The scent of salt and brine clung to the air as Thorne followed Kerke down the narrow corridor, the dim lanterns lining the wooden walls swaying gently with the ship's rhythm.

The space was tight, barely enough for the two of them to pass side by side, forcing him to keep close, his senses sharp, his steps silent. Every creak of the floorboards beneath their boots sent a ripple of awareness through him, his Veil Sense stretching outward, picking up the faint presence of cores, the shifting weight of men above deck.

The moment they climbed the steps and emerged onto the deck, the oppressive closeness of the ship's belly was replaced by the expansive open sea. A salty breeze struck his face, sharp and cool, and for the briefest second, he wanted to sigh in relief.

But there was no time for that.

The sun dipped low on the horizon, streaking the sky in molten hues, while the full moon crept into view, pale against the approaching night.

He was running out of time.

A hostile wall of bodies greeted him. Men, rough and weathered by the sea, stood in tight formation, their eyes dark with suspicion, some gripping weapons, others just watching, their expressions ranging from curious to outright murderous.

Thorne's posture remained relaxed, but the air around him shifted, subtle, sharp, his presence coiling like a blade yet to be drawn.

Kerke barely had time to react before he spoke, his voice low and ice-cold.

"Leash your dogs, Kerke."

The tension snapped like a wire pulled too tight. Some of the pirates flinched at the mocking command, others bristled with immediate fury.

"Because I won't be as kind as you." Thorne tilted his head slightly, his glowing eyes narrowing. "And I will throw them overboard."

A brute of a man, broad-shouldered with a thick, salt-streaked beard, gripped a club, his knuckles turning white from the force of his grip. He took a threatening step forward, his lips curling into a snarl.

"Watch it, Tom."

Kerke's voice was sharp, the first trace of real authority in it since they had spoken below deck. She didn't raise it, didn't need to. It cut through the thick air like a dagger, firm and uncompromising.

"Leave him be."

Tom hesitated, his beady eyes narrowing, but Kerke didn't waver.

"Everyone get back to work. There's nothing to see."

For a tense second, no one moved. Then, one by one, the men turned away, some grumbling, some still watching out of the corner of their eyes.

Tom lingered the longest, his gaze locking onto Thorne's, a storm of hatred and barely checked violence swirling behind his eyes.

Thorne stared back, passive, unmoved by the unspoken challenge.

In the end, it was Tom who scoffed and walked away.

The deck slowly emptied, most returning to their assigned posts, though a few lingered, watching. Waiting.

Thorne ignored them.

Instead, he followed after Kerke, her stride confident as she led him to a sturdy wooden door beneath the captain's quarters. She yanked it open, stepping aside, motioning him inside.

Thorne hesitated for only a second before stepping in.

The room was large, but not ostentatious. The walls were lined with shelves, stacked haphazardly with maps, scrolls, ledgers, and spare weapons. A heavy wooden desk sat beneath a wide window, overlooking the churning waves below. The water was black and endless, streaked with moonlight, the ship's movement leaving a trail of foam in its wake.

The sound of the door closing behind him sent a pulse of awareness through his veins, and his Veil Sense flared.

His head turned sharply, eyes settling on Kerke.

"Where's my stuff?"

She didn't hesitate, simply pointed to the desk, where a pile of coins, maps, and trinkets sat scattered across the worn wood.

But Thorne only saw three things.

His pouch. The scroll from Aetherhold. The orb.

Everything he needed.

He nodded once, stepping forward, his fingers brushing over the items, his grip tightening around his pouch first, confirming its weight. His thumb traced over the cool surface of the Aetherhold orb, his mind already working through what came next.

Then, from the left side of the room, a trap door slammed open.

Two men burst forth, moving fast, their weapons already swinging.

Thorne didn't immediately react.

He had known.

The moment he had stepped into the room, his Veil Sense had whispered their presence to him. He hadn't revealed it, not out of carelessness but because he wanted to send a message.

And more importantly?

He wanted to test his new skills.

The men were fast. Their movements were practiced, brutal. Pirates, seasoned fighters, each well over level 40.

They were good.

But Thorne was better.

With calm, almost deliberate ease, he placed his pouch back onto the table and turned around.

A smirk tugged at his lips.

Windborn Agility.

Deadzone Reflex.

The world froze.

His perception expanded, reality slowing to a crawl. He saw it, every detail, every movement.

The first attacker's face twisted in a savage thrill, teeth bared, his blade slicing toward Thorne's ribs.

