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The balcony doors groaned with a quiet protest as they swung open, a sound like the weary cry of something long-forgotten, rusted with neglect, and reluctant to part.

The air, thick with the stifling warmth of indoors, rushed to escape, giving way to the vast, overwhelming darkness of the night sky and the sharp, shrill bite of the wind.

It felt as though the very atmosphere was inhaling deeply, pulling away from the heat and into the cold, just as Thorne did.

He stepped outside, the doors creaking shut behind him with a soft finality, and exhaled deeply—a sound that carried the weight of exhaustion.

His breath, a mist of vapor, lingered briefly in the air before disappearing into the ravenous cold.

The balcony was shaped like a half-moon, its semicircular curve lined with towering marble columns, each one etched and worn with age, but still standing resolutely.

These columns reached upward, supporting the balcony above, which extended from the mezzanine like the arching branches of aleppo pines stretching out to the sky in the distant foothills surrounding Palea.

The moonlight filtered through the gaps in the cloud cover, soft and diffuse, scattering itself across the frozen landscape below like diamond dust strewn over ice.

Snow clung to the iron banisters, and the stone beneath Thorne’s boots was sharp with frost, its jagged edges glinting in the pale light.

Climbing ivy, once proud and vibrant, now clung to the stone like withered fingers, its tendrils brittle and lifeless, rattling in the harsh wind that swept down from the jagged peaks of the mountains.

The sound was hollow, eerie, like the whispered voices of things long past.

The cold here was merciless, far worse than inside, where warmth and light had been.

Each breath Thorne drew formed a cloud of mist before him, and he could feel the biting chill of Erethos, the unforgiving winter that dominated this land, seeping through every layer of clothing he wore.

It was a cold that did not simply chill the skin, but gnawed at the bones, a cold that could not be ignored.

But for once, the cold felt like a comfort.

In its cruelty, it matched the heaviness in his soul.

The fire within him had dimmed, and though his body screamed in protest, his mind was far more turbulent.

It had been a long, grueling journey—one that had taken a toll on his body, and tonight, it seemed that toll was becoming unbearable.

The hard ride, the physical exertion, and the strain of constant tension had built up, creating a dull ache that spread through his limbs.

He was weary, fatigued in a way that no amount of sleep could fix.

And yet, the feeling of the cold seeping into his skin, biting at him like a thousand sharp needles, was almost a relief.

Thorne moved slowly across the balcony, careful not to lose his footing on the icy stones.

He ducked into the shadowed corner, leaning against the balustrade, his hands gripping the cold marble with a desperation that was almost painful.

The marble was unforgiving, biting into the soft lining of his gloves, but it was grounding, anchoring him to something real.

He needed that connection, needed the sting of the stone beneath his palms to remind him that he was still here, still able to act.

The ballroom, with its echoing grandeur and endless dance of courtesies and pretense, had left him feeling unsteady.

Another turn around the room had only deepened his restlessness, his unease, his inability to find something—anything—that could anchor him in the moment.

His body was rebelling against him now, the ache of his muscles and the persistent weariness of the journey making it hard to focus, hard to breathe.

He was running on empty, on fumes, and yet there was no time for weakness, no time for hesitation.

His patience, already stretched thin, was fraying at the edges, each passing moment pulling him closer to the edge.

He needed to act, and soon, before he lost any more ground.

But before that, he needed to collect himself, to center his thoughts and steady his nerves.

A brief moment of respite, ill-timed as it was, but necessary nonetheless.

Thorne’s shoulders slumped slightly, his posture betraying the weight of the moment.

He had to be ready—ready for whatever would come next, for whatever was waiting on the other side of that ballroom, on the other side of this night.

And if he was to be dragged across that cursed floor, pretending to be something he wasn’t, well, that was a matter for another time.

Right now, he needed to brace himself for what was coming, no matter how much his body begged him to stop, no matter how much his mind screamed for rest.

Thorne rotated his neck again, trying to work the stiffness out of his shoulders, but it was futile.

The muscles were tight, knotted in a way that only prolonged tension could cause.

He dug his fingers into the sore spot just below his collarbone, kneading the aching muscle, but the relief was fleeting.

The pain lingered stubbornly, reminding him of the weight of the past few days, the pressures bearing down on him, and the uncertainty of what was to come.

The evening had been a brutal marathon, one he was slowly losing the will to run.

At least, it seemed, the regent was having just as much of a miserable time.

