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The teal surcoat and cape he had chosen to wear, designed with the northern palette in mind, now felt laughable in comparison to the thicker furs that enveloped the northern guests.

It wasn’t just the cold that irked him.

The ornate black lacework around his collar and sleeves, a final touch from his tailor’s design, seemed like nothing more than an impractical, gaudy affectation.

It clung to him like spiderwebs, the thin black ribbons digging into the fabric as if to remind him that he was trapped by his own vanity.

He could hardly move without the lace snagging at his sleeves, the intricate detail of chrysanthemums and oleander hanging like a grievous wound around his neck.

It was not the sort of outfit one would wear to a fight, but then again, if everything went to plan, there would be no need for one.

Still, Thorne couldn’t help but lament the wasted opportunity.

If only the prince would make an appearance—if only he would show up to his own party.

For all the rumors about his fighting prowess, all the expectations that he was a capable warrior, Kaelen had yet to prove himself, at least to Thorne.

And the longer the prince delayed, the more Thorne’s impatience simmered beneath the surface.

For all the ostentation of his garments, Thorne had ensured that they were far from impractical.

Beneath the garish layers and florid details of the tailoring, there was a subtle efficiency that would have pleased anyone who valued utility above appearance.

Where some might favor more passive means—poisons, or, if one were Orion, a mixture of both liquid venin and charismatic manipulation—Thorne was ever a creature of efficiency.

In his mind, there were few things more efficient in murder than a sharp blade.

Six blades, to be exact, resided within the folds of his extravagant attire, in addition to the fine sword strapped across his hip.

Orion, ever the skeptic, had not objected to the sword, but he’d thought five knives excessive.

Thorne, ever the pragmatist, had elected to tuck one more into his boot for posterity's sake. It was always better to be over-prepared than to find oneself in a bind.

Of course, if only Orion could have seen this crowd.

Erethos was a land of scarcity in nearly every sense of the word, except when it came to steel.

And Thorne very quickly realized that the Erethosians demonstrated their wealth in arms with an almost obscene generosity.

Weapons were affixed to belts and draped over shoulders, gleaming blades and instruments of war as integral to their attire as any accessory.

It seemed that the people of Erethos, from noble to commoner, held their weapons in as high regard as their clothes, and they were not shy about it.

He had barely made it through the first hour before realizing that this place was not for the faint of heart.

Axes, lances, swords, a staggering amount of daggers—he even saw the occasional bow—clung to every person, the weapons almost as ubiquitous as the fur-lined cloaks or gilded gowns. It was a striking sight, the abundance of arms that appeared on every single person, often in multiples. There was hardly a man, woman, or even child who was without at least one weapon, and some were outfitted with far more.

Earlier in the evening, a woman had walked by Thorne, her appearance so striking that he couldn't help but stare.

She wore a short axe at her waist, and tucked into a baldric across her chest were eleven knives of varying size and shape—along with the sword she carried openly at her side.

Thorne had been so taken aback by the sight that he could barely pull his gaze away.

Here he was, with his six blades, and yet, compared to this display, he felt almost underdressed in terms of armament.

The idea that one could go into a social gathering armed to the teeth, as if preparing for a battle rather than a ball, was alien to his upbringing.

But the sheer abundance of weapons, their craftsmanship, and their weight in the air filled him with a strange sense of admiration.

Erethos was a land of fanaticism, yes—nothing he had experienced in his time here had done anything to change his opinions on that—but this tradition, this almost sacred relationship with weaponry, he found himself appreciating deeply.

Southerners might prefer the subtler, shadowed art of subterfuge and courtly politics, a realm where Thorne excelled, but here, in this land of weapons and warrior culture, he felt the energy of his surroundings seep into him.

He had spent much of his life cloaked in darkness, using shadows to mask his work.

But here, where weapons were not a hidden commodity but rather a proud display, he felt the raw energy of strength in numbers and in the steel that seemed to define this place.

It was thrilling, in its own way, to look around and size everyone up.

Erethosians were not subtle.

They wore their power proudly, and each weapon worn spoke of a history, a culture, and a commitment to an ideal of strength.

Perhaps he could get his fight after all.

The night was young, and if Kaelen was not about to present himself for the coronation, maybe the prince’s absence could be compensated with something else.

Thorne smiled at the thought—an impromptu challenge from some noble eager to test his mettle.

