The streets of Evermist shimmered under the night sky, its stones pulsing faintly with enchantments that lined the walkways like veins of molten glass. Spires glowed in the distance, their lights refracting through fog and distant wards. The city never slept, it hummed with layered magics and half-forgotten songs even in the quiet hours.

Thorne moved through it all like a shadow stitched in flesh, his steps light but purposeful. He passed floating carts selling sweetbread and spell-ink, dodged a flock of whispering scrolls that circled a drunken scribe, and ignored the warbling tune of a street performer using a violin that played itself. Even now, Evermist glowed with life, mysterious, dazzling, unpredictable.

When he finally reached Brennak's storefront, the familiar cracked glass sign was still hanging overhead, the same flickering rune pulsing like a heartbeat in reverse. The metal shutters were half-lowered, the light from within dimmer than the last time.

Thorne pushed the door open.

The elven assistant behind the counter didn't even glance up.

"If you're here to kill someone," he said dully, "please wait until closing hours. I already did the paperwork for today."

Thorne raised a brow. "Charming as ever."

The elf looked up, irritation flashing across his sharp features. He sighed theatrically. "Brennak's downstairs. Go ahead. And do try not to destroy the shop this time."

Thorne smiled thinly. "No promises."

Thorne gave him a lazy two-fingered salute over his shoulder and ducked through the curtain behind the shop.

The back room was as he remembered, musty, cramped, and smelling of old oil and mildew. He brushed past the threadbare tapestry and reached for the hidden door tucked into the wall.

The stairwell beyond stretched down into a place few in Evermist even knew existed.

And Thorne descended.

And then he was there again.

The market.

Magelights flickered in ornate cages, casting warped glows across stalls and alcoves carved directly into the rock. An elf butcher was sharpening a blade the size of a short sword beside a table stacked with iridescent animal limbs. A veiled woman hawked vials of dream-smoke that drifted upward and coiled around your thoughts before you even touched them. Two dwarves were quietly exchanging spell-etched rounds over a board game whose pieces hissed and bled color.

Thorne wove through the crowd looking for Brennak.

He passed the snake-man selling cursed tattoos, the exiled prince hawking stormglass relics, and finally reached a squat, rune-carved archway veiled in red silk.

He found Brennak leaning on the edge of a stall, pipe in his mouth, scowling at a bottle that refused to uncork itself.

"Well, well," Brennak said without turning. "The prodigal prick returns."

Thorne raised a brow. "You always greet your clients like this, or is it just me?"

Brennak turned, his scowl shifting into something like a grin. "Only the ones who made me ten grand in a single deal."

They clasped forearms in a brief but firm shake.

"So," the dwarf said, eyeing him. "What's brought you crawling back to the gutter this time?"

Thorne didn't bother with pleasantries. "I need new daggers."

Brennak blinked, caught off guard. "Already? What in the seven cracked realms happened to the ones I gave you?"

"I destroyed them."

Brennak straightened, pipe hanging forgotten from his mouth. "Destroyed? Those weren't toothpicks, boy. How in the hells?"

Thorne shrugged. "Used aether. They couldn't take it."

The dwarf stared at him, jaw working as if chewing through disbelief. Then, with a scoff and a mutter that sounded suspiciously like "maniacs with magic," he turned on his heel.

"Lucky for you," Brennak said over his shoulder, "I had the sense you'd come crawling back for more. Didn't think it'd be this soon, but... Found something just for you."

He led Thorne deeper into the maze of stalls, toward a booth nestled between a vat of singing crystals and a stand selling beetles encased in flameproof wax. The scent of ozone and warm metal grew sharper.

Brennak stepped behind the stall, pulled open a lockbox carved from slate and brass, and reverently withdrew a narrow bundle wrapped in shimmering ashcloth.

He laid it down on a patch of worn velvet.

Thorne pulled the cloth back.

