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Thorne was fully aware of his unparalleled skill.

He would never boast of being invincible—nor would he claim to be beyond defeat—but an undeniable confidence radiated from him.

A man who had weathered countless trials, faced insurmountable challenges, and triumphed over adversaries time and time again, he had earned his reputation.

While pride certainly had its place, it wasn’t the core of who he was.

What truly defined him was his unwavering belief in his abilities and his relentless determination.

He had become a legend not by luck, but through his ability to navigate any obstacle in his path—whether it was misfortune, the unpredictable nature of life, or the cold efficiency of premeditated death.

But by the saints and kings, Erethos was cold.

Cold in a way that gnawed at his very bones, a cold that made even the hardened killer pause.

It was a sharp, cruel cold, the kind that seemed to seep into your soul, a frost that no amount of fire could thaw.

Certainly colder than Rhyndor, or anywhere else Thorne had ever been in his entire life.

The sun hadn’t shown itself even once during the entire near two-week ride here, as though the very mountain range had swallowed it whole, its jagged peaks like teeth in the maw of a great beast that devoured the light itself.

The pass was nothing more than a wicked, voracious throat, leading into a darkness that oppressed the land, choking the warmth and life from everything it touched.

Even the final leg of the journey had been accompanied by snow—thin, delicate wisps that floated weightlessly in the air but soaked and burdened everything they touched.

He had arrived early that morning, wind-ravaged hair and half-frozen luggage in tow, his limbs stiff from the cold, his boots caked with slush.

As he stumbled, desperate for warmth, into the entry hall, he caught several of the servants snickering behind their hands, no doubt amused by his disheveled appearance.

A foolish, foppy southerner, they likely thought him.

But it was hardly Thorne's fault that Erethos had been forsaken by every deity known to man and now lay encased in an eternal winter that even the most ardent fires struggled to push back.

And it was already halfway through the winter season, he thought irritably, sipping his champagne, the effervescence doing little to soothe his mood.

All around him, the masked nobility of Erethos continued their revelry, the drunken masses oblivious to anything beyond their own indulgence and pleasures.

The nobles danced, laughed, and clinked their glasses, their jeweled costumes sparkling like stars in the night sky—shining on the surface, but nothing more than shallow brilliance.

He could hear their hollow chatter, their empty words, but it only heightened his sense of isolation.

It was nearly the 24th of the Winter Moon, and tomorrow Erethos would crown the new King—the crown prince, Kaelen Elenar Olivet, to be exact.

Thorne had been sent to kill him first.

Thorne stood in the corner of Castle Olivet's cold ballroom, watching the nobility move about in their bright, flowing gowns and cloaks.

The grand hall was alive with energy, a sea of bodies moving in sync, twirling and gliding like dancers on an ice-covered ocean.

The party had only just started, yet the room was already filled with the sounds and lights of celebration, sparkling like frozen waves from some far-off, inhospitable place.

Amidst the lively crowd, Thorne remained focused, quietly searching for his target while the guests remained oblivious to the danger around them.

They had no idea that a killer was among them, blending in with the revelry.

Castle Olivet loomed outside, a massive, imposing fortress against the cloudy sky.

It was made of cold, jagged stone and stood tall over the streets of Erethos, a symbol of power and dominance.

The castle’s bleak design mirrored the harshness of the land it ruled.

The wind howled through its towers, and the fog seemed to cling to the air, adding to the sense of isolation and oppression.

The sharp angles and steep drops of the castle made it feel like there was no way out.

Its towering walls, covered in ice and frost, gave it a dark, untouchable beauty, commanding respect through sheer force rather than grace.

Inside the castle, the halls were just as severe.

The high ceilings made the space feel vast and cold, the sound of footsteps echoing in the emptiness.

The stone walls seemed to vibrate with each sound, amplifying the sense that every action was noticed.

Every moment in the castle felt stretched, as if the silence between sounds hung in the air like a weight.

The ballroom, though filled with life, was no exception.

The music of the strings and piano was drowned out by the constant hum of voices and laughter.

Conversations blended into a single loud symphony, making it hard to separate one sound from another.

The ballroom's design resembled that of Rhyndor’s grand halls, built with dark stone and polished marble floors that gleamed beneath the lights.

But where Rhyndor's halls had the warmth of southern woods, Castle Olivet felt colder.

The crystal veins running through the stone walls gave off an unnatural glow, while the many chandeliers above cast a distant, unwelcoming light.