Though, even as he entertained the idea, he knew it was a long shot. The prince was still his primary target.

A dull sequence of chimes cut through his thoughts, and Thorne’s focus snapped back to the present.

The clock had struck half past eight—another quarter of an hour had slipped by in his corner of the ballroom.

His patience, already worn thin, threatened to snap completely.

He was no closer to identifying Kaelen than he had been two hours ago.

He had worked the room, run the circuit, and yet still no sign of the prince.

His instincts told him that staying passive in one spot was not the right course of action anymore.

There was no point in lurking in corners with nothing to show for it. Loathe as he was to admit it, he needed to begin engaging the crowd. It was a risk, yes, but it was the best shot he had. The longer he hid away sipping champagne, the more likely he was to attract attention, especially wearing this much lace. People would start wondering what a man, clearly not from Erethos, was doing in the shadows, nursing a drink without engaging. And with the lace detailing around his collar and sleeves, he'd stand out even more. It wasn’t exactly the most subtle attire to wear when trying to avoid notice. A little conversation was inevitable.

Thorne sighed and took another quick sip of the champagne.

As much as he hated to admit it, this farce of a masquerade ball had dragged on long enough.

He had a journey back to Palea waiting for him, one that would likely prove no more pleasant than the first leg of his trek.

Another week and a half’s travel—he would have to endure snowstorms, freezing winds, and rough terrain.

He could already feel the gnawing exhaustion setting into his bones from the journey’s pace.

But his fatigue, unfortunately, was not enough to excuse him from his duty.

There was still far too much to be done before he could rest properly. He had arrived in Erethos this morning and had slept most of the day away, conserving his energy for the evening. He would have to make do with what little rest he had managed. But even so, his mind would not allow him the luxury of much sleep. There was no telling when Kaelen would finally make an appearance, and Thorne would need all his wits about him to complete the task at hand.

The less time he spent among the court, the better.

But for now, there was no other choice.

If he wanted to get anything done, if he hoped to find his quarry before the night ended, he would have to dive headfirst into the madness of Erethosian high society.

Though with any luck, Thorne mused as he tucked a few errant strands of dark hair back into his neatly tied ponytail, setting himself to rights in preparation to depart, there won’t be any of the king’s guards on my heels through it.

A challenge that certainly would be, but one he was decidedly less inclined to seek out.

A swift escape was always preferable when possible, and as much as he might relish in the occasional thrill of a chase, he had no interest in facing off against Kaelen’s royal guard tonight—especially not with the absurdities that had already unfolded.

His task was clear: find the prince, eliminate him, and depart before the evening turned into a true nightmare.

That had been the plan, at least, but so far it seemed that luck was only half on his side.

But before he could fully settle into his final, strategic thoughts, a voice broke through the hum of the party—a voice that floated down to him, unmistakable amidst the chatter of the revelers.

It caught his attention with such precision that Thorne felt a sharp jolt run through him, breaking the fragile concentration he’d managed to gather.

“Pardon me,”

the voice called.

Thorne’s first instinct was to dismiss it, to let it slip away, but there was something in the tone that made him hesitate—a richness to the voice, masculine and deep and pleasing, yet with an undercurrent of warmth and softness that cut through the surrounding noise.

It wasn’t a voice that would be easily ignored, even if he wished to do so.

“But I couldn’t help but notice you over here by yourself,”

the voice continued, and Thorne immediately recognized that this conversation was now coming to him.

Bringing the flute of champagne to his lips in a practiced move, Thorne turned slowly to meet the source of the voice, hoping to appear casual and unfazed by the interruption.

What he didn’t anticipate, however, was the necessity of forcing his gaze upward.

The man standing before him was tall, strikingly so—taller than Thorne by a noticeable margin.

His presence was amplified by the sheer grandeur of his costume.

Draped in heavy pelts of black and white, the man wore a rapturous cloak that seemed to swallow him whole in its opulence.

The cloak was a deep, midnight blue, rippling with layers of brown and cream furs that cascaded off his shoulders, exaggerating their width and emphasizing his broad, imposing frame.

Beneath it, his formal attire was simple but elegant—black fabric with delicate gold lining, a sharp contrast to the ferocity of his outer layers.

But it wasn’t just the clothes that commanded attention.

