Thorne walked unhurriedly through the main street, hands buried in his pockets, the bustle of Evermist flowing around him like water around stone. Merchants cried their wares, hawking silks that shimmered with aether-thread and fruits that glowed faintly under the sun. Carriages rattled, nobles paraded, and the air smelled of roasted meat and spiced wine. Thorne let it all pass, his steps carrying him to where memory guided.

He spotted it at last, the place he'd been seeking. He'd scouted it weeks ago, in one of his first wanderings through the city. A narrow gap between two gilt-stone buildings opened into a small courtyard, tucked away so tightly that most passersby would never notice it. The high walls of expensive houses boxed it in, their plastered fronts painted in muted pastels, their shuttered windows set too high to see much of what happened below. The lower slits were clearly for air, not sight. To anyone above, this courtyard barely existed.

A perfect blindspot.

Thorne stepped in and let the city noise dull. His eyes swept the space, cobbled ground, ivy clinging to the walls, and in the very center, a deep stone well capped with a heavy iron grate. He let out a low whistle, the sound bouncing off the walls. For a few seconds, only silence answered.

Then, clang!

The clang wasn't just a thrown scrap of steel. It was the herald of an ambush.

Two figures dropped from the walls like shadows ripped loose from the ivy, twin panther beastkin, black-furred, lean, and deadly. Their golden eyes gleamed in unison, their movements so synchronized that Thorne could've sworn they were reflections. But he recognized one. The scar over the muzzle, the cut ear, Brennak's hound.

The other was unfamiliar, and far more dangerous. He landed with staff in hand, runes flickering like sickly stars along the wood.

The swordsman lunged first, a wide cleave meant to bisect him.

Deadzone Reflex.

The world stuttered. Sound dulled, color flattened, and Thorne saw the swing crawling through air like treacle. He pivoted on one foot, sliding under the blade, his cloak trailing sparks as steel kissed stone behind him. Ashthorn whispered into his palm. A flicker of silver light ran down his daggers.

"Come, then," he muttered.

The mage-beastkin barked a guttural chant, staff thumping against the stones. A burst of violet energy ripped across the courtyard. Thorne vaulted backward, Windborne Agility turning his escape into a float rather than a stumble, flipping off the lip of the well before landing in a low crouch.

He flicked his wrist, Flame Needle. A dart of fire shot forward, intercepted mid-air by the beastkin's staff, exploding harmlessly in sparks.

The swordsman came again, ready for blood. Thorne met him head-on, steel flashing. Fangthread Warding pulsed at the first clash, spectral tendrils lashing outward, forcing the beastkin back with a hiss. Thorne pressed, blades whirling, Vengeful Blades feeding momentum into his strikes. Each cut made the next faster, sharper, more inevitable.

But the mage was circling. Threads of aether wrapped his staff, weaving into a trap.

Thorne didn't even glance. He reached with his own will, Invisible Threads. The unseen filaments lashed out, snagging a loose flagstone at the mage's feet. He yanked. The beastkin staggered mid-incantation, spell collapsing into a fizz of wasted power.

"Sloppy," Thorne spat, lunging. His daggers blurred, Lethal Flurry, steel like rainfall. Silver light and black fur mingled as his strikes cut shallow lines across the swordsman's guard, driving him back toward the mage.

The mage snarled and raised his staff again. Thorne's eyes caught the swelling glow. He didn't wait. He whispered the incantation, pushed aether through brittle channels, Sunderstrike.

The air rippled. A wave of compressed force blasted forward, slamming into both beastkin like a battering ram. They skidded back across the cobblestones, one crashing into the wall, the other spitting blood as the staff cracked on impact.

Thorne exhaled, chest heaving. He twirled Ashthorn once, silver light fading, but his eyes never left them.

"You picked the wrong alley," he said coldly.

The panthers rose.

The swordsman shook himself like a beast, lips peeling back in a snarl. His eyes burned with cold fury, feral, but calculated. The mage steadied his staff, one paw bleeding where he'd caught himself, the runes crawling back to life in jagged lines of blue flame.

Veil Sense pulsed. Information filtered into his mind, the sword weilder was level 53 while the mage level 57.

Thorne's jaw tightened. This wasn't a tavern brawl. These were hired killers.

The swordsman moved first, a black streak crossing the courtyard. Thorne met him head-on. Ashthorn flared in his right hand, dagger gleaming silver in the left. The clash cracked like a bell. Sparks rained.

Fangthread Warding lashed out again on the parry, violet tendrils biting the beastkin's chest and driving him back, but the man barely flinched. He countered with a two-handed swing, and Thorne slipped inside it, Ashthorn's edge scraping across fur and steel. Vengeful Blades sang in his veins, each cut feeding the next, his rhythm sharpening with every strike.

The mage lifted his staff. Thorne's skin prickled. He spun, instincts snapping taut. A bolt of jagged energy lanced toward him...