Their crystal shapes glittered in the light, but it felt distant, as if even the beauty was frozen in time.

Shadows lingered in the corners of the room, hiding away in the depths, just out of sight.

The scent of elderberry wax mixed with the cold, sharp edge of winter.

The wax melted from the chandeliers, dripping in pools beneath the lights, looking like frozen drops of amber.

Despite the golden fixtures and sparkling decorations, there was a chill in the air that couldn't be ignored.

The room, full of luxury and wealth, felt as cold as the land outside.

It was beautiful, but it offered no comfort.

The space seemed unwelcoming, as if even the castle itself couldn’t offer warmth to those within.

The guests, as well as the crystal and gold decorations, felt frozen in place, trapped by the harsh beauty of their surroundings.

Here, color was muted, brought only by the dim glow of candles and the pale reflections of ice and stone.

The world outside, filled with sunlight and vibrant colors, seemed far away.

Inside the castle, everything was washed out—dull and lifeless, as if the land itself had drained the warmth and color from the world, leaving only pale, fading hues behind.

Thorne’s thoughts turned inward, a familiar bitterness creeping into his mind.

To think, his ancestors had once called this place home.

The Demetrius family, proud and noble, had once held sway here, their names whispered with reverence and fear.

Yet now, the name was synonymous with traitor, a label that clung to him like a shackle, one he could never fully shake.

But tonight, Thorne was not here as a Demetrius.

He had shed that name, at least for the evening, donning instead the mantle of a faceless blade, a weapon with purpose.

He was here to do what he had always done best: to kill.

For all its pretension, this ball, like everything else about the coronation, was little more than a masquerade, in more ways than one.

It was customary to hold a celebration before the crowning of a new monarch, a tradition that held both power and spectacle.

But a masked ball, especially one held in such an austere, desolate place, was far from conventional.

Then again, Kaelen Elenar Olivet was far from a conventional prince.

The whispers about him were many, tales of a king-in-waiting who was as enigmatic as he was dangerous.

No one quite knew what to expect from him—least of all Thorne.

But one thing was certain: Kaelen’s coronation would not be the simple, predictable affair that most anticipated.

Kaelen’s own beginnings were unlike anyone else, after all.

The Massacre of Duskinar had scarred the very heart of the kingdom, leaving only one survivor—a young boy, no older than thirteen.

Kaelen Elenar Olivet, orphaned in a brutal and senseless slaughter, had carried that weight with him ever since.

Thorne had heard the tales of that day—the bloodshed, the brutality—and the young prince’s narrow escape from the carnage that had taken the lives of his parents, the royal family, and most of the court.

In an instant, Kaelen had gone from a prince with everything before him to the last of his bloodline, cast into a future laden with grief and uncertainty.

Though Kaelen’s birthright was clear, his path to the throne had been delayed—intentionally, perhaps, for reasons that remained clouded in mystery.

His uncle, a man with less claim but more influence, had ruled as regent during the intervening years, maintaining the semblance of order while Kaelen, still too young, was denied the opportunity to ascend.

Tradition, it seemed, had bound Kaelen’s destiny in chains.

And yet, despite these obstacles, the young prince had grown into a figure of quiet strength, biding his time and preparing for the day when he would finally wear the crown.

Now, at the age of twenty-one, Kaelen no longer had a regent to act on his behalf.

His uncle’s sovereign guardianship had expired the moment the prince turned of age, and he could have been crowned at any point since.

Yet, the coronation had been repeatedly postponed, its reasons as elusive as the prince himself.

Thorne’s spies, Tarvela’s finest, could find no explanation for the delay, and the court whispered rumors and conjectures, none of which amounted to anything concrete.

Even now, as the new year had already crested and the moon had shifted to its darkest phase, the coronation remained absent from the calendar, leaving Thorne with no choice but to keep waiting.

There was something strange, something almost calculating about the prince’s actions, that nagged at the edges of Thorne’s mind.

The delay, the reluctance to proceed with the coronation—these were not the signs of an ordinary monarch-in-waiting.

What made Kaelen’s actions even more curious was the decision to forgo attending the Soldier’s Academy in Rhyndor, the revered institution where every king before him had honed his skills before ascending the throne.

This, too, was untraditional, a deliberate break from centuries of precedent.

Every monarch who had ever ruled had passed through those hallowed halls, earning their place through study, discipline, and martial training.

But Kaelen had refused.