It was the mask—an imposing animal skull, enormous and perched atop his head, almost blending in with the surrounding furs. The mask, a grotesque yet majestic creation, concealed his entire face, save for the hollow, unsettling gray eye sockets.

The skull was unmistakably canine in shape, long and high-cheeked, but the craftsmanship had distorted it—sharp fangs jutted down from the mouth, long enough to evoke an undeniable sense of unease.

The mask was a monstrous figure, an embodiment of some twilight fairytale horror, something that lurked in the deepest, most treacherous woods, devouring those who wandered too far into its domain.

It was the kind of visage that would have made any lesser soul recoil, but in this room, surrounded by the rich opulence of the masquerade, it became something of an art—powerful, terrifying, and commanding all in one breath.

As Thorne’s eyes made their way from the man’s feet to the towering mask, the cold, bleak winter chill of those eyes finally met his own gaze, and the creature before him cocked its head, as though studying him with a curious, almost playful expression.

That disembodied voice, rich and smooth, crooned from behind the mask’s many fangs: “Are the festivities not to your enjoyment?”

Ridiculous.

The whole thing was ridiculous.

The towering figure, the elaborate costume, the eerie mask—it was all so...

theatrical.

A bit much, even for Erethos.

But Thorne, ever the professional, quickly suppressed his surprise and steadied himself.

He withdrew the glass from his lips, taking care not to show his irritation as he leveled the stranger with a calm, measured look.

“I was alone, until a moment ago.”

Thorne’s words were clipped, and he couldn’t help the trace of annoyance that leaked through.

How on the gods’ green earth had such a lumbering figure snuck up on him so easily? The man’s approach had been so subtle that Thorne hadn’t even noticed until he was already standing before him.

The skull mask righted itself, its imposing presence suddenly even more noticeable as the man rose to his full height.

But then, in a surprisingly graceful move, the stranger bowed his head slightly, his formality diminishing the initially overwhelming effect.

“Forgive me.

I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

The apology was delivered with an air of sincerity, yet there was an undeniable undercurrent of amusement in his tone—a kind of humor that felt deliberate, as though the beast knew precisely what it was doing, and was enjoying the reaction it was drawing.

Thorne raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

He was too accustomed to people playing at roles—masks both literal and figurative—though this one was certainly more elaborate than most.

The man’s eyes flicked up to meet his once more, and in those fleeting seconds, Thorne could see the playfulness in them again.

“I was merely curious,”

the stranger continued, his voice smooth as it carried over the noise of the revelry, “as to why one such as yourself would be sequestered away in a corner, keeping only champagne for company.”

"One such as I?" Thorne repeated, unimpressed and unamused, his gaze flicking over the towering figure before him.

His tone was flat, his words dripping with a hint of mockery.

A contemptuous half-shrug followed as he deliberately broke the unyielding eye contact, though, curiously, a small smirk inexplicably found its way to his lips.

He turned away, not wanting to indulge in the oddity of the man any longer.

"It’s hardly your business, but perhaps you should have considered this is how I best enjoy the festivities.

By not being part of them."

He could feel the man’s gaze linger on him, but Thorne refused to acknowledge it, focusing instead on the glass in his hand.

The fluted champagne held little appeal now, its effervescence a mere distraction as the strange encounter continued.

A gloved hand slipped from beneath the heavy cloak and smoothed down the pelts draped over the man's front with a delicate motion.

The skull mask nodded as the man adjusted himself, his movements far too deliberate for Thorne’s liking.

“I must confess,”

the voice broke the silence again, deep and resonant, “I myself am not a fan of such events.

It’s all quite too extravagant for me.”

The figure then swiveled, as though the entire room was an affront to him, and ran his hand over his front once more.

The fur seemed to bristle in response to the movement, the tactile display oddly hypnotic.

“And... loud,”

he added, as if the words themselves were a form of exasperation.

It was then that Thorne’s sharp eyes caught a glint of metal—cold, dark steel.

The man, despite his extravagant appearance, wore gauntlets over his gloves, extending up his arms all the way to his elbows.

Thorne’s eyes narrowed in silent disbelief.

A gauntlet at a gala? It was too much.

Snorting in disbelief, Thorne gestured broadly with his free hand toward the towering figure of the man.

“You claim to hate extravagance, and yet you appear dressed like that?”

His voice carried the full weight of the incredulity he felt.

