Page 3

Hunting, as a sport, was a delicate balance, a subtle art.

It demanded not only strength but finesse—too much of either, and the harmony of the pursuit would collapse, sending the hunter spiraling into failure.

It was an intricate dance between patience and power, a test of the hunter’s ability to read the world around them, understanding the signs the forest and its creatures left behind.

The woods, though formidable in their hostility, were not secretive; they gave up their truths to those who knew how to listen, how to wait, how to see beyond the surface.

The wilderness, noble as it was in its untamed state, had its whims, its moods.

Yet, it shared one constant with the woods: its secrets could be unearthed by those with the patience to wait, to observe.

Only those who truly understood the delicate balance of nature could uncover what lay hidden beneath the branches, beneath the underbrush. The hunt, it seemed, was less about forcing nature into submission and more about learning to move with it, in harmony.

The crowd, on the other hand, was a different kind of wilderness altogether.

It was vast, shapeless, and constantly shifting—like a living, breathing entity.

Faces morphed into masks, each person more a reflection of mood, light, and circumstance than a stable, recognizable figure.

It was as though the crowd moved in rhythm with the very pulse of the event itself, a seething, undulating mass of desire, intent, and secrets.

The champagne flowed as freely as the whispers, the layers of pretense thickening with every clink of a glass.

Beneath the opulence, the finery of coats and furs, behind the curated faces, there were secrets buried, truths half-revealed, and lies told with the practiced ease of a lifetime.

It was a game of appearances, of posturing, of carefully calculated reveals—nothing was ever quite as it seemed. They were masters of disguise, all of them, hidden behind masks that they themselves wore with practiced nonchalance. Their enigma was as carefully constructed as any grand illusion, and yet, there was a solution to be found, as in any chase. It wasn’t as simple as tracking the prints or waiting for movement, but there was always something to uncover. The key was in the undergrowth, in the smallest gestures, in the subtlety of their actions—where they did not look, where they did not speak. That was where the truth hid.

Despite their efforts to remain faceless, to blend into the crowd, the nature of the event could not be denied.

It was high-profile, a gathering of the illustrious and powerful, a confluence of the influential from Erethos and beyond.

Tarvelan and Erethosian nobility were all represented, their wealth, their titles, their power undeniable.

High merchants, priests from the church, even knights of holy order graced the occasion.

And among them, familiar faces emerged from the sea of guests.

Thorne scanned the crowd, his eyes catching those he knew.

Eryndor Havenstead, with his characteristic grin, the womanizer who was the prince's childhood companion, always at the center of attention. Arwenna, the proud daughter of Count Juniper, her name synonymous with academic excellence and the future of her house. And of course, Elowen, the spirited niece of Baron Draven, whose odd songs and reckless penchant for fire made her unforgettable.

Though these figures were familiar, they were not welcome.

Thorne had prepared himself for this inevitability.

He knew how to keep his distance, how to remain unnoticed among the elite.

These were not the types of people he sought out, and their attention was a dangerous thing.

The name Demetrius carried too much weight, too many associations—none of them good.

A Demetrius had not graced an Erethosian coronation in generations, and the night of this one was no different.

The risk of being recognized was too great, the consequences too dire.

And, truth be told, Thorne was not inclined to seek out their company, even if the risks were not present.

The academy had taught him much about the nature of people from Erethos—men and women driven by ambition, by a desire not just for strength of body but for dominance of the soul, of fate itself.

Magic and destiny were their obsessions, and those who had tasted the heights of power were rarely satisfied.

Thorne had no interest in their games, no desire to indulge in their endless pursuit of what could never be truly grasped.

Theirs was a world built on ambition, and Thorne had no desire to be swept along with it.

This was the foundation of the undergrowth that Thorne observed: the desire that rooted itself in the hearts of all the people around him, the same deep yearning that twisted and fueled their every action.

It wasn’t an uncommon mindset, not by any stretch—far from it.