The second man, slightly behind, pivoted mid-step, bringing his axe down in a brutal overhead arc, aiming to cleave him in two.

Thorne moved.

With Windborn Agility, he leapt, crossing the room in an instant.

Mid-air, he twisted. Changed trajectory.

The men didn't even register what had happened.

One second, he was in front of them. The next...

Gone.

Their weapons slashed through empty air.

Behind them now, Thorne landed with near-silent precision, his aether already responding.

His fingers curled, and the air shimmered. Aether motes jumped to his outstretched palm, spiraling, condensing...

A weapon took shape.

A lance of pure aether.

Aether Lance.

A savage grin flickered across Thorne's face as he threw his hand forward.

The lance flew.

Fast.

Too fast.

The sheer force of it cracked the air, whipping his hair around.

The first pirate had no chance.

The lance speared him straight through the chest.

The moment stretched endlessly.

His expression flickered from predatory aggression to stunned disbelief, his mouth opening in a silent, choking gasp. The impact was so absolute, a gaping hole now lay where his chest had been, big enough to fit a man's head through.

Blood hadn't even begun to spill before he was already dead.

But the lance wasn't finished.

The sheer force of its release didn't just kill one.

The second pirate, though untouched, was blown backward, sent flying across the room like a ragdoll.

His body crashed against a bookcase, the wooden frame splintering on impact, sending maps, scrolls, and books tumbling to the floor.

And still, the lance did not stop.

It screamed through the air, tore through the back wall, and continued, vanishing into the sea beyond.

For a moment, nothing moved.

Nothing but the soft sound of waves below.

The room was still vibrating with the aftermath of his attack. Dust hung in the air, books and maps lay scattered across the floor, and the unmistakable stench of burned aether lingered.

Thorne barely registered Kerke's shaken gasp as she knelt beside the unconscious man. His focus remained on the distant, vanishing point of his Aether Lance, now nothing but a ripple across the black waves. The sheer force of the skill still hummed in his veins.

It wasn't supposed to be that powerful.

Or maybe it was.

He had only ever used it against monsters. Uncle, the red-robed mage, the man from the capital. Those encounters had shown its destructive capability, but against someone weaker… it had simply erased them.

He hadn't even been aiming to kill. Not really.

Aether motes still crackled faintly around his fingers, his body humming with the residual energy of Windborn Agility and Deadzone Reflex. His instincts had sharpened to a terrifying degree, his body reacting before his mind had even fully processed the fight.

One second he had been standing at the desk. The next, his enemies were dead or broken before they even knew what happened.

Was this what true power felt like?

Kerke's sharp voice finally pulled him back. "Torric. Hey, Torric! Wake up, dammit!" She was shaking the unconscious pirate, her fingers pressing against his pulse point, checking if he was still alive.

Thorne didn't care.

He turned back to the desk, reaching down and grabbing his pouch, his scroll, his orb. His fingers tightened around them, the weight grounding him.

He had what he needed.

As he moved to leave, Kerke whipped around, her golden eyes blazing with fury.

"You bastard." Her voice was low, barely more than a whisper, but it carried the weight of real anger.

Thorne stopped mid-step, tilting his head slightly. "What? Because I defended myself?"

Kerke stood, her hands balled into fists, her jaw clenched. "You knew they were there." It wasn't a question.

Thorne smirked.

Of course, he had.

"If I hadn't, I'd be dead," he said, brushing past her. Then, as an afterthought, he paused beside her, lowering his voice.

"Tell your friends not to disturb me. I need some time for myself."

Then, without waiting for a reply, he walked out, shutting the door behind him.

*

The wind carried the scent of salt and damp wood, mixing with the occasional creak of the ship's hull. The steady rhythm of the waves against the ship's body was the only real sound in the vast emptiness of the sea, save for the distant murmurs of the crew.

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Thorne sat cross-legged at the bow, bare-chested, letting the full moon's glow seep into his skin.

Lunar Regeneration was working overtime.

Normally, the ability worked subtly in the background, but tonight, under the full moon, it was a force of nature. The sensation was almost intoxicating, a hum of raw energy beneath his skin, knitting him back together at a pace far beyond what his body could naturally handle. Every aching muscle, every deep bruise, every lingering wound from his desperate escape mended itself at an unnatural speed.

He could feel it working.

Flesh pulling itself together.

Scars vanishing as if they had never been.

The deep aches in his bones dissolving.

His body was being restored.

