, lancing pain in his ribs and the tremor in his limbs. The arcs of aether that danced across his body flared brighter as he summoned more power to himself, every fiber of his being screaming at him to fight, to resist. He would not let this man, this thing, see weakness.

The mysterious man's gaze shifted back to Thorne, and his lips curled upward in a slow, sardonic smile. "I wonder how he got the trait," he mused, nodding toward Uncle. "It's not a small feat to kill a berserker. Well done."

His words felt like a trap, but Thorne refused to take the bait. He remained silent, his glowing eyes darting warily to the red-robed man standing motionless behind the speaker. He let his Veil Sense flare outward, desperately trying to glean some fragment of information about this unnerving figure. But to his frustration and unease, there was... nothing. It was as though the man didn't exist, his presence an impenetrable void that swallowed any attempt to perceive him. Thorne's stomach twisted when he saw the man's head tilt ever so slightly, a soft hiss escaping from behind the mask, as if he'd felt Thorne's attempt.

Thorne's attention snapped back to the approaching man, who now loomed just beyond one of the deep craters left by their fight. "Why?" he forced out, his voice hoarse and raw. "Why are you here?"

The man stopped, tilting his head slightly as if in mock confusion. "Why?" he repeated, as though the question itself amused him. "I think you know enough to piece it together."

Thorne's fists clenched, but he stayed silent. He had pieced it together, at least in fragments but he needed to hear the words. He needed to know, without a doubt, who had orchestrated the ruin of everything he had fought to protect.

The man sighed, as if disappointed by Thorne's lack of response. "That man," he said, nodding toward Uncle's corpse, "reached for the sun. And he got burned."

The words hung in the air, each one sinking into Thorne like a blade. He fought to keep his composure as the man continued, his tone as light and conversational as though they were discussing the weather.

"He was ambitious, I'll grant you that. And capable, too. But there are... powerful forces in this kingdom, forces he either didn't know about or didn't care to respect. Either way, the result is the same. He was becoming a threat that needed to be eliminated."

Thorne's chest tightened as he drew a shaky breath. "And the Lost Ones?" he asked, his voice a low rasp.

The man's expression didn't change, but something in his eyes sharpened, a flicker of amusement flashing through them. "Dead," he said simply, as though it were a trivial matter. "To the last man."

The ringing in Thorne's ears drowned out everything else, his mind blanking as the words hit him like a hammer. He barely heard the man's next words, though they seemed to drip with cruel satisfaction.

"I had collected information about every single member of your little guild," the man continued, "thanks in no small part to Lord Valewyn, who you so helpfully disposed of, and, of course, Lord Ravencourt and some other... liaisons who were surprisingly cooperative."

Sid. Eliza. Rielle. Talon. Riley... Their names flashed through Thorne's mind like a dirge, each one a weight that crushed his soul. Dead. All dead.

For the first time since Uncle's death, his hands trembled, not with fear, but with rage and grief that threatened to consume him. And still, the man smiled, as though the ruin of Thorne's world was nothing more than a game to him.

Thorne's attention snapped back to the present when he noticed movement from the red-robed man. The figure tilted his head ever so slightly, the glowing symbols etched into his robes shifting like liquid fire as he took a step forward. Thorne's heart thudded painfully against his ribs. Every fiber of his being screamed danger, but his body felt sluggish, the weight of exhaustion bearing down on him. His sharp intake of breath cut through the haze clouding his mind.

"So, you came here to finish the job?" Thorne rasped, his voice sharper than he intended. His glowing eyes locked onto the mysterious man, though his peripheral vision never left the robed figure.

His mind raced, trying to calculate an escape. He was in no condition to fight, not him, not them. His reserves were nearly depleted, and his body strained with every small movement. But none of that mattered. He would fight if he had to. He would not kneel.

The mysterious man from the capital tilted his head, his smile widening. "Finish the job?" he echoed, his tone almost mocking. "Kid, that job was finished before you even stepped into this city. We just came to sweep up what was left."

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Thorne's hands twitched, ready to lash out at the slightest provocation. He felt a small arc of aether flow between his fingers, a faint but reassuring reminder that he wasn't entirely powerless. His awareness expanded, reaching for every aether mote within range, pulling them toward him. They swirled faintly around him, responding eagerly as if recognizing the danger.

"You know," the man continued, his voice a mixture of amusement and intrigue, "when I first met you... I knew you were special. But I didn't know how special. I just thought you were a talented little upstart. A capable man, worthy of becoming an apprentice for the Purple Crows. Nothing more, nothing less."

The man's smile grew wolfish, his eyes gleaming as they raked over Thorne like a predator assessing prey. "Now? Now, things are different. Now, I see you for what you really are."

Thorne's throat tightened, though he didn't flinch. "And what exactly is that?" he asked evenly, though his grip on the motes around him tightened.

The red-robed man, silent until now, suddenly spoke. His voice was scratchy, guttural, and jarring, as though his throat had been ravaged by some ancient wound or fire. "Oldbone," he rasped, his words clipped and deliberate. "Told. You. No. Aether. Him."

The mysterious man scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. "Oh, I can see that," he said, gesturing vaguely toward Thorne. "Aether... so much aether." His gaze narrowed, scrutinizing Thorne with unnerving precision, as though cataloging every detail. "He's lit up like a damned beacon."

The red-robed man hissed softly, the sound like metal scraping against stone. "Powerful. For. Age," he intoned, his glowing symbols flickering faintly. "Great. Control. Dangerous."

Thorne felt his chest tighten as the masked man's words hung in the air like a verdict. He fought the urge to lash out, his instincts battling the rational part of his mind that knew an attack would be suicide. The arcs of aether dancing along his skin crackled louder, reacting to his emotions.