Inside were two daggers. Matte steel, blackened but not decorative. The hilts were simple, wrapped in storm-leather cord. But the blades… the blades pulsed faintly in his aether sense, not with enchantment, but wilder. The metal wasn't reacting to his magic, it was absorbing it. Drinking it in like a breath.

"They're made from Nullite Alloy," Brennak explained, his voice low now. "Rare stuff. Doesn't break under aether pressure. Flexible enough to flow with your casting without shearing. It won't amplify your spells, but it won't shatter either. Perfect for someone like you."

Thorne picked one up.

Light. Balanced. Hungry.

"These are worth a fortune," he said flatly.

"This one's on the house."

Thorne hesitated, eyeing him sideways. "Nothing's ever free."

"True," Brennak said cheerfully. "But sometimes… gifts are investments."

Thorne smirked. "So, what's the catch?"

The dwarf raised his hands innocently. "Catch? What catch? Can't a humble merchant reward a promising client?"

Thorne just stared.

Brennak chuckled, pipe bobbing. "Alright, alright. Let's call it… a preemptive favor. You want the daggers? They're yours. But I might have a small job for you. Nothing bloody, nothing illegal."

Thorne arched a brow.

Brennak amended, "Well… maybe technically illegal. But only in theory."

Thorne placed the daggers back in their box and folded his arms. "Spit it out."

Brennak leaned back against the nearest stall, a crooked smile curling under his beard. The nearby torches flickered, casting him in dancing amber light.

"Well..."

He tapped a thick, stubby finger against the table where the daggers lay. "The job is easy. Too easy actually. Quick. Simple. Right up your alley."

Thorne crossed his arms, eyes narrowing. "You want me to kill someone."

Brennak gave a scandalized gasp. "Stars, no. What do you take me for? A cutthroat?" Then he chuckled, the sound deep and pleasant, but Thorne saw the glint in his eyes. Calculating. "No. This isn't about blood. This is about… opportunity."

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

Thorne didn't respond. He just waited.

"There's a tower," Brennak said, keeping his voice low despite the lack of anyone nearby. "One of the old ones. Proper magework, tall as pride, and full of wards so twisted no one's dared breach them. It belongs to an Archmage, one of the ruling council, in fact. Name's Vatheon. Bit of a recluse. Collects rare artifacts. Keeps his tower sealed tighter than a dwarven vault."

"And you want me to steal from him?" Thorne asked dryly.

"Not steal. Retrieve." Brennak's grin widened. "A small item. Pyramid-shaped. About the size of your palm. Ugly thing, alien metal, faint glow, smooth surface. Doesn't do much on its own, far as I can tell, but I've got buyers interested."

Thorne's mind clicked rapidly. "You tried sending someone in already, didn't you?"

Brennak's smile didn't falter, but his silence was telling. "The wards aren't... forgiving," he admitted. "Most of my associates can't even step past the threshold. But you, a mage? It will be a piece of cake..." His eyes scanned Thorne with something between curiosity and greed. "You're a special breed, aren't you? Something tells me you've got a knack for getting through things you're not supposed to."

Thorne said nothing. But inside, his aether pulsed. He thought of the way he could unravel protections, sense enchantments like threads waiting to be plucked. His Elderborn trait made wards like that... flimsy.

Still, he kept his face neutral. "Sounds like suicide. What kind of protections are we talking about?"

"Oh, the usual," Brennak said, too flippantly. "Runes, traps, aether constructs, reality-bending enchantments, two mages who probably bathe in arcane fire. But you're quick, clever. You don't even have to fight anyone. Just sneak in, grab the artifact, and walk out. Clean as a whistle."

Thorne stared at him. "You're underselling this like a lunatic."

"Maybe," Brennak admitted. "But I'm also giving you those daggers, which would fetch a small fortune even in the black markets of Solkara. Think of it this way, this is a test. You handle this, and doors open."

"Or close permanently when I'm turned to ash," Thorne muttered.