In fact, it was a pervasive force in Tarvela, particularly among the wealthy, the entitled, and the impossibly old.

They clung to the belief that their lineage, their heritage, their bloodlines, somehow made them inherently superior.

It was a thought that gnawed at the very core of high society, and yet, despite its ubiquity, it had no real charm for Thorne.

The minds that fixated on it were far too easy to manipulate, far too weak in their assumptions to see beyond their privileged worlds.

In fact, Thorne could almost count on the likelihood of being able to dispose of several of those fools within the year, should Seraphina’s growing public opposition continue on its current path. The prospect was oddly satisfying, if only because their self-delusions made them all the more vulnerable to their own undoing.

But here, in this lavish setting, surrounded by the finely dressed and the comfortably ignorant, he had to endure it.

He had to endure the ceaseless droning of proposals, marriages, and the endless gossip about incidents that meant nothing to him—like the infamous debacle at Garland Tower the previous summer moon.

More magic nonsense, more talk of the Havenstead brothers, who had been at the center of it all.

Thorne hadn’t been there, of course—he had more important matters to attend to—but he had heard plenty from those who had been.

The church, ever diligent in its efforts to suppress any unsavory details, had failed miserably in its task.

The nobility, of course, couldn’t resist the lure of scandal and bloodshed.

High society thrived on such tales, no matter how gruesome or distasteful. But what disgusted Thorne even more was how the nobles were far more scandalized by the theft of a prized family heirloom—by Eryndor Havenstead, a disinherited magicless wretch—than they were about the lives lost in the chaos that followed.

What disturbed him most, however, was the persistent, unshakable belief in the superiority of bloodlines—this ingrained, arrogant notion that a particular lineage made one somehow destined for greatness, as though ancestry alone could guarantee that a person was fit to rule or to lead in battle.

It was this very idea that Thorne had never been able to stomach.

He hadn’t risen to the top of his craft, becoming the best assassin the land had ever known, by leaning on magical prowess.

Magic, after all, only made him marginally better at killing things—enhancing his speed, his strength, his ability to sense danger—but it did nothing for precision, for stealth, for subtlety.

Those, Thorne had perfected on his own, through years of silent dedication.

And yet, among the nobility, it seemed that magical ability, or the lack thereof, was the dividing line between the “worthy” and the “unworthy,” the elite and the common.

But even that—while grating—wasn't the most pressing issue in this inverted society.

No, the most insidious and dangerous aspect of Erethosian culture was the pervasive ideal of chivalry, a concept so deeply embedded in their psyche that it often felt like a disease.

Everywhere Thorne looked, people were ready and willing to throw themselves onto a sword for someone else.

It was as if there was no higher calling than sacrificing oneself for a cause, a leader, or an ideal.

Every conversation seemed to be laced with a sense of martyrdom, an expectation that one should live and die in service to something greater.

It was all so self-righteous, so utterly nauseating.

Thorne had no patience for such blind devotion. The entire culture seemed obsessed with an empty ideal, with proving something they could never quite define, except to say that they were somehow “better”

for it.

They wore their self-sacrifice like a badge of honor, and it disgusted Thorne to the core.

And yet, despite all of this, there was something undeniably powerful about their tradition, something inescapable.

It wasn’t just the nobles or the priests who held these views—it was the common folk as well, whose hearts swelled with patriotic fervor at the thought of serving the crown.

Thorne had seen the numbers rise over the course of the moons leading up to the coronation.

Kingdom enlistment rates had soared across Erethos, numbers that even made Dawna pause and raise an eyebrow.

The crown had yet to even settle on Kaelen’s head, and already men and women were flocking to fill the graveyards for him.

The loyalty that ran through the veins of Erethos was undeniable, and with it came a dark, ever-present history of grudges, of blood spilled for the crown, for the throne, for the endless cycle of war and sacrifice.