The red-robed man spoke again, his voice rasping with deliberate malice. "Could. Use."

The mysterious man shook his head, his expression darkening for the first time. "Nah, you know the rules," he replied curtly. "Oldbones go to the boss."

Thorne's mind raced, his awareness spreading further as he summoned every last mote in the vicinity. He beckoned to the aether desperately, willing it to protect him, to save him, to give him the strength to survive what was coming. The response was immediate, the motes surging toward him like a tide. His body strained against the abundance of aether, but he pressed on, pulling harder.

A mirthless laugh escaped his lips, bitter and sharp. "And to think," he said, his voice shaking with equal parts fury and despair, "I helped you. I lied to Uncle. I made things easier for you. And now... now you're here to kill me."

As he spoke, he drew every single aether mote in Alvar. His aether vision had gone completely white from the condensed aether around him. He tried his best not to show the difficulty of the task on his face. As the aether formed a volatile whirlpool of power the air charged with barely concealed violence.

And yet, the two men were none the wiser. Thorne noticed however the red mage looking around, as if he started feeling the change in the atmosphere.

He was almost out of time.

The mysterious man shrugged, unbothered by the accusation. "It's just a job, kid," he said simply, as though that excused everything. His casual indifference made Thorne's blood boil. "But credit where it's due, your little plan actually worked. I was approached by one of Uncle's agents about a deal to kill Lord Durnell. The fool even led me right to one of your little lair's entrances."

The man's smile returned, sharper and crueler than ever. "Clever, clever. If only you weren't so valuable... you'd make a damn good crow."

Thorne's hands balled into fists, aether sparking wildly around him. "Valuable?" he spat, his voice trembling with rage. "What the hell does that mean?"

The man didn't answer. Instead, he stepped aside, his posture languid and unconcerned, as though the fight had already been won. "Dravlik," he said, his tone as calm as it was final. "You're up."

The red-robed man, Dravlik, hissed in response, his movements unnervingly fluid as he stepped forward. The glowing symbols on his robes flared to life, brighter and more menacing than before. Thorne felt the air grow heavier, suffocating, as the temperature around him dropped sharply. His fingers twitched instinctively, arcs of aether crackling louder around him as his glowing eyes locked onto his new opponent.

The red-robed man raised his hand, and Thorne's blood ran cold. Between the man's gnarled fingers rested a wand, its surface etched with jagged, glowing runes that pulsed faintly like a heartbeat. A mage. Of course, Thorne thought bitterly. As if the man from the capital wasn't enough, now this.

The mage moved fluidly, his wrist twisting in an unsettlingly graceful motion as his wand traced intricate patterns in the air. Words spilled from his lips in a raspy murmur, each one reverberating unnaturally, like echoes from a cavern deep underground. The aether around him reacted instantly, shifting and curling toward the mage like a swarm of eager moths. An unnatural wind gusted outward, heavy with the weight of ancient power. It pushed against Thorne's chest, as if the air itself was trying to suffocate him.

In the space before the mage, a circular symbol etched with blazing red light appeared in midair. Its intricate patterns swirled, moving like molten metal, as if alive. Thorne's breath hitched. His Veil Sense screamed warnings, and every instinct he had roared for him to act now.

"No!" Thorne shouted, thrusting his hands forward. He felt the gathered aether straining at his command, volatile and wild.

With a guttural roar, he detonated it.

The world turned white and blue, blinding and deafening in its fury. The explosion ripped outward, aether pouring forth like a flood as it obliterated what was left of the governing building. Stone crumbled into dust, steel twisted and melted, and the very air itself seemed to scream in protest. The force surged outward toward the city, unstoppable, devastating.

Thorne's eyes widened in horror. "No!" he screamed, his voice drowned in the chaos. His fingers curled as he grasped for control, his entire body trembling from the strain. He gritted his teeth, pouring every ounce of his will into stopping the rampaging energy. The wild aether fought him, clawing at the edges of his control, but he held firm. Slowly, painfully, he condensed the energy into a dome, sealing it in a shimmering prison of glowing light.

The dome pulsed and shimmered, a fragile barrier holding back destruction. Inside, the two men were silhouettes against the blinding radiance, their forms unmoving.

For now.

Thorne panted, his chest heaving as the strain weighed on him. He knew he couldn't hold it forever. The dome quivered and crackled, the raw energy within pushing against its confines like a beast desperate to escape. He had to move, had to run before it all came crashing down.

"Now," he whispered to himself, his voice shaking. His legs obeyed before his mind caught up, and he dashed through the ruined square, his boots crunching over debris. He didn't see the scorched bodies, the collapsed walls, or the blackened remains of once-grand structures. His focus was entirely on the dome behind him, on the wild energy threatening to explode again, on keeping the two men contained.

They were fighting it. He could feel them, clawing and tearing at the edges of the dome, their wills crashing against his like waves against a battered shore. The further he ran, the more difficult it became to hold the dome together. His vision blurred, his breath came in ragged gasps, and his knees buckled with every step.

The aether motes swirling within his body flickered like dying embers, drained from the effort. His control began to falter, the dome shuddering as cracks of light appeared along its surface. Thorne stumbled, his concentration wavering for a split second and that was all it took.

The dome shattered.

He heard it before he felt it: a deafening, guttural roar as the wild energy unleashed itself in all directions. The force slammed into him like a tidal wave, hurling him forward. He skidded across the debris-strewn ground, his body rolling and twisting until he came to a stop, dazed and gasping for air. His ears rang, his vision swam, and for a moment, he couldn't move.

When he forced his head up, blinking through the haze, his heart sank. The two men were alive.

And they were free.

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