He had chosen another path, one that was his alone to navigate.

To Thorne, this was both frustrating and fascinating.

The prince had denied convention, had chosen his own way, and in doing so, had outwitted Tarvela’s most skilled operatives.

The delay, it seemed, was part of some greater plan—one that had eluded Tarvela's grasp.

Perhaps Kaelen had anticipated Thorne’s involvement all along, forcing Tarvela’s hand by keeping the timing of his ascension a mystery.

In some strange way, Thorne had to admit that he admired the prince’s cunning.

It made their task all the more difficult, but it also made it a more worthy challenge.

The irony of all this adherence to tradition was not lost on Thorne.

He couldn’t help but feel a bitter amusement—if it weren’t so infuriating, it would be almost comical.

The prince could have been crowned years ago, could have assumed the throne at fifteen or sixteen, before the kingdom had descended further into decay.

If they had followed the letter of the law, Thorne wouldn’t even be here; there would have been no need for a man like him to carry out an assassination in the first place.

The country, perhaps, would have been better off with Kaelen ruling earlier, putting an end to the reckless reign of his uncle, whose indulgence in womanizing and decadence had drained the kingdom’s wealth and will.

Instead, Kaelen’s ascension had been postponed, and Thorne, as a consequence, was now tasked with ending a monarch’s reign before it even began.

But there was an upside to this delay, one that benefited Seraphina, Thorne’s silent ally and co-conspirator.

The postponement of the coronation had allowed Thorne to complete his training at the Academy, a rare privilege for a man of his standing.

His family, a noble house renowned for its assassins and soldiers, had once expected him to be pulled from the Academy at the first sign of trouble, his identity and loyalty questioned, his role as a potential weapon in Tarvela’s hands solidified.

But fate had played a different card, and the year of anticipation and planning had allowed Thorne to return home rather than be whisked away to a king’s death.

Had the coronation proceeded on time, had Kaelen ascended sooner, Thorne’s presence might have been impossible to explain.

A noble from a house famed for its deadly efficiency returning to Tarvela only to strike at its heart—such a move would have been as tactless as it was dangerous.

But Seraphina, ever the strategist, had ensured that Thorne would remain in the shadows, and had allowed the prince’s delay to be the very thing that gave him the chance to finish his work.

Thorne’s fingers idly traced the stem of his glass, the cool surface reflecting the dim, ethereal light of the chandeliers.

The light danced on the glass like a thousand fleeting memories, reminding him of the paths that had brought him here.

A year of waiting, a year of hidden moves and silent machinations.

If Kaelen had attended the Academy as tradition dictated, if he had followed the prescribed path, Thorne mused, perhaps things would have unfolded differently.

Perhaps he would have been caught in the prince’s orbit, a mere student at the Academy, training alongside him, learning his moves, and facing off against him in ways that would have been less… personal.

But as it stood now, the prince’s refusal to conform had set them both on a collision course—one that Thorne knew would lead to either the end of a kingdom or the rise of a king.

Much like Kaelan, Thorne had never been one to adhere to tradition, least of all when it came to his own path.

The Soldier's Academy, a prestigious institution in Rhyndor, was a place that every noble, every soldier, every prince had attended in preparation for their role in the kingdom’s future.

But Thorne had been resistant about his own enrollment.

To him, it felt like an unnecessary detour, a detour that would only serve to further separate him from the tasks that truly mattered.

The king was old, his health failing, and yet his daughter, Seraphina, had a list a mile long of those who needed to be either manipulated, plied, or disposed of.

It had been a time for Tarvela to consolidate power, to shift allegiances, to make quiet, calculated moves in the shadows.

Seraphina, however, had insisted he attend.

She had decided that Thorne would accompany her to Rhyndor for her academic tenure.

While on the surface it seemed like little more than a formality—an opportunity to further solidify her power and connections—it was clear to Thorne that her motives ran deeper.

She didn’t simply want him at her side for his skills as an assassin.

There were far more intricate games at play, and Thorne could feel the undercurrents of something far more ambitious than he was initially aware of.

When Seraphina brought along Dawna, her closest confidant and a trusted ally, Thorne knew that things were far more complex than he’d anticipated.

He had learned long ago not to question Seraphina’s decisions, especially when they were wrapped in the mystery of her motivations. He could never be sure if he was simply a tool in her grand design or if there was more to it, but in the end, it didn’t matter—his loyalty to her and to Tarvela was steadfast.