In a way, it was as if they had been born to die in the name of the crown—a tradition passed down through generations, a poetic song that never ceased, a death wish handed down like a family heirloom. It was almost as if the very land itself demanded it: their loyalty, their sacrifice, their lives in service to the throne. And whether it was blind loyalty or genuine devotion, the result was always the same: the river of blood that flowed back to the crown would never run dry.

This room, too, was mired in the same tension that gripped the air outside its walls.

It was a space heavy with ambition, thick with bloodlines, with loyalties and rivalries that ran deep, thicker than any of the fine wine that flowed through the evening.

The place was teeming with people, families bound by centuries of service, sworn to protect the crown, to protect the blood that ran through the veins of the monarchy.

But there were also those who sought to spill it, who lived for the day when they might see the throne shaken, when they could take a piece of it for themselves.

And then there were the young maidens, wide-eyed and eager, desperate to win the affections of the heir, each of them trying to outshine the other in some petty, desperate game of conquest.

At the center of it all stood the yearling monarch, a prince on the cusp of his prime, already adored and feared in equal measure.

He was unwed, unattached, and as yet untried in the furnace of power.

His blood—the Olivet blood—coursed through his veins and tied him to everyone in the room.

It hung in the air like a suffocating cloud, thick with expectation, dripping from the rafters, pooling at their feet as if Thorne had already cut the prince open and bled him before them all.

It was as if the very presence of the monarchy, the very idea of it, could be tasted, could be felt in the weight of each breath the guests took.

The prince’s bloodstained legacy soaked into every inch of the room, and Thorne could feel it, could almost feel the weight of it dragging his boots to the floor with every step he took.

It was an oppressive, suffocating presence, one that threatened to consume him even as he moved through it all.

Every conversation, every laugh, every whispered rumor seemed to carry the same undercurrent—the same desperate hunger for power, for favor, for position in the shifting tide of the court.

And yet, despite his discomfort, Thorne pressed on, wading through the revelry, stealing moments with one or two, listening to the same half-sentences repeated over and over, as if each person were somehow locked in a loop of their own making.

It was maddening, these endless pleasantries and half-formed ideas, yet Thorne endured.

The blood of kings ran thick here, and so, too, did the blood of those who sought to have it for themselves.

There was nothing to do but immerse himself in it all.

Though his mind was sharp, and his experience in the hunt made him a keen observer, Thorne wasn’t exactly adept at playing the game of court.

He was far better at listening than he was at speaking, better suited to waiting, to watching, than to engaging in these shallow exchanges.

He wasn’t a man of charisma, but of calculation, and slipping into conversations was more about blending in than making an impact.

His role, as always, was to listen, to smile at the right moments, to laugh or sigh when necessary, and to glean whatever information he could from those who would say too much.

Most of the nobility were equally terse in their speech; the Erethosians, despite their airs of grandeur, weren’t much for verbosity.

And tonight, with so many already drunk or slipping into that haze, the need for eloquence had all but vanished.

Perhaps it was the alcohol that kept the room from descending into complete chaos. Thorne had to admit, it seemed to make sense of things—if not the people themselves, then the strange dance they all seemed to be performing.

Thorne’s mind wandered back to the prince.

The crown hung heavy over this place, and yet the young monarch was nowhere to be seen.

The guests continued to swirl around him, engaged in their own petty games, yet he knew the prince would not be absent for long.

This was a high-society ritual, a trial of propriety and tradition, one that had to be played out with a delicate balance of grace and control.

The prince would be dragged out onto the dance floor sooner or later, forced to participate in the same tiresome waltz of social obligations.

It was a moment Thorne had been anticipating—a moment when he could observe, when the prince would be in the midst of it all and the chaos of the event would grant him the perfect opportunity to get closer, to learn something more about the young monarch.

As Thorne made his way through the outer edges of the gathering, he couldn’t help but feel something was off.

He had yet to spot the strange man again.