And yet, his mind felt fractured beyond repair.

Thorne watched the moonlight ripple across the dark waves, its glow shattered into pieces by the movement of the ship, much like his own thoughts, colliding into one another before he could make sense of them.

His mind was a storm, too many thoughts coming at once, no order, no clarity.

No peace.

Grief.

For those he had lost.

Sid. Rielle. Arletta.

Gone.

Just like that.

There had been no time to mourn them, no time to even confirm how many of the Lost Ones had truly perished.

And Matilda…

Had she escaped before the attack? She was planning on leaving Alvar with her husband. Had she made it out?

He didn't know.

And the not knowing was suffocating.

Worry.

His friends.

Ben. Jonah. Darius. Eliza.

Had they made it out?

Had they fled like he told them to?

Or had they…

He clenched his jaw, forcing the thought away before it could fully take shape.

No.

He had to believe they were alive.

Otherwise…

Otherwise, there was no point in anything.

Betrayal.

Selene.

Her face flashed behind his eyes, her expression when she had finally pieced everything together.

Her anger. Her disgust. Her hatred.

Was she wrong to betray him?

Or had he betrayed her first?

Hadn't he been lying to her from the moment they met?

Hadn't he played a role in her father's death, in her family's downfall?

She had only done what anyone else would have done in her position.

If their places had been reversed, would he have done any different?

Thorne exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face.

He didn't know.

Maybe he never would.

Fear.

Not for his life.

Not exactly.

But for what came next.

The two most powerful men he had ever encountered were still out there.

They knew the truth about him, what he truly was.

They knew his face, his name.

And now, they would come for him.

He had no illusions about that.

And next time, they wouldn't underestimate him.

Thorne lifted his hand, his eyes narrowing at the mark of the Purple Crow still pulsing faintly on his palm.

The light was muted now, nearly fading.

That was good, it meant he was getting further away from the mysterious man.

But that didn't mean he was safe.

The mark unsettled him, its presence reminding him that he still didn't understand its full purpose.

Could the man use it to track him?

Would it disappear in time?

Or was it something worse, something permanent?

Thorne sighed, lowering his hand.

He would deal with it eventually.

But then there was one last thing.

One last thing he hadn't fully processed.

Uncle.

Thorne stared blankly at the water, his hands tightening into fists.

He had killed him.

Even now, he couldn't quite wrap his head around it.

It still didn't feel real.

How could it?

Uncle had been his whole world for longer than his own parents had.

The one constant. The inescapable force.

The thing he fought against, feared, obeyed, hated.

Now?

Gone.

But he still didn't feel free.

Not really.

His mind conjured Uncle's last moments, his grotesque, overgrown form, the twisted muscles, the melted, burned flesh, the raw, bestial rage in his bloodshot eyes.

No. It had been real. Too real.

He had done it.

He had killed the man who had shaped him.

And yet…

A part of him wondered if he was still trapped in the cage Uncle had built.

The thought sent a cold shiver down his spine.

Then...

"If you hadn't just killed my friend, I'd find your brooding expression sexy."

Thorne's head snapped up.

Kerke stood leaning casually against the railing, arms crossed, her smirk sharp and knowing.

The moonlight caught in her golden eyes, making them gleam like liquid fire.

Thorne sighed through his nose and turned back to the sea. "Can't a man sit in peace?"

Kerke tilted her head, pretending to consider it. "You? No. I don't think peace follows you anywhere."

Thorne huffed a quiet laugh, but it held no humor.

She wasn't wrong.

Not at all.

The waves lapped against the hull, a steady rhythm beneath the quiet tension that hung between them. Thorne's gaze remained on the moon, its silver light soaking into his skin, fueling the last remnants of his regeneration.

Tonight was the night.

That was what the Aether Messenger had told him, the next full moon, he would be guided to Aetherhold.

But how? When?

His eyes drifted downward, falling on the admission letter and the pale orb resting beside his legs.

They sat there inert, lifeless, giving no indication that they held the key to anything.

Had he missed his chance?

No… that couldn't be it.

But as each minute passed, uncertainty gnawed at him.

It all felt like a fever dream, an illusion that could shatter at any moment.

He had wanted Aetherhold for so long, had fixated on it, dreamed of it, fought for it...

And now that it was finally within reach… he didn't believe it was going to happen.

This wasn't just about escaping Alvar.

This was about finding out what happened to Bea.

His sister.

And the answers that had been hidden from him for too long.

