Thorne staggered up the grand staircase, every step a battle against the crushing fatigue that pulled at his limbs like lead weights. His entire body ached with a deep, bone-deep weariness, his muscles trembling as if they had been shredded and stitched back together, raw and burning with every movement. His skin prickled with a thousand invisible needles, and every breath felt like it was scraping his lungs with shards of glass.

  He had never pushed himself this far before, had never unleashed so much raw aether without restraint. He’d always been careful, measured, never daring to tap into the full force of the power coursing through his veins.

  But now, his body was paying the price. It felt as if he were made of fragile glass, every step threatening to shatter him into pieces. His vision swam, dark spots dancing at the edges, and his head throbbed with a relentless, pulsing pain. His mind was a fog of confusion, his thoughts sluggish and jumbled, the aftermath of the aetheric surge leaving him drained, hollow.

  Every instinct screamed at him to rest, to lie down and close his eyes, but he couldn’t afford to stop. Not now. He had to find Lady Thornfield and Kellan. He had to keep moving.

  He pressed a hand to his side, feeling the sticky warmth of his own blood beneath his fingers, the wound throbbing with every step. He could feel the wild aether still simmering beneath his skin, a dangerous, chaotic force that threatened to tear him apart if he tried to use it again. He knew that if he activated even a single aetheric skill, he wouldn’t make it out alive.

  The mansion was eerily quiet now, the sounds of battle reduced to distant echoes that reverberated through the empty halls. But Thorne knew better than to let his guard down. He’d seen more assassins upstairs, shadows moving through the darkness, and they had yet to make an appearance. They were probably searching for their targets, and he couldn’t afford to be found.

  Just keep moving, he told himself, his jaw clenched against the pain, the fatigue. He forced his legs to carry him forward, each step a monumental effort, his boots dragging on the polished floor. He had no idea where he was going, only that he needed to reach the left wing. That was where Lady Thornfield was supposed to be, and hopefully, Kellan too.

  He moved through the mansion like a ghost, his movements slow and deliberate. The idea of using aether made his body and mind recoil, and he knew that if he tried to push it, it would be the end of him. Instead, he activated his evolved Veil of Light and Shadow skill, his body blending into the surroundings, his form becoming a hazy silhouette that melted into the shadows.

  As he tiptoed through the dimly lit halls, the faint sound of distant violence reached his ears, crashes, shouts, the dull thud of something heavy hitting the ground. It was far off, deep in the mansion, but it sent a shiver down his spine. He couldn’t afford to be distracted. He had to focus on his goal, had to find Kellan. He moved silently, his senses straining, his eyes scanning every shadow, every corner.

  He froze as a faint, shallow breath reached his ears, barely audible over the soft rustling of the curtains in the drafty hallway. He held his breath, his muscles tensing as he turned slowly, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the darkness behind him. And then he saw it, a shadow moving stealthily from corner to corner, using some skill that made him almost invisible. The assassin’s form flickered, blending into the darkness, his steps soundless as he crept forward.

  Thorne’s heart pounded in his chest, his body coiled with tension. His eyes struggled to keep track of the man, but his other senses, Veil Sense, painted a clear picture. The assassin’s presence was like a beacon, bright and unmistakable, standing out against the shadows like a flame in the night. Thorne didn’t move, barely breathed, his body still as stone as he watched the assassin approach.

  The man was only level 12, and Thorne’s instincts screamed at him to attack, to end it before he could pose a threat. But he hesitated, his hand trembling on the hilt of his dagger. He was weak, his body on the verge of collapse, and a single mistake could prove fatal. He couldn’t afford to risk it. Not now.

  He waited with bated breath as the assassin moved past him, his form a dark blur in the flickering torchlight. Thorne’s eyes followed him, his heart hammering in his chest as the man turned right at a corridor, disappearing into the shadows.

  Thorne let out a slow, shaky breath, his body sagging with relief. He couldn’t afford to get into another fight, not in his state. He had to keep moving, had to stay focused. He took a deep breath, forcing his legs to carry him forward, his steps slow and deliberate as he continued down the hallway.

  He moved through the winding corridors, his mind a fog of pain and exhaustion. Every step was agony, every breath a struggle, but he pushed through it, his focus narrowing to a single, desperate goal: finding Lady Thornfield and Kellan. The left wing. That was where they were supposed to be.

  He turned a corner and found himself in a lush corridor, lined on one side with large windows and the other with rows of closed doors. It looked like a mirror image of Lord Thornfield’s quarters, the same opulence, the same heavy drapes and rich carpets. But the air was thick with the unmistakable scent of blood.