The one he had spoken to earlier—roughly the size of a moose, nearly impossible to miss in such a crowded space.

The fact that he hadn’t seen him in some time now nagged at him.

Thorne had expected the man to stand out, to be hard to lose in the throngs of lesser figures, but he had somehow managed to slip away.

The thought that the man might have already left left him feeling unexpectedly disappointed.

He hadn’t quite finished his business with him, hadn’t quite gotten what he wanted from their brief exchange.

Well, never mind that.

The beast might indeed make an appearance once the dancing started—if it was that time again.

Thorne considered the idea of retreating to another, quieter corner in the interim, but idleness had never suited him.

Not when there was always more to be done, always another move to make, always more of the night to control, to manipulate.

He hadn’t yet secured a safe route of exit, nor had he finalized the precise staging of the assassination.

It had been his expectation that his target would have shown himself by now, but the prince had remained elusive, still hidden beneath layers of social expectation and courtly masquerade.

As much as he appreciated flexibility in his line of work, the lack of clarity was beginning to wear thin. Each distant chime of the clock seemed to constrict the ever-narrowing window of opportunity, tightening around him with the inexorable passage of time, as though the hours were actively working against him.

Thorne took a slow, methodical survey of the ballroom once more.

The room, glittering with opulence and filled with guests swirling in their own little worlds, felt almost alien, yet he knew each corner and every hidden space better than he cared to admit.

He was getting restless now, though.

He needed action—needed things to move, to resolve.

And so, with his mind shifting between the puzzle of the assassination and the people before him, he was preparing to slip back into the shadows when his attention was unexpectedly yanked in another direction.

The collision was sudden, a jarring force that startled him out of his thoughts.

Instinct kicked in immediately—his head snapped to the side, his body coiling in preparation for a confrontation.

A snarl formed at the back of his throat, every muscle tensed to react.

But then, just as swiftly as his anger ignited, it evaporated.

His eyes widened briefly in surprise.

There, holding him with surprising care, was a black gauntleted hand—long fingers gripping his shoulder with deliberate steadiness.

It was a forceful yet gentle restraint, stopping him in his tracks before he could make any move. The contact was strangely calculated, as though the hand knew exactly how much pressure to apply, and no more. Thorne’s instinct to recoil faltered, his thoughts sharpening as he assessed the situation. His eyes traveled up from the hand, instinct guiding him as he looked to the source of this unexpected intrusion.

And then he saw it: the fanged horror looming above him.

The same grotesque, unsettling grin spread across its monstrous face—no less grisly than before, no less terrifying in its predatory glee.

It was the same creature, the one that had unsettled him earlier, the one whose presence was both disturbing and strangely magnetic.

To his surprise, the beast looked almost as startled as Thorne was, its monstrous features briefly frozen in an expression that seemed more befuddled than threatening.

It was almost as though the creature had been just as caught off guard by their encounter as Thorne had been.

The oddity of it struck Thorne for a moment, disorienting him enough to keep him frozen for a beat longer than he cared to admit.

After a disjointed moment of tense silence, where neither spoke or moved, Thorne gave in to the inevitability of the situation.

For lack of anything else to say, he greeted the creature.

His words were calm, cool, and measured, despite the growing unease that gnawed at him.

“Oh, hello again,”

he said, his voice almost laced with an ironic calm.

It was a strained attempt at civility, a recognition of the strange connection between them, and an acknowledgment of the odd dance they were now both caught in.

There was something almost surreal about it—here he was, trying to control a night that threatened to spiral out of his grasp, and yet, this creature was somehow a fixture in his path, appearing when least expected, unsettlingly persistent.

The beast seemed to nod, its large, fanged mouth still twisting in that unnerving smile.

Thorne could have sworn that the fingers around his shoulder tightened just a fraction—almost imperceptible, yet enough to register as an intentional gesture.