Brennak clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder. "That's the spirit!"

Thorne exhaled through his nose. He didn't trust Brennak. But the idea of a restricted mage tower, packed with ancient spells and deadly wards… It wasn't fear he felt.

It was hunger.

"I want maps," he said.

"I'll get you sketches," Brennak agreed.

"I want to know the rotation of those two mages. Their habits, their aura signatures, their range."

"I'll see what I can dig up."

"And if I find out you're not telling me everything…"

Brennak's grin cracked a little at the edges. "Then I imagine your definition of 'return policy' is a bit bloodier than mine."

They stood like that for a beat, merchant and killer, smiling through teeth and tension.

"Fine," Thorne said finally. "I'll do it. But not because of the daggers."

"Oh, of course not," Brennak said with a wink. "You're doing it for the thrill."

Thorne stepped forward, his fingers brushing along the hilts of the twin daggers. They were heavier than they looked, perfectly balanced, their sheaths lined in soft black leather. Deadly. Elegant. Expensive.

He fastened them to his belt with practiced ease, then turned to face Brennak once more.

"This trinket of yours," Thorne said, voice quiet but steady. "Once I get it for you… these two blades won't even begin to cover the favor."

Brennak tilted his head, amused. "Oh?"

Thorne met his gaze, glowing eyes unwavering. "You'll owe me."

Brennak chuckled, but there was a flicker in his expression, uncertainty, perhaps. Or interest. "Bold words for a boy holding freebies."

Thorne just smiled and walked away.

***

The tower stood at the outer edge of Evermist, where the city's glow dimmed and the trees of the Primordial Forest loomed like ancient sentinels. Mist gathered thickest here, curling in slow spirals through overgrown cobblestones and swallowing the surrounding lanternlight. This part of the city was half-forgotten, a crescent of crumbling archways and ivy-choked gardens, where the silence felt too deliberate.

And in the middle of that silence, rose the tower.

Twisted and inhumanly tall, the spire looked like something that had grown rather than been built. Vines had claimed its base like hungry fingers, threading through the seams of silverstone and wrapping around spindled columns that stretched up into the haze. Veins of enchanted crystal pulsed faintly along the tower's surface, an old power that hadn't yet faded.

No windows. No doors. Only a single arched opening that shimmered faintly with translucent runes, waiting like the mouth of a sleeping beast.

Thorne crouched among the ruins of a nearby balcony, his body still, breath shallow. He'd slipped through the perimeter hours ago without alerting the dormant guardians. Aether constructs patrolled the lower gardens, low-tier, erratic things with rusted plating and burnt-out cores. Their movements followed no pattern, likely the result of years of magical degradation, but they were still dangerous if you got too close.

Worse than them were the wards. Dozens of them, some embedded into the tower's very bones. He could see them now with his Aether Vision active, threads of aether that shimmered in complex geometries, woven into walls, hanging in midair like traps waiting to be sprung.

Some flickered uselessly, failed enchantments long since drained.

Others? Still lethal.

Thorne crouched his eyes studying the cobbled street below, cloak drawn close, waiting.

He stayed like that for more than an hour, counting patrol rotations, memorizing the soft glimmers of the active ward matrix, and watching for any movement that would betray the presence of guards. From what he could tell, the place rarely slept. Occasionally, figures in long robes crossed behind the glass, servants or apprentices perhaps, but the two signatures that pulsed the brightest made his instincts howl. They were powerful. Probably the two mages Brennak had mentioned.

Speaking of which…

He rolled his eyes, pulling the thin folder from his satchel, the one handed to him earlier that evening by a shifty-eyed contact during the Flowerlight Festival, where floating petals of magic drifted lazily through the air and laughing children tried to catch them in glass jars.

The folder held a few crude sketches, floorplans that looked a decade out of date, a few notes scrawled in dwarvish shorthand, and a smudged list of "likely wards." That was it.