The absurdity of it was almost laughable.

A gauntlet.

A skull mask.

Pelts.

All of it screamed excess—far more extravagant than anything this masquerade could offer.

The man sighed deeply, and for a moment, he seemed to deflate, his presence losing some of its overwhelming effect.

His hand withdrew beneath his cloak, but not before he gave a long, somewhat melancholic shake of his head.

“Ridiculous, isn’t it?”

he murmured, as though to himself.

“Unfortunately, it was not my decision to wear it.”

Thorne's eyes flicked back to the man's towering form, his gaze drifting up and down, assessing the ludicrous display.

His eyes, however, found themselves drawn once again to the fangs protruding from the mask.

He couldn't help it—there was something captivating, almost primal about them.

He found himself staring for a moment too long, then snapped back to reality, a sneer forming on his lips.

“Poor wolf,”

Thorne sneered, his lip curling as he gave the man a deliberate show of his teeth.

The man’s head snapped up at once, his eyes widening in surprise.

Thorne saw that the remark had genuinely startled him, but before he could savor the moment, the creature in the mask tilted its head, returning to that inquisitive, almost playful expression.

A coy smile flickered at the edges of his voice.

“If I may be so bold myself,”

the man said, his voice sweet but edged with amusement, “your own mask is rather remarkable as well.”

Thorne blinked, taken aback by the sudden shift in tone.

The man was peering closer now, drawing nearer to him, nearly close enough to touch his shoulder if he had the boldness to do so.

“Silver scales and bright green feathers,”

the man mused, his voice low but clear.

“Is it not the feathered serpent of Sylvan myth? Their air spirit, if I recall correctly.”

Thorne's breath caught for a split second.

He hadn’t expected such a sharp eye.

He had forgotten for a moment that he was wearing the mask at all—lost in the whirlwind of the evening.

But now, his fingers instinctively moved to touch the delicate feathers edging his mask, though he fought the impulse, knowing it would betray a moment of weakness.

Instead, he kept his gaze fixed on the man before him.

“Hmph. Correct,”

Thorne responded coolly, keeping his voice composed, though a hint of pride surfaced despite himself.

He tucked his willful hand back into the fold of his crossed arm, cocking an eyebrow in an almost challenging manner.

“A well-learned wolf, then.”

The man chuckled softly, the sound rich and velvety, though Thorne couldn’t see the expression behind that monstrous skull.

The pleasure was evident in his tone, a decadent delight in his amusement.

“It suits you,”

he murmured, eyes half-lidded, a flash of something dangerously sweet in his gaze.

The softness of his voice, the sincerity that dripped from his words—it was almost unsettling, as though he were savoring something only he understood.

Before Thorne could respond, the man lowered his head in a deep bow, a gesture that was almost laughable considering the nature of his costume.

The heavy pelts shifted with the movement, and he straightened, giving one final nod toward Thorne.

“Ah, well, forgive me for intruding upon your evening.

I hope you have a lovely rest of your night.”

For a moment, Thorne was left speechless, the man’s sudden departure as abrupt as his arrival.

He could only nod stiffly in return, the strange, unexpected encounter leaving him with no riposte.

The towering figure before him turned away, and with a single sweeping motion of his cloak, he disappeared into the throng of guests.

It was as though the shadows themselves swallowed him up.

For a fleeting moment, Thorne thought he saw the very darkness around him respond, bending and folding to the man’s presence as he strode further into the ballroom.

It was an eerie, almost ethereal sight—his figure melting into the shadows, his form momentarily swallowed by the brilliance of the light.

The space between them seemed to grow, as the shadows reclaimed him in an instant, pulling him further into the depths of the revelry.

The shift in atmosphere was palpable.

The room, which had seemed warm and almost suffocating before, suddenly felt colder.

Thorne hadn’t noticed when the temperature had shifted, but now, as he stood there, it was as if the very air had grown thinner.

It wasn’t the cold of the mountains or the unforgiving winds of Erethos, but a different kind of chill—one that settled in his chest and left him uncomfortably aware of the slight tightening of his skin.

Nor had Thorne noticed when his face had grown warm.

He found himself rubbing the back of his neck absently, trying to shake the sensation.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so unsettled by a simple conversation.

But perhaps it was not so simple after all.

Perhaps this encounter, this peculiar man, had done more than just disturb him.