  Thorne’s stomach twisted as he moved forward, his eyes scanning the open doors, the rooms in disarray. Furniture was overturned, curtains torn down, and blood smeared across the floors and walls. He padded silently, his footsteps soundless as he searched for any sign of life, any hint of danger. But it seemed the assassins had already come through, leaving only destruction in their wake.

  Dread curled in his gut as he moved down the hallway, his heart pounding in his chest. Please, let them be alive, he thought, his teeth gritted against the fear that clawed at his insides.

  And then he heard it, a faint, broken whimper, coming from one of the rooms up ahead. Thorne’s heart leaped into his throat, his body going still as he listened, straining to catch the sound again. It was faint, barely audible, but it was there. Someone was alive.

  He moved forward, his steps cautious, his senses straining for any hint of movement. He reached the door and peered inside, his breath catching in his throat at the sight that greeted him.

  The room was a scene of carnage, half a dozen guards lying in pools of their own blood, their bodies twisted and broken. Two assassins lay dead beside them, one with a sword lodged through his neck, his lifeless eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. And in the middle of the room, surrounded by the bodies of her fallen protectors, lay Lady Thornfield.

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  She was alive, but only just. A dagger was lodged in her gut, a dark pool of blood staining her gown, her eyes closed, her face pale and drawn. Her breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, her lips bloodless, her body trembling with the effort to stay conscious.

  Thorne’s heart clenched, his stomach twisting with a mix of relief and horror as he rushed to her side, his own injuries forgotten in the face of her suffering. His boots stuck to the blood-soaked floor, making an unpleasant sucking sound as he knelt beside her, his hand reaching out to shake her gently.

  “Lady Thornfield,” he murmured, his voice low, urgent. “Can you hear me?”

  Her eyes fluttered open, her gaze unfocused, her lips moving soundlessly as she tried to speak. Thorne shook her again, his heart pounding in his chest. “Stay with me,” he urged, his voice rough with desperation. “I need you to stay with me.”

  She made a soft, moaning sound, her eyes half-closed, her body trembling. Thorne glanced around, his mind racing as he searched for something, anything that could help. “Do you have a healing potion?” he asked, his voice tight, his hand pressing against her wound in a futile attempt to stem the bleeding. “In your bedroom, do you have any potions?”

  Lady Thornfield’s eyes moved sluggishly, her lips parting as she struggled to form words. “No,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, her breath hitching with pain.

  Thorne closed his eyes, his heart sinking. Damn it. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to stay focused, to stay calm.

  “What about Kellan?” he asked, his voice gentle, trying to keep the fear out of his tone. “Where is he?”

  Lady Thornfield’s eyes widened, terror bleeding into her gaze as she seemed to come back to herself. “In his room,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Please, you have to save him. They’ll kill him.”

  Thorne nodded, feeling a faint flicker of hope as he saw some of her strength return at the mention of her son. “We’ll find him,” he said softly, his voice steady, even though his heart was hammering in his chest. “But you need to help me. Can you do that?”

  Lady Thornfield nodded weakly, her face tight with pain as she tried to move. Thorne slid his arms under her, his muscles protesting as he lifted her gently, her body limp and heavy in his grasp. She let out a soft cry of pain, her eyes squeezing shut, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

  “Is it far?” Thorne asked, his voice strained as he struggled to keep his balance, his legs shaking with the effort. His own wounds screamed in protest, the blood loss making his head swim, but he pushed through it, his focus narrowing to a single goal: getting her to safety.

  She shook her head, her eyes fluttering open, and she pointed with a trembling, blood-slicked hand down the corridor. “Not far,” she whispered, her voice tight with pain.

  Thorne nodded, his jaw clenched as he took a step forward, his feet dragging on the blood-soaked floor. Every step was agony, his body trembling with the effort, but he couldn’t stop. Not now. Not when they were so close.

  He moved with agonizing slowness, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps, his body screaming for rest. His vision blurred, his head spinning as he stumbled forward, his eyes fixed on the door at the end of the corridor. It was broken, the wood splintered, hanging off its hinges.

  The noblewoman let out a desperate, broken sound as they reached the doorway, her body sagging in his arms. Thorne’s heart clenched, his stomach twisting as he stepped into the room, his eyes scanning the wreckage.

  The room was a disaster. Furniture was overturned, the bed ripped apart, the walls scarred with deep gouges. It looked like a storm had torn through, leaving nothing but destruction in its wake. But there was no blood, no bodies. No sign of Kellan.