In truth, Thorne’s position, dangerous as it was, often left him in the dark.

He was rarely fed more than the barest scraps of knowledge necessary to complete his tasks—apple peels and olive pits of information, fragments of intellect that were useful only for ensuring the end goal was achieved, but never enough to piece together the full picture.

It was the nature of his work, the work of a shadow, to operate with minimal insight, moving swiftly, without the luxury of understanding the full context of his actions.

He had assumed that his year at the Soldier’s Academy would serve as little more than a waiting game, a year where he would inevitably be given orders to kill someone—some fool, some bastard—when the time came.

But to his surprise, his year passed largely without incident—at least, no incident directly related to him.

He had kept his head low, focused on his training, and found that the year was not without its benefits.

He had honed his craft—both in terms of combat and in the delicate, cerebral art of diplomacy, of playing the game of politics that always lurked behind the scenes. Though the latter was hardly a pursuit of his own choosing, Thorne had realized that it was, in its own way, just as crucial to his role. After all, knowing how to navigate the complexities of court life, understanding the subtle manipulations and motivations of those in power—these were skills every assassin, even one as skilled as Thorne, would need if he was to survive in the dangerous world of imperial politics.

By the time he graduated, just before the turn of the year, Thorne was twenty years old, his formal education completed, his training nearly finished.

The year at Rhyndor had been a worthwhile expenditure of time, but little did he know that it would be the calm before the storm.

He had completed his schooling, and now, in the quiet aftermath, the real work was about to begin.

His first assignment as a graduate was one that seemed almost too much of a coincidence: assassinating the crown prince of Erethos.

Kaelen Elenar Olivet—whose name had been whispered for years as a possible threat to Tarvela’s expansion—was now the target of the very forces that Seraphina had long sought to control.

Thorne realized, in a slow, creeping moment of clarity, that the entire time he had been at Rhyndor, it was likely Seraphina’s plan to eliminate Kaelen that had been driving the intricate web of political maneuvers.

She had no doubt been laying the groundwork for this mission long before they had set foot in Rhyndor, and it was no surprise that Thorne, ever loyal, was chosen to carry it out.

At first, Thorne had thought he might be given the task of eliminating the prince in Rhyndor, had Kaelen attended the Academy as tradition demanded.

Perhaps that was the original plan—before Kaelen’s refusal to conform to expectations threw a wrench into the works.

Thorne imagined that had Kaelen followed the traditional path, the king’s spies might have been positioned to strike early, preventing him from becoming the powerful force he now was.

But the prince had defied expectations, staying in Erethos, and as a result, the mission had shifted.

In truth, Thorne suspected that Seraphina had orchestrated all of this, using Kaelen’s unconventional decisions to her advantage, waiting for him to reveal himself, making the prince’s very existence a larger threat to Tarvela’s future.

But that, Thorne knew, was the game.

As much as he hated the drawn-out uncertainty of it all, there was a certain level of respect to be found in Kaelen’s defiance.

His refusal to fall in line, to take the traditional route, had only made him a more elusive target—and a more worthy adversary.

If the prince had attended the Academy, had followed the prescribed steps, Thorne might have been given the chance to strike earlier, more easily, before Kaelen’s power could fully coalesce.

But that wasn’t the case, and now Thorne was here, once again waiting in the shadows, uncertain of when the moment would come.

Regardless of the delay and frustration, Thorne couldn't help but feel a grim anticipation.

Killing a king would certainly prove to be a worthwhile test of his newfound skills.

In the world he inhabited, a single assassination could be a momentous step in the refining of one's craft.

However, while the concept of taking a king’s life was theoretically within his repertoire, it was not something Thorne had ever actually attempted before.

Kings were not simple targets, and this particular king, or future king, presented a far more complicated challenge than any noble or politician Thorne had crossed paths with.

Thorne had honed his abilities over years of careful study and practice—learning the intricacies of poisons, the subtle art of sabotage, and, of course, the quiet, methodical approach required to sever life from the living.

But Kaelen Elenar Olivet was no ordinary prince.

While the details of his character and habits remained shrouded in mystery, what Thorne did know was that the man, if you could even call him that, possessed an almost primal strength.

There was a ferocity to Kaelen, a berserker force that seemed to run through his bloodline as powerfully as his royal lineage.

The reports on the prince were so varied, so contradictory, that they left Thorne frustrated, grasping for any insight that might illuminate his task.

Some spoke of Kaelen’s nobility, his gentleness toward children, his kindness, and generosity.