The idea lingered for a moment, but just as quickly, the hand withdrew, leaving a strange, charged space between them.

"I did not expect to run into you again," the creature said, his voice smooth and deep, tinged with a dark humor.

"Though I am not displeased to have done so." There was a strange gleam in the creature's eyes, one that seemed to dart beneath the surface of his calm demeanor, like something flickering in the depths of an untamed ocean.

"I see you have departed your corner and taken to the festivities now as well." His words were pointed, almost amused, like he saw through Thorne’s every motion, his every move.

This close, the creature positively loomed over Thorne, its size creating an almost suffocating presence that forced Thorne to tilt his head back in order to address him properly.

Though the beast had released its hold on him, it had not retreated, leaving the space between them considerably more intimate than before.

There was barely a few hand widths between them now, the subtle aftermath of the contact still lingering like a ghost in the air.

Thorne could still feel the faint echo of the man’s fingertips as they left his shoulder—a touch too quick to be lingering but far too slow to be anything less than deliberate.

The space they now shared seemed charged with some unseen tension, an awkwardness that wasn’t there before, something he couldn't shake off as easily as he would have liked.

The creature, still standing with his massive form towering above Thorne, seemed entirely at ease, as if this proximity and the intimacy of the moment were nothing out of the ordinary.

But Thorne? He couldn’t quite get comfortable with it.

A quick glance at the figure before him—a sight that had already left him unsettled earlier in the evening—did nothing to calm his nerves.

Stiff speech, egregious costume, and a mannerism that was a strange blend of both flitty and formal—it was all suddenly clicking into place.

This man is a noble, Thorne thought, a sudden certainty filling him.

And not just any noble, but one who was probably used to being the center of attention, effortlessly cutting through the room with his sheer presence.

And—Thorne dreaded to admit it—likely handsome as well, though the thought made him want to grit his teeth.

“I am here.

Might as well,”

Thorne muttered, pushing his hand against his hip in a lazy, nonchalant manner.

He glared at the beast with a scowl that was as practiced as it was genuine, though he made sure not to lift his chin, unwilling to show any sign of discomfort.

"And where have you been prowling around? I didn’t even know you were still here."

The creature perked up at the question, his expression morphing into something almost childlike, a rapid flutter of his long lashes before his eyes darted back to Thorne.

"Hmmm? Oh, I’ve been around," he replied, his voice casual, though there was something about it that seemed more mischievous than it should have.

He tilted his head, like a dog being praised for its good behavior.

"Were you looking for me?" The tone was playful, almost teasing, and it sent a prickle of unease down Thorne’s spine.

Thorne, ever the picture of calm detachment, shook his head dismissively, his gaze sliding away with a flick of his hand, the subtle heat rising up his neck making him feel inexplicably flustered.

"No, you're just so obtrusive.

How in the world are you so capable of sneaking around in that abomination of a costume, anyway?" His words were sharp, but they barely masked the discomfort now gnawing at him.

The beast responded with a low chuckle, a sound that rumbled like a wave crashing on rocky shores, the kind that seemed to take everything in its path and drag it back into the depths of the sea.

“That I cannot tell you,”

he said, his voice light but laced with amusement.

“Though I shall take it as a compliment, nonetheless.” His mirth seemed to ebb away as he became more serious, and he shrugged his broad shoulders nonchalantly, though his tone shifted, becoming more purposeful.

“But, seeing as I’ve been granted another opportunity to speak with you, there was something I wanted to ask you about before…”

Before Thorne could respond, gloved fingers—no, paws, monstrous in their gauntlet-wrapped form—emerged from the depths of the creature’s cavernous cape.

They moved quickly, stretching out toward Thorne with a fluidity that barely gave him time to react.

The gauntlet-covered fingers dipped beneath the leather, pulling the soft leather under the metal as they flipped the hand over, extending toward him with uncanny precision.

For a split second, Thorne’s heart leapt into his throat, a brief flash of panic coursing through him as he wondered whether this sudden movement meant something more sinister.