"Shield!"

He forced the aether outward. Two sigils, the ones he'd traced and failed a hundred times in class, burned into being before him. A faint ripple spread from his core, hardening into a translucent barrier. The spell smashed against it, shuddering ripples through the air. Thorne's boots slid back across stone, but the shield held.

The barrier faded, leaving only the ghost of light on his skin. Thorne grinned despite the ringing in his arms. "Finally."

No time to savor. The swordsman lunged again, his blade a blur. Thorne ducked under, Burst of Speed igniting. The world slowed. Dust hung in the air, glowing in the spill of sunlight. Thorne stepped into the opening, his dagger sliding across the beastkin's ribs, dagger thrusting low. Blood welled black against fur.

The mage roared, staff slamming down. The cobblestones erupted into jagged spikes. Thorne vaulted, Windborne Agility carrying him higher than any mortal leap should. He twisted mid-air, cloak snapping around him, and dropped behind them.

"Your turn."

He snapped his wrist. Flame Needles burst into existence, three burning darts that whirled around his wand-hand like hunting hawks. He launched them, one, two, three. The mage deflected the first, but the second burned across his shoulder, the third sinking into his thigh.

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The swordsman spun, blade hissing low. Thorne caught it with his silverlight boosted dagger. For a heartbeat, they were locked, face to face, both snarling. Then Thorne shoved, Fangthread tendrils lashing, and the beastkin staggered back.

He didn't relent. He flowed forward, Lethal Flurry unleashing a storm of cuts, silver-lit daggers stitching shallow wounds faster than the eye could follow. The beastkin's defense crumbled under the sheer tempo.

But the mage recovered, eyes glowing. He raised his staff high.

Thorne's pulse slowed again, Deadzone Reflex. He felt the air crackle, saw the bolt form before it was cast. He shifted, his hand raised and called to the aether flow phasing, creating a small hollow disc just as the spell sailed. The disc solidified the moment the spell passed. The energy fractured into sparks, harmless.

The mage froze in disbelief. Thorne's smile was cold.

"Lesson one, don't cast where I can reach you."

He lunged. Invisible Threads lashed out mid-stride, snagging the mage's ankle. Thorne pulled. The panther stumbled, staff wide. Thorne was already there, dagger plunging through the opening, silverlight burning. The blade cut deep, driving the panther mage to his knees with a ragged cry.

The swordsman howled in fury and came again, wild and brutal. Thorne spun, silver and black steel clashing again and again, until he ducked low, slipped behind, and drove his dagger in a vicious Backstab. The panther roared, blood spraying, but Thorne twisted free, cloak snapping.

Both beastkin staggered now, one bleeding heavily, the other limping with smoke rising from his wounds. Thorne stood between them, Ashthorn glowing faintly, his silverlit dagger dripping. His chest heaved, but his stance was relaxed, cold confidence radiating from him.

He'd fought wolves in the wild, assassins in the dark, sparred with Marian's impossible golem. These weren't impossible odds. They were just another pair of enemies who didn't yet realize how outclassed they were.

The panther mage staggered, clutching his staff, lips curling as he gathered another spell. Thorne raised Ashthorn, and the black, chipped wand shivered like it had been waiting. He fed it. Aether rushed down his arm, greedy, eager, burning his nerves raw.

The first blast, a focused spear of force, roared from the tip. The mage snarled and conjured a crystalline shield, the bolt splashing harmlessly across it in a flare of sparks.

Thorne didn't let up. He forced more power into Ashthorn, veins of cold light crawling up the wood as the wand drank. A second blast tore free, as wide as a cartwheel, hammering the shield with a boom that cracked stone beneath their feet. The mage's barrier shuddered, lines of strain spidering across it.

Thorne's jaw clenched. More aether, more. The wand thrummed like a starving beast, vibrating in his grip as it released a third strike, bigger, faster, incandescent. It smashed into the mage's shield, shattering it like glass. The force hurled him backward, slamming him into the courtyard wall hard enough to crater the stone.

Dust rained down. The mage sagged, wheezing, pinned in the rubble.

Thorne was already moving, Burst of Speed turning the world into syrup. In an instant he was across the courtyard, Ashthorn still glowing like a brand. He didn't raise it like a focus this time. He stabbed. The chipped wand bit between the mage's ribs, sinking into the heart.

The beastkin stiffened, staff clattering from his grip. His mouth opened, a hiss, a curse, maybe a prayer, but no sound came. Only the gurgle of blood. Then his body went slack, collapsing around the wound.

Thorne yanked Ashthorn free, black blood running down its chipped length. The wand pulsed once in his hand, almost… satisfied.

The swordsman howled and charged, feral grief replacing strategy. His blade swung like a storm. Thorne met it once, twice, sparks blinding in the dark, then let the rhythm carry him. Vengeful Blades sang in his veins, each parry faster, sharper.