He was described as being thoughtful and composed, with a strong sense of justice that led him to intervene in countless disputes among his people.

Yet, other accounts painted a far darker picture, describing fits of madness that seized the prince without warning, moments of bitterness and cold rage that turned him into something almost unrecognizable.

There were stories of him wandering the halls of his palace at all hours of the night, moving quietly through the corridors like a shadow, muttering to himself as if conversing with unseen forces.

It was maddeningly inconsistent, one report contradicting the next, leaving Thorne with no clearer understanding of the prince than when he had first set foot in Erethos.

Even the more fantastical rumors surrounding Kaelen were hard to dismiss.

Some claimed he had ripped a man’s head from his shoulders with nothing but his bare hands, a feat that bordered on myth.

Yet, others spoke of his bond with a mare named Marigold, a rare tenderness in him when it came to the horse, showing a side of him that could almost be considered soft.

His training regimen was rigid and unforgiving, and Thorne had heard whispers that he was an exceptional fighter—perhaps not on par with the greatest warriors, but more than capable of holding his own in a battle.

All of it was so contradictory, so perplexing.

The prince was a man, but also something more—something monstrous in the moments when his rage flared.

Or perhaps, Thorne mused, this was all just part of the myth of Kaelen Elenar Olivet, a carefully crafted persona built by the rumors of the people around him.

What was most frustrating, though, was the sheer ambiguity of it all.

Thorne could not ascertain whether Kaelen was a king in waiting, a man trapped by circumstance, or a monster draped in royal regalia.

But Thorne, like anyone who had lived long enough in this world of shadows, knew that all would be revealed eventually.

One way or another, Thorne would come to know the true face of Kaelen Elenar Olivet.

The prince could only hide behind his mask for so long.

And yet, as the evening dragged on, it became clear that Kaelen's presence—or lack thereof—was going to be the most significant thing about this night.

It was already a quarter past eight, nearly two hours since the masquerade had begun, and still no sign of the prince.

Thorne had worked his way through the crowd in the grand ballroom, observing the guests, listening to the chatter, and trying to decipher who might be more than they seemed.

He had hoped to catch a glimpse of Kaelen before the coronation, before the night descended into chaos, but his efforts had been in vain.

The prince was nowhere to be seen.

Thorne’s patience was wearing thin.

He had already made several laps around the ballroom, weaving through the crowd of masked nobility, his mind racing as he considered the consequences of missing the prince.

What if Kaelen never arrived? What if the plans had already been shifted? A sense of frustration simmered low in his chest as he withdrew to a quieter corner beneath the mezzanine, the silence of the alcove offering a brief respite from the chaotic ebb and flow of the festivities.

He reached for his glass of champagne, raising it to his lips with a grimace.

The drink was hardly a comfort, more of a distraction as his mind returned to his mission.

He had no clue why the prince had been so elusive, but the lack of Kaelen's appearance felt almost like a deliberate statement.

Or perhaps the prince was hiding, watching the revelry from some hidden vantage point.

Either way, Thorne was running out of time to make his move, and with each passing moment, his frustration grew.

His gaze swept once again across the crowd.

The guests—nobles and dignitaries from every corner of Erethos—milled about, their masks and costumes varying in complexity, but none of them holding the distinct bearing, the sharp edge, that he expected of the prince.

Thorne had studied Kaelen's appearance, the descriptions that had been passed down to him: broad shoulders, strong features, golden hair, and eyes like glacial ice.

A figure who would stand out in any crowd, a man impossible to miss.

Yet, despite the sea of blonde heads around him, none had the unmistakable poise, the royal stature, nor the retinue that would indicate the prince’s presence.

The northern nobility had a certain uniformity to their looks—blonde hair, pale skin—but it was the prince’s characteristic features, his presence, that Thorne was looking for.

The reports had been clear on that much, even if nothing else had been.

Thorne swirled the champagne in his glass, watching the liquid catch the light, the bubbles dancing in the dim glow of the chandeliers.

He took another sip, letting the cool, bitter taste slide down his throat.

He felt the cold of Erethos seeping into his bones, despite the layers of clothing he had chosen for the occasion.

His finery had been spared the worst of his travel, but even his custom-made garments could not protect him from the biting chill of the northern air.

It was a bitter reminder of the differences between him and the people around him—southern through and through, his clothes tailored in a finer style than the heavy wool and fur favored by the Erethosians.