  “He may still be alive,” Thorne said softly, his voice more a whisper to himself than to her.

  He took a deep breath, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the room, his senses straining for any hint of movement, any sign of life. And then he heard it, a faint, shallow breath, coming from somewhere in the room.

  His head snapped up, his eyes widening as he tried to find the source of the sound. His heart pounded in his chest, his breath catching in his throat. Were there assassins hidden somewhere? Was Kellan hiding? He took a step forward, his body trembling with exhaustion and fear, his senses straining as he searched the shadows.

  Thorne gently laid Lady Thornfield down, careful not to jostle her wound as he scanned the room. There was that sound again, the faint, shallow breathing, coming from somewhere close. He turned, his eyes narrowing as he searched the shadows, his senses straining to pick up any hint of movement.

  “My son, my son, where is he?” Lady Thornfield sobbed, her voice breaking. Her hand reached out weakly, grasping at the air as if trying to hold onto something that wasn’t there.

  Thorne hushed her gently, his gaze still locked on the shadows. “Someone’s in the room,” he murmured, his voice low, calming. “We’re not alone.”

  The woman’s eyes widened in terror, her breath hitching, but then something flickered in her gaze—hope. She pointed with a trembling hand at the wall behind him. “There’s a secret passage behind that wall,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

  Thorne turned, his eyes narrowing as he examined the paneled wall. He moved closer, his gaze scanning the surface until he spotted it, beside the broken dresser, a small carving, almost invisible in the dim light. He glanced back at Lady Thornfield just in time to see her trying to stand, her face contorted with pain. She collapsed back with a moan, clutching her side, but Thorne barely spared her a glance as he stepped closer to the wall.

  He traced the carving with his fingers, feeling the rough grooves beneath his touch. The breathing grew more pronounced as he moved closer, a soft, rapid sound that echoed faintly in the small space. He turned back to Lady Thornfield, his eyes sharp. “How does it open?”

  She held up her hand, the signet ring with the image of a raven glinting faintly in the dim light. “With this,” she said, her voice a strained whisper, as she pulled the ring off her finger and held it out to him.

  Thorne took the ring, his heart pounding as he examined the intricate design, then turned back to the carving. He placed the surface of the ring against the small indentation, feeling it slide into place with a soft click. There was a low groan as the wooden panel shifted, sliding to the side to reveal a narrow, dark opening.

  Inside, huddled under a blanket, was Kellan, his eyes wide with fear. An older woman sat beside him, her arms wrapped protectively around his trembling form. The young man’s breath caught in his throat as he looked up at Thorne, his face pale and drawn.

  “You?” Kellan whispered, his voice barely audible, his eyes filled with disbelief.

  Thorne gave him a grin, the expression faint and tired. “Me,” he said softly, then stepped aside, revealing Lady Thornfield. “And look who I brought.”

  Kellan’s eyes widened, his face crumpling as tears filled his eyes. “Mother!”

  Thorne moved quickly, ignoring the pain that flared through his side as he crossed the room and lifted Lady Thornfield into his arms. She let out a soft cry, her head lolling against his shoulder as he carried her to the opening. His legs trembled with the strain, his muscles protesting with every step, but he pushed through it, his jaw clenched tight.

  He placed her inside the small space, her body sagging against the old woman’s arms as she was pulled into a gentle embrace. There were murmurs of relief, soft, broken sobs as Kellan threw his arms around his mother, his small body shaking with emotion.

  Thorne slumped against the wall, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he struggled to stay upright. He glanced around the small, dark space, his eyes narrowing as he spotted a small lever on the inside wall. He reached for it, his hand trembling, and pulled.

  The wooden panel slid back into place with a soft click, sealing them inside. The darkness was absolute, pressing in on all sides, and even Thorne had trouble seeing. He leaned back against the wall, his body trembling with exhaustion, his head spinning as he closed his eyes.

  “Now what?” Kellan’s voice was small, shaky, filled with fear.

  Thorne took a deep breath, his mind foggy, his body screaming for rest. “Now we wait for reinforcements to arrive,” he murmured, his voice a faint, weary whisper. He slid down the wall, his legs giving out as he settled onto the cold, hard floor. His head throbbed, his vision blurring as he leaned back, closing his eyes.

  “Reinforcements?” Kellan asked, his voice confused, trembling in the darkness.

  Thorne managed a faint grin, his lips curving as he forced the word out, the exhaustion pulling at him, dragging him down.

  “Uncle.”

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