Alfred Reginald Olivet, King Regent of Erethos and former Grand Duke, had no reservations about indulging in the evening’s excesses.

Champagne flowed freely, and Olivet, with his customary flair, seemed more intent on swilling it down than engaging in anything resembling meaningful conversation.

Dressed in his finest regal attire, with every inch of his form a display of power and vanity, he lurked under the mezzanine, surrounded by his loyal courtiers.

But despite the grandiose setting, there was an unmistakable tension hanging around him.

He had become a fixture in the back corners of the ballroom, exchanging only the most cursory pleasantries, his interactions more like mechanical gestures than genuine engagement.

Thorne observed him with a detached sense of amusement.

The king regent’s usual confidence had begun to crack as the night wore on.

His expression grew increasingly pinched, his eyes darting nervously about the crowd, as though he could feel the walls closing in around him.

Every time a fresh bottle of champagne arrived in his hands, it seemed to vanish just as quickly, as if he were trying to numb something, anything.

Thorne had little doubt what was going through his mind.

Losing his crown had been no small blow to the man’s ego, and the rawness of that loss was evident in his every move.

The once powerful figure who had ruled Erethos with a tight grip was now a shadow of himself, clinging to whatever fleeting pleasures remained in the face of inevitable change.

Thorne’s thoughts turned darker as he considered the consequences of Olivet’s future.

The king regent might have been a figure of royal prestige for years, but soon he would be nothing more than a man with his title stripped away.

A man who would retreat back to the obscurity of the dark political games and corrupt circles he had once ruled with such ease.

The man would return to his lair, that fetid, monster-filled den that had sheltered him so many years, and he would continue to pursue his depraved schemes with far less oversight, far less consequence.

At least when the gala ended, Olivet would be free to crawl back into that world, free of the political fallout he currently faced.

But what about Seraphina? Thorne wondered what she had planned for him.

She was always three steps ahead of everyone, her every move calculated with an icy precision that few could comprehend.

Her hand in all of this, in the fall of the regent, in whatever was to come, was something that gnawed at Thorne’s thoughts more than he cared to admit.

He didn’t know her endgame, but he knew that she was playing a long game, one that none of them were fully privy to.

She had her designs on the future of Erethos, on the future of the throne, and everyone—including Thorne—was just a piece on the board.

But how did that affect him?

As these questions spiraled in his mind, his eyes lifted of their own accord, drawn to the vast, infinite canvas of the sky above.

It was a stark contrast to the confined, claustrophobic atmosphere inside the ballroom.

The air up here, on the balcony, was thin but invigorating, and it carried the sharp sting of the mountain winds.

The sky above was an abyss, a yawning expanse that felt both distant and unnervingly close, as though the very heavens had been pulled closer to the earth at this high altitude.

The stars gleamed in the blackness, distant pinpricks of light suspended in the void, like teeth caught in shadow, or like pearls scattered across the dark fabric of the universe.

The sight reminded him of Orion.

His brother had always been fascinated by the stars, by the science of the universe and the mysteries it held.

Orion’s obsession with astronomy had been all-consuming, a subject that had fascinated him long before his other interests had taken root.

Their mother, a voracious reader and a scholar in her own right, had nurtured that curiosity.

She had kept every kind of book imaginable in their house—history, philosophy, fiction, and, yes, even the banned texts the church would have burned—and she had encouraged her sons to explore whatever knowledge they could.

It was from her that Orion had learned to study the stars, to map the constellations, to lose himself in the endless sea of celestial mysteries.

And it was to her that he had turned for guidance in his studies, just as he had turned to Thorne for companionship.

Every summer, when the family moved from their intercity estate to the cliffside manor at the edge of Palea, Orion would drag Thorne down the rocky bluffs to the beach below.

The transition from city life to the isolation of the cliffs was always marked by a ritual they had kept for years—stargazing.

As night fell and the sun dipped below the horizon, they would sit on the white sand and gaze up at the sky, their eyes tracing the patterns of the stars until their necks ached and their minds felt full, bloated with the beauty and complexity of the universe.

They would lie side by side, Orion waxing poetic about the movements of the stars, about constellations and galaxies, while Thorne simply listened.

The ritual had always been Orion’s, a thing he had initiated and maintained with a fervor that bordered on obsession.

Thorne, for his part, hadn’t shared the same level of interest in the heavens.