Brennak had essentially tossed him into the jaws of a spell-woven fortress with nothing but guesswork and a smirk.

Typical.

Thorne folded the papers away and turned back to the tower, his eyes glowing faintly. His aether stirred restlessly within his core, already reacting to the thrum of the protective spells surrounding the structure. The wards were thick here, knotted over centuries of magical layering. He recognized at least four types from this distance alone, his Veil Sense giving instinctively a vague sense of what those were meant to do. And he didn't like what his ability was telling him...

Brennak didn't need a skilled thief. He needed someone who could do what no normal thief could: walk through all of that and not lose his mind.

And unfortunately, that was Thorne.

He adjusted his gloves and let out a slow breath. "Let's get to work."

He slid along the edge of the garden wall, fingers trailing the stone as he moved. His boots made no sound. The shadows clung to him like silk. His skill Veil of Light and Shadow making him almost invisible. Years of training whispered in every step, Sid's voice in the back of his mind reminding him where to place his foot, how to hold his breath, how to kill the light in his eyes.

He reached the entrance and crouched low, eyes scanning the delicate flare of runes etched into the archway. They pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat, old magic, subtle but dangerous.

Thorne slipped one of his new daggers from its sheath, holding it horizontally. The metal felt cool, expectant. He extended his other hand, not to the ward, but to the air itself.

Ambient aether gathered easily here, thick as fog. He whispered to it, letting it coil around his fingers, then willed it into the blade. The steel drank it greedily, glowing faintly with a ripple of pale blue.

Then came the hard part.

He focused, his will sharpening to a single point. The aether began to shift, tighten. His binding skill wrapped around it like a seal. He didn't just pour power into the weapon, he imposed an intent on it.

Break.

A pulse ran through the dagger. The glow faded into something more dangerous, silent, deadly, focused.

He stepped to the arch and drew the blade across the runes, slow and precise. Where the tip passed, the magic stuttered, threads snapping like silk under tension. The enchantment hissed, twisted, and unraveled in a shimmer of pale light.

The path ahead opened.

But Thorne could feel it, the dagger had dimmed slightly, its reservoir of bound aether partially spent. He'd get a few more uses before it ran dry. Each ward he cut would drain more from the weapon and recharging them would not be so simple if he got into trouble.

Still, it was worth it.

He sheathed the blade and slipped inside, silent as a rumor.

"First lock's gone," he murmured to himself, stepping into the tower's interior.

The inside was worse.

Floating staircases twisted through open air, connecting levels that shifted constantly, rooms rising and falling as if moved by invisible hands. Candles burned without flame. Books floated from shelf to shelf, whispering their contents into blank alcoves. The air crackled with enchantment.

Thorne flattened himself against the nearest pillar and waited for the nearest construct to float past, a spider-like thing made of latticework bone and arcane glass. It passed without noticing him.

He darted forward, blending into the spiral of shifting platforms, ducking through hallways that rearranged themselves behind him. With every step, he relied on his Veil Sense to map the wards, some physical, others purely magical. Several he disarmed using the same method as before: shaping his aether precisely, inserting it like a wedge and unspooling the magic knot by knot. Others required silence and speed, ducking past their radius, waiting for just the right flicker to move.

One hallway shimmered with a veil so thick it dulled his hearing. He paused, focusing his intent, shaping it into a blade of clarity, and sliced through the web of confusion before it reached his thoughts.

Another room, this one filled with mirrors, nearly tricked him into revealing himself to one of the tower's inner guardians, a glimmering wraithlike mage that drifted between corridors. He held his breath, invoked Shadow Meld, and became a statue until it passed.

Step by step, deeper and deeper.

Toward the core of the tower, where a pyramid of alien metal, glinting faintly beneath dozens of magical seals, waited for someone foolish or skilled enough to try their luck.

He wasn't foolish.

But he was very, very skilled.

And tonight, the wards didn't stand a chance.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.