Thorne couldn’t help but wonder—who exactly had he just met? And what, exactly, had that brief, intense connection meant?

Ugh, what nonsense.

Well-learned the man might have been, but clearly a fool as well.

Thorne was no maiden, no naive prey to be toyed with by some masked stranger—no matter how imposing his costume or captivating his voice.

And yet, despite the disparaging thoughts that coursed through his mind, he found himself oddly irritated by the whole encounter.

The man had been a terrible choice in prey.

Or perhaps, Thorne mused with a bitter twist of his lips, he had been the one to misstep.

The entire interaction had been too strange, too unnerving, and he had allowed it to happen. A strange discomfort still lingered in his chest, an unease that he had not anticipated. But no. This was not the time for such thoughts.

Still, despite his internal dismissal of the encounter, his hand moved absentmindedly to adjust the edge of his mask once again, smoothing over the feathers as though he could somehow rearrange his thoughts along with it.

Get a grip, he reminded himself.

You’re here for one purpose. Focus.

He had a mission—one far more important than any nonsensical conversation or bizarrely worded compliment.

The target remained; Kaelen was still somewhere in this very room.

The prince’s fate was still his to decide, and there was no room for distraction now.

Thorne had always prided himself on his ability to remain focused, to stay sharp when the stakes were high.

And right now, the stakes couldn’t be higher.

Thorne cast a glance around the ballroom, the chaos of the party swirling around him, but his focus was razor-sharp.

He could see the faces, hear the murmurs of conversation, feel the heat of their presence—but none of it was important.

All of it was background noise.

All he needed was to find the prince, to stay on task.

That was the goal.

Everything else, every fleeting distraction, was just noise to filter out.

It was a simple matter of tracking, observing, and waiting. The crowd could be overwhelming, the masks a veil of deception, but Thorne had learned to move through it all with the precision of a hunter. He was the predator in this scenario. It was time to resume that role.

With a final, deliberate shake of his head, Thorne closed off the lingering thoughts of the strange man in the skull mask.

He exhaled through his nose, as if clearing away any trace of weakness.

Then, in one swift movement, he tipped his head back and downed the rest of his champagne in a single, fluid motion.

The effervescence burned pleasantly at the back of his throat, but it did nothing to quell the fluttering unease that had inexplicably settled in his gut.

That feeling was a temporary nuisance.

It was an imperfection he would rid himself of soon enough.

As the champagne's burn slid down his throat, Thorne wiped his lips with the back of his gloved hand, feeling the sharp edge of his focus returning.

The taste of bubbles lingered, their crispness serving as a small reminder of the underlying tension in the air.

He glanced around, his eyes searching the crowd with renewed intent, and felt that singular focus sharpening once again.

It was time to move.

The room was vast and filled with people, but Thorne was already honing in on his surroundings.

He stepped away from his corner, his boots clicking lightly against the polished marble floor as he reentered the fray.

The shift was seamless.

Like a huntsman blending effortlessly into the forest, Thorne slid into the crowd, a quiet predator blending into his environment.

He no longer felt like a stranger to these surroundings.

He had made his way through far worse—through the labyrinthine intricacies of courtly schemes and political games.

This was no different.

As he moved, his gaze darted from one masked face to another, cataloging them all with the same cold efficiency he had employed in countless other missions.

There was no place for hesitation here.

He knew what needed to be done.

The crowd seemed to part before him like water before a current, each person blissfully unaware of the eyes that tracked them, the mind calculating their movements.

Thorne’s instincts took over, guiding him through the maze of bodies.

His presence was unnoticed, his movements subtle and precise.

He could hear the laughter, the music, the clinking of glasses, but all of it faded into the background.

His every step was calculated, each movement part of a greater rhythm, part of the hunt that had just begun in earnest.

The revelers, intoxicated by their own revelry, paid no attention to the lone figure moving with such intent through their midst.

The atmosphere around him—charged with glittering lights and the chatter of the nobility—might have overwhelmed anyone else, but not Thorne.

He knew the game too well.

His target was still out there, and he was getting closer.

Kaelen was somewhere in this crowd, and Thorne’s steps grew more deliberate, his mind focused only on one thing: finding him.

The rest of the masquerade, the distractions, the ridiculousness of the situation—all of it faded away, and the mission came to the forefront once more.

This was why he was here.

This was his purpose.