The hand stilled in midair, the fingers splayed out in an open gesture that seemed directed not at his chest, as Thorne had initially feared, but rather, strangely, toward his hip.

The beast's eyes locked on the sword sheathed there, its gaze narrowing with focused intensity.

“But that sword," he began, his voice dropping slightly, thoughtful now.

“It is an Azura creation, is it not?”

Thorne’s gaze flickered down to the hilt of his sword, the fine craftsmanship of the weapon immediately catching his attention.

The blade, crafted by the famed Azura smiths, had been one of the few things Thorne had ever allowed himself to take pride in.

It was a perfect weapon, a silent partner in his work, and something of a symbol of his status within certain circles.

But now, with the beast’s large, clawed hand pointing at it, Thorne felt a flash of discomfort.

There was no denying that the question was not an innocent one.

The Azura name carried weight, and it wasn’t often that someone like the creature before him would have knowledge of its significance.

Thorne’s lips tightened imperceptibly, his mind quickly assessing the situation.

The creature’s knowledge of his sword wasn’t unexpected—Azura weapons had a distinct and rare design, not easily overlooked.

But the beast’s sudden interest in it was something Thorne hadn’t anticipated.

For a moment, he held the creature’s gaze, the atmosphere between them thickening with the unspoken knowledge that the conversation was shifting into dangerous territory.

The air felt heavy, laden with the tension of the unasked questions, the unspoken understandings.

Thorne stood perfectly still, watching the monster’s hand hover near his sword, as though the weight of the question hung in the air, suffocating them both.

He didn’t answer immediately, instead considering his words carefully, before he spoke, his voice laced with an edge that barely hid his wariness.

“Azura, yes,”

he said slowly, his eyes flicking back up to meet the beast’s.

“What of it?”

“It is,”

Thorne affirmed, his voice steady, but his words weighing heavily with an underlying tension.

He placed his sword hand atop the pommel, grounding himself in the moment, as though the physical connection to his weapon could steady the fluttering confusion that was beginning to take root in him.

They were in public, standing far too close already for comfort, and for a moment, Thorne couldn’t quite fathom what he had expected to come of this interaction.

What had he been thinking? What had he been anticipating? He huffed, his mind racing.

“You have quite the eye for weapons.”

The beast nodded, his eyes falling to the blade with evident appreciation.

“I am a great fan of his work.

The craftsmanship is unparalleled, and the designs are always distinctive yet clean.

I have never seen finer blades from any other.

Truly, a master of his craft.”

The passion in the creature's voice was palpable, unrestrained, a deep, honeyed warmth that somehow seeped into the air.

The praise was so sincere, so full of admiration, that Thorne found himself briefly disarmed by it.

The beast’s tone was sweet as summer grapes, his eyes glowing with a kind of fervor that spoke not only of respect but of true reverence for the weapon and its maker.

It pleased Thorne to hear such words directed at him, albeit obliquely.

The admiration was not for him directly, but for the weapon that he had chosen to wield, and yet, it still struck a chord deep within him.

He couldn't help but feel a slight swell of pride, even if he did his best to hide it behind a curt smile.

Slyly, the creature lifted the pommel of the sword, edging it just slightly out of its black ornamental scabbard.

The silver helix etched into the blade caught the light, its subtle gleam reflecting in the dim glow of the ballroom.

Thorne, ever the proud craftsman, couldn't help but notice the appreciative sound the man made as he admired the weapon.

It was like a small victory in the midst of all the madness of the evening.

For a moment, Thorne allowed himself a moment of quiet pride, almost preening under the beast’s gaze.

But then, to his surprise, the creature's fingers twisted once more into the folds of his pelts, gripping them tightly as he sighed wistfully.

“I actually had an Azura sword of my own when I was younger,”

he began, his voice taking on a more nostalgic tone.