But it was something they had done together, a bond forged in those quiet, golden summers, a bond that had only begun to fray in the last year. That year, when Orion had spent more and more time in Palea for his work, and Thorne had been preoccupied with his studies at the academy.

The memory of it all, of those evenings spent staring up at the sky with Orion, was bittersweet.

He hadn’t been able to join his brother last summer, not with his commitments at the academy.

And, Thorne thought with a tinge of guilt, he hadn’t exactly felt sorrowful about it.

Not in the way one might expect, at least.

Certainly not in the middle of class, where the thought had struck him unexpectedly and filled him with an emotion he couldn’t quite name.

It was an odd thing, to miss someone and yet not fully admit to it, especially when it felt as though so much had changed in the year since Orion had grown distant.

Thorne pushed the thoughts away, as he often did.

There were things far more pressing, far more immediate, than the memories of summers past.

Yet, even as the thoughts slipped away, the cold mountain air and the distant stars continued to pull at him, whispering of a time and a place where things were simpler, where Orion and he could share those quiet moments again.

But that world no longer existed, not in the way it once had.

And with it, a piece of Thorne had died, whether he was ready to admit it or not.

Thorne scrubbed his eyes with a gloved hand, the sensation of water in his eyes unmistakable.

A stray flake of snow had probably blown into them, and the sharp sting of it hadn’t quite worn off.

He wiped at his face again, blinking rapidly to clear his vision.

The cold was biting, but it wasn’t the cold that made his eyes water, nor the snow—it was something deeper, something that lingered beneath the surface, gnawing at his concentration, pulling his thoughts away from the task at hand.

He didn’t usually dwell on names, faces, or histories; it wasn’t how he operated.

What mattered were placements, alignments, and details useful for discerning the movements of people, patterns of behavior, and paths that needed to be followed for travel or, more often, for escape.

But there was something about the stars above that always calmed him.

Maybe it was the way they seemed so permanent, so distant from the chaos of human affairs, their flickering lights unaffected by the ebb and flow of politics and power.

Orion’s constellation had been something he and his brother used to trace on long summer nights, their fingers pointing out the lines between the stars, mapping out stories and myths, their voices rising over the crashing waves of the cliffs below their manor.

Thorne remembered Orion’s voice, a smoke-rasp of a thing, deep and raw, always in control, always certain, always a little too sharp.

As a child, when he’d have doubts, when his world seemed too small or too large or too complicated to make sense of, he would find Orion, and his brother would lay it all out—simple, no-nonsense, never room for argument.

The night air would smell like sea salt and firewood, the distinct scent of Orion’s cigarillos clinging to his brother’s clothes, his hair, his skin.

And the oleanders—bright pink and thriving between the rocks, their fragrance as sweet as any intoxicant—had been everywhere.

Orion had always been good at making things clear.

And when the stars shone down on them, Thorne could almost hear him again, his voice cutting through the haze of time like a knife.

"If you’ve got time to reminisce," Orion’s imaginary voice would chime in, "you’ve got time to get your shit together and figure out a plan." Thorne could almost see the way Orion would cross his arms, eyes narrowed in mock judgment.

"You’re off your game tonight.

Getting cold feet?"

The sharpness of the words almost made him smile.

Almost.

He imagined himself turning, finding his brother standing next to him in the cold, the stars flickering overhead, and before he could think better of it, he would punch Orion—hard—in the arm.

Not that the imaginary Orion would mind.

If anything, he’d think it was a joke, an entertaining display of Thorne’s frustration.

He’d probably laugh and shake it off, all while continuing his relentless critique of Thorne’s every move.

"Distracted by a boy, Thorne? Really?" Imaginary Orion would add, tone filled with biting amusement.

"I could’ve had both him and the prince puking their guts up by now, and been halfway home besides."

Thorne huffed, the sound leaving his lips like a snort of disgust, though the only recipient of it was the cold night air.

Ruthless, that bastard.

Even in his mind, his brother’s words were cutting, incisive.

But maybe that’s what made them so right.

Orion wasn’t wrong.

He’d never been wrong when it came to seeing through Thorne’s bullshit, cutting straight to the heart of the matter.

And even now, with the weight of the night pressing down on him, Thorne couldn’t ignore the fact that his mind was clouded, distracted, unfocused. He was slipping. And in their line of work, slipping meant failure.

Orion had been the first choice for this mission.

And that was a fact Thorne had never forgotten.

Though his brother