Kerke stretched her arms behind her head, exhaling with a dramatic sigh, as if she had already accepted the fact that Thorne was the most impossible person she had ever met.

"The Emerald Shores could surely use a troublemaker like yourself," she mused with a grin, tilting her head toward him.

The wind caught in her wild hair, making it dance as the ship rocked beneath them. There was something almost nostalgic in her voice, a deep-rooted pride hidden beneath her usual teasing tone.

Thorne made a noncommittal sound, barely acknowledging her words, his gaze still on the moon.

His mind was elsewhere.

Kerke had no idea of the storm raging in his mind or if she did, she didn't care. She was still talking, her voice carrying a natural warmth, a rolling cadence, like waves against the shore.

"You'll love the Emerald Shores, you know," she went on, an almost wistful look in her eyes. "So much character in our little kingdom. Beautiful beaches with crystal-green sands, beautiful women, and the most amazing wine you've ever tasted."

Thorne scoffed, finally turning to look at her, arching a brow.

"That's not what I've heard about your so-called paradise."

Kerke grinned, clearly entertained. "Oh? And what have you heard?"

Thorne leaned back, resting his forearms against his knees.

"That your seafaring kingdom is riddled with danger. That it's teeming with wild aether beasts and cutthroats."

His gaze flicked over to her pointedly.

Like you and your lot.

Kerke threw back her head and laughed, the sound rich and full of life.

"All of those things are true," she admitted easily. "But that doesn't mean you can't find wonders and beauty, too!"

She spread her arms wide, gesturing to the vast night sky above them, as if it held the very essence of what she was describing.

"It's nothing like that drab, ugly city you call home," she continued, rolling her eyes. "Our cities are nestled in emerald jungles, perched along towering cliffs or hidden within the thickest foliage. The trees grow so tall, you'd swear they hold up the sky itself."

She stepped closer, voice dropping slightly, as if revealing a well-kept secret.

"You can wake up in the morning, open your window, and pluck the ripest, juiciest fruit right from the branches. The scent of the sea is everywhere, mingling with the spice of wildflowers and the faintest tingle of aether in the air."

Thorne watched her, silent, caught between skepticism and curiosity.

She wasn't just embellishing a story, he could tell.

She was speaking from experience.

Kerke smirked at his silence, clearly satisfied that she had at least caught his attention.

"As for the cutthroats," she said, raising a brow, "Really? Coming from you? The son of the criminal overlord of Alvar? Please."

Thorne's expression darkened, but she just grinned wider, unbothered.

"And the aether beasts?" she continued, voice laced with undeniable pride. "We've tamed them. Those we don't use for experience, we raise as pets and partners."

She lifted a finger, counting them off.

"We don't have horses, we ride Blackwater crocodiles and tide serpents."

"We don't keep guard dogs, we train Firefanged Cobras and venomous salamanders to protect our homes."

"We don't send falcons for messages, we use Storm Harriers, birds that can bend lightning itself."

Her golden eyes gleamed, her excitement almost infectious.

"Our warriors grow up alongside their beasts. We don't just command them, we forge bonds with them, deep and unbreakable."

She took a step closer, tilting her head at him.

"It's a world unlike anything you've ever seen, Silverbane."

Thorne was quiet for a long moment, digesting her words.

And, to his own annoyance, he found himself intrigued.

She was right about one thing.

The Emerald Shores were nothing like Alvar.

Alvar was gray stone and endless smoke, its air thick with blood and ambition. It was a city of shadows and blades, of people clawing for power, of secrets that could kill you before the next sunrise.

It was home.

But it was also a prison.

The Emerald Shores, in contrast, sounded… wild. Untamed. A place where survival wasn't about deception and politics but strength and instinct.

For the first time, he wondered...

Would he have thrived in a place like that?

Would he have been different if he had grown up among jungles and tide serpents instead of alleyways and daggers?

The thought sat uneasily in his chest.

Kerke must have seen something in his expression, because she leaned back, flashing a cocky grin.

"Oh, don't look so broody. You'd love it if you gave it a chance."

Thorne just huffed, shaking his head.

For a moment, the two of them simply stared at each other, an unspoken challenge hanging between them.

Then...

The air shifted.

His Veil Sense flared an instant before Kerke noticed.

Then...

The orb beside him began to glow.

A soft, pulsing light, faint at first but quickly intensifying, bathing the ship's deck in an eerie, otherworldly radiance.

Thorne's body tensed.