“However…” He trailed off, his eyes drifting to the floor, an air of discomfort suddenly wrapping itself around his form.

Thorne raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued.

His eyes remained fixed on the man, waiting for him to finish, the anticipation building.

“...I accidentally snapped it in half one day while training,”

the beast continued, and his tone carried with it an odd blend of regret and almost embarrassment.

Thorne’s jaw dropped involuntarily.

He stared at the beast in open, unabashed, adamant disbelief.

The absurdity of it hit him like a blow.

He had expected any number of things, but this? This was beyond what he could have anticipated.

He shook his head in disbelief.

“Unbelievable.

You are, absolutely, unbelievable.”

He hissed through gritted teeth, his hand instinctively gripping his sword a little tighter.

“What sort of fool do you take me for?”

The creature’s shoulders slumped in what seemed to be genuine embarrassment, and his head bowed low, the posture so sincere that it almost appeared as though he was physically weighed down by the shame of his admission.

“It is the truth,”

he said, his voice quiet but steady.

“I would show you the sword, but it's buried in the gardens.

I was mortified that in my clumsiness I had ruined such a gift, so I hid it in the rose bushes.”

Thorne shook his head again, this time in a combination of incredulity and disbelief.

“Unbelievable.

Ridiculous, you are utterly…”

His frustration was so palpable that it almost became a joke in and of itself, and then, somehow, against his will, he found himself chuckling.

His shoulders shook as the humor of the situation washed over him once more, a strange sense of release that he couldn’t control.

This creature—this man—was far beyond anything he could have expected.

Thorne covered his mouth with a hand to stifle the last of his outburst, but the soft laugh still escaped him, the sound muffled by his palm.

He sighed deeply, the laughter not quite leaving his chest.

“A beast in truth, aren’t you? Gods, what I wouldn’t give to fight you.”

“Fight… me?”

The creature echoed, his eyes lighting up with a sudden, almost gleeful curiosity.

“Are you asking me to spar?”

Thorne snorted, his body relaxing slightly as the tension broke.

“Not now, of course.

I’m rather busy at the moment,”

he said, brushing a loose strand of hair back behind his ear as he looked the creature up and down once more.

He appraised the man’s strong frame, his broad shoulders, and the way the pelts hung loosely around him.

Thorne had to admit, the beast had a certain presence to him.

But he avoided meeting the creature’s eyes, choosing instead to examine the man’s physicality with calculated disinterest.

“But… hmph.

If there’s any merit to your claims, I believe you would make for a worthwhile opponent.”

The beast puffed up slightly at the assessment, clearly pleased by the implied compliment.

“Ah, well, if you were to offer, I would not refuse.

I do enjoy a good spar.”

He chuckled again, his voice a low rumble, almost like a distant storm.

“Though it might be a bit embarrassing to admit, it is largely my only hobby.

My free time is rather limited, and there are few things that make me feel quite as well as training does.”

That laugh again.

The sound sank deep into Thorne’s stomach, its warmth both unsettling and oddly captivating.

There was something about the way this man laughed, something raw and genuine, like the laughter of someone who had nothing to hide—no fa?ade, no pretensions.

It was sincere, and yet, it made Thorne feel uneasy in the way that only something genuine could.

Oh, he thought.

He’s never had a taste for sweets, but this… this man’s joy was something unexpectedly delectable, even in its simplicity.

It was in the self-deprecation, the unguarded way the beast spoke of himself.

Thorne couldn’t quite place it, but he knew, without a doubt, that this creature, for all his bravado, was not truly happy very often.

And that realization hit him harder than he had anticipated.

Fingers still curled beside his mouth, Thorne used them as a shield, gathering the strength to risk meeting the beast’s gaze once more.

The creature tilted his head, a playful smile tugging at the corners of his lips, eyes crinkling at the edges as he looked back at Thorne.

It was the same smile, the one that stretched wider, revealing too many teeth, but it wasn’t malicious.