Fangthread Warding lashed when he caught a heavy strike, violet tendrils whipping into the beastkin's snout. He reeled. Thorne stepped inside, silverlight kindling across his dagger.

One strike. Deep, across the gut. Second strike. High, opening the throat. Third, the killing thrust, silverlight bursting as the blade sank beneath the collarbone.

The beastkin's roar choked into silence. His sword clattered uselessly to stone as he toppled.

Thorne stood amidst the silence, both enemies sprawled around the well, their blood running in black rivulets between cobblestones. His chest rose and fell, but his eyes glowed cold, calm.

Ashthorn dimmed, its flare retreating into the wood. The silver light of his daggers faded.

He exhaled once, long and steady. Then wiped his blade clean on the sellsword's cloak, pocketed it, and let the shadows of his stealth settle over him again.

No audience. No witnesses. Just another pair of corpses feeding Evermist's gutters.

Thorne dragged the mage's limp body to the lip of the well, the beastkin's staff clattering uselessly against stone. He didn't bother with ceremony. One shove, and the corpse slipped into the dark throat of the well. There was a hollow splash far below, then silence.

He turned to the swordsman's body, crouched over it as the stink of blood thickened in the humid air. He started to haul it toward the edge but then paused, an idea blooming.

His hand tightened around Ashthorn. Wick.

When he'd practiced the spell in class, it had seemed almost laughably simple, a utility trick for cleaning ink spills or mopping rainwater. He hadn't imagined using it like this.

He raised his wand, tracing a sigil. The aether stirred.

The blood staining the cobblestones shivered, then peeled up in strands, rising into the air like liquid threads pulled by invisible hands. It was grotesque, slick, glistening ribbons of red winding upward, writhing toward the wand-tip. Ashthorn pulsed hungrily, and Thorne guided the gathered mass over the well. He released the spell, and the blood rained down into darkness.

The stones remained stained. He cursed softly, then repeated the spell. Again the blood gathered, strands weaving into the air, trembling with every flick of his wrist before falling into the well. Again. And again. Each time the radius limited him, forcing him to inch across the courtyard, wand moving with steady precision, like he was sweeping the ground clean with death itself.

At last he straightened, chest rising and falling. The cobblestones were dull now, only faint marks betraying what had happened. To an untrained eye, it could have been any scuffle.

Satisfied, he left the courtyard and found a food stall. He bought a paper-wrapped bundle of skewered meat, chewing thoughtfully as he crossed into the merchant quarter. In another shop he purchased a cheap traveler's cloak and a plain mask. Hardly inconspicuous, but better than being recognized.

When night fell, he returned. The air was cooler, the plaza shadows deeper. He pulled the mask on, then bent over the swordsman's body. He draped the cloak across it, binding it roughly with rope until it looked less like a corpse and more like a bundled parcel.

Then he lifted his wand. Levitation.

The spell caught. The body rose, stiff and slow, dangling upright as though strung on invisible wires. Thorne tilted his head, watching the thing hover at his side. He could almost laugh.

Peering toward the street beyond, he saw the road still crowded, lantern light spilling across throngs of passersby. Thorne shrugged. He activated Veil of Light and Shadow, and shadows folded around him, swallowing him from sight.

The cloaked body floated behind.

Gasps followed them as they emerged from the alley, but no alarm. In Evermist, eccentricity was just another night's diversion. A floating "test subject" was hardly out of place in a city where wizards dissected horrors in their towers and alchemists sent salamanders scampering through the streets.

Thorne threaded his way through, unseen, the corpse his only companion. When the crowds thinned, he peeled off into narrower streets, following the scent of damp stone and smoke into the city's underbelly. Here, the air tasted different, stale, heavy, less policed.

He moved quickly now, his prize gliding behind, until the alleys grew tight and deserted. He turned a final corner, and there it was: Brennak Stonebelly's shop, its doors barred, its sign swinging faintly in the night wind.

Thorne's lips curved.

He guided the floating corpse forward.

The corpse bumped down onto the stone steps with a dull thud. Thorne crouched, tugging the rope tighter until the bundle slumped just so, slouched against Brennak's door like an unwanted delivery.

From his cloak he drew out the bloodstained copper coin, the petty insult Brennak had sent him after the market fiasco, still sticky where it had dried with another man's life. Thorne balanced it carefully, pressing it into place atop the beastkin's chest. For a moment he studied the tableau: a dead enforcer, trussed like refuse, with Brennak's own "gift" crowning him.

Perfect.

Thorne's smile was faint, almost pleasant. He dusted his hands as though finishing a chore, then slipped his hands into his pockets. His mask caught the lamplight as he turned away.

A low, tuneless whistle followed him down the alley, sharp and off-beat, bouncing from stone walls like the echo of a bad memory. He didn't look back at the shop again.

Argessa's shop waited.

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