This is it.

He calmly stood, picking up his pouch and letter, his heart pounding as he watched.

Kerke's eyes went wide as she crept closer, staring at the now floating orb, its light shifting in complex patterns.

"What is that?" she asked, voice breathless. "What's happening? Are you doing this?"

Her gaze snapped to him. "You better not destroy any more of my ship!"

Thorne ignored her.

His Aether Vision activated instinctively, sharpening the glow, revealing the intricate tendrils of energy leaping out of the orb.

At first, they were formless, just pure, raw aether.

Then...

They began to shift.

To take shape.

The tendrils twisted and curled, forming intricate symbols, ancient and unreadable, pulsing with deliberate precision.

One by one, the tendrils separated from the orb, weaving through the air, encircling it.

They moved with purpose, binding together into a singular, rotating ring of aether.

The circle spun, shifting, its light brightening until it pulsed with an ancient power.

Then...

It flared.

Symbols rearranged, shifting into something new, something final.

And suddenly...

A disk of pure energy formed, solidifying into a shimmering surface.

The moment it completed its transformation, the disk tilted, rotating until it faced Thorne directly.

A mirror of light and power.

A portal.

The air felt electric.

Every hair on Thorne's arms stood on end as the portal pulsed before him, the shimmering disk of energy hovering just inches above the ship's wooden deck. The swirling glyphs and ancient symbols spun in slow, deliberate patterns, exuding a quiet power that made the space around them feel heavier, like the very air had thickened with significance.

The moonlight above paled in comparison to the raw radiance of the portal, its glow reflecting on Kerke's stunned expression, her usual smirk completely wiped away.

For a long, stretched moment, no one spoke.

Then, Kerke whispered, her voice barely audible over the wind.

"By the dead gods…"

Her wide, golden eyes flicked from the portal to Thorne, then back again, as if struggling to comprehend what she was witnessing.

Thorne, however, wasn't staring at the portal anymore.

He was staring at the orb in his palm.

The once-glowing artifact had lost all its light, its core now a dull, inert thing, as if it had expended all its stored energy to create this moment.

And it had.

Because this wasn't a test.

This was the real thing.

Aetherhold was calling him.

The portal was his answer.

A slow, exhale left his lips, and for the first time in a long time, a feeling settled in his chest that he could only describe as certainty.

This was where he was meant to go.

This was the next step.

Thorne let his fingers curl around the orb, slipping it into his pouch, then turned to Kerke.

She was still staring, mouth slightly open, her usual cocky confidence nowhere to be found.

"I guess this is where our roads part."

His voice cut through the stunned silence, cool and composed.

Kerke blinked, as if snapping out of a trance.

"Wait, what?"

Her brows furrowed, and suddenly, she was stepping closer, hands braced against her hips, her earlier shock replaced by something frustrated, searching.

"You're just going to step into that? You don't even know where it leads!"

Thorne lifted a brow. "I know exactly where it leads."

"Do you?" She scoffed, tilting her head toward the portal. "Because it looks like a glowing death trap to me."

Thorne smirked. "Then I guess it's a good thing I've made a habit of surviving those."

Kerke narrowed her eyes, crossing her arms. "You just got here, Silverbane. And now you're just… disappearing?"

Something sharpened in her gaze, something almost suspicious.

"Who the hell are you, really?"

Thorne regarded her silently.

For a brief second, he considered telling her the truth.

But what would be the point?

She was just another passing character in his life, someone he had crossed paths with by chance, someone who had tested his patience, challenged his composure, but ultimately, someone who had no place in his future.

He didn't owe her an answer.

Still...

He gave her one anyway.

A small, almost amused shrug. "Now? I'm no one."

He took a step closer to the portal, the glow illuminating the sharp angles of his face, the light reflecting in his cold, calculating gaze.

"But soon?"

His smirk returned, slow and sure.

"I plan to change that."

And with that, he turned away.

He didn't hesitate.

He didn't second-guess.

Because if there was one thing he knew, it was this...

Aetherhold was waiting.

And he was done delaying his fate.

The moment his foot crossed the threshold, the portal reacted, the swirling runes flashing, pulsing, shifting as if recognizing his presence, his acceptance.

The space around him collapsed inward, and suddenly...

The ship. The sea. The stars above.

They disappeared.

The last thing he heard was Kerke's voice calling after him.

"Silverbane!"

Then...

Nothing.

Just light.

And the next step of his journey truly beginning.

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