It was curious.

It was sincere.

Thorne found himself frozen in place, that uncomfortable feeling settling once more in his chest as the beast’s gaze locked with his.

There was something unnerving about the man, something that made Thorne wary in the depths of his gut, but there was also something about him that drew Thorne in, something almost... familiar.

A quiet hum of agreement escaped his lips.

“Of that, we are in agreement,”

Thorne murmured, his voice low, a quiet acknowledgment of the beast’s words.

He let his hand drop from his mouth, and his smile slipped along with it, replaced by something more distant, a mask of indifference settling into place.

“Unfortunately, I’m not operating on much free time myself, currently.

I’ll be taking leave first, this time.”

The beast made a small sound, a soft "ah," and Thorne could hear the shift in the creature’s tone, a touch of crestfallen regret that quickly turned to an attempt at regaining composure.

“Apologies if I kept you,”

he said, his voice low and smooth, a hint of embarrassment coloring his words.

The creature dipped his head again, this time the bow less grandiose but still carrying that same stately grace, an oddly delicate motion that drew them even closer.

The proximity was almost intimate, the space between them shrinking even as the beast maintained that unsettling, deliberate eye contact throughout the entire movement.

Thorne couldn’t help but notice how the creature never broke his gaze, as though this proximity—this moment of physical closeness—was more than mere politeness.

And yet, despite the tension that ran through the exchange, the beast’s words held a certain warmth, a sincerity that lingered.

“But I hope it’s not too forward of me to confess it was lovely speaking with you further.

I had privately hoped for another opportunity, and I am glad to be granted it.”

Thorne's eyes narrowed just slightly, his body remaining still but his mind already picking apart the nuances of the creature’s tone, the subtle dance of the conversation.

It wasn’t just a compliment; there was something behind it, a quiet intent that Thorne couldn’t quite place.

Still, he wasn’t about to let that show.

Instead, he simply tipped his head back to meet the creature’s gaze as he rose, his movements hauntingly fluid and deliberate, like a predator sizing up its prey.

“Forward, indeed,”

Thorne replied coolly, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

His voice was laced with an air of amusement and mild reproach, though it was all for show.

He turned then, his body moving with the same calculated grace he had used to navigate the ballroom, but this time, with an added edge.

“Perhaps you’ll get the chance again,” he added, the words lingering in the air as he began to stalk away, his back straight and his movements purposeful.

It was almost a game now, and Thorne relished the subtle power shift.

As he walked, he was acutely aware of the beast’s gaze on him, following him like a shadow—hungry, intent, and full of some unspoken challenge.

Thorne could feel it raking over him, the heat of that stare raising goosebumps along his spine.

He couldn’t help but smile, the sensation almost satisfying in a way he hadn’t expected.

The way the beast’s gaze lingered on him, tracing every step, every subtle shift in his body—it was like a predator that had allowed its prey to slip from its grasp, only to watch it escape.

The frustration of it, the unsatisfied hunger that was so clearly there in the creature’s eyes, was tantalizing.

Thorne could practically hear the beast's thoughts, could almost feel the frustration vibrating in the air between them.

You’re slipping away, it whispered, though no words were exchanged.

The unspoken tension thrummed, a wild, magnetic pull that made the hairs on the back of Thorne’s neck stand on end.

But despite the subtle amusement that came with seeing the beast hungry and frustrated, Thorne reminded himself—he was not prey.

He had never been prey, and he never would be.

That much was certain.

Still, under different circumstances, with different rules, with a different game in mind, he couldn’t deny the thought that crossed his mind.

Under different circumstances, he might have allowed himself to be caught.

But there was no place for such indulgence tonight.

There was too much at stake.

And besides, Thorne thought, a sly smile curling at the corner of his mouth as he navigated through the crowd, a beast capable of shattering swords shouldn’t be so gentle.

What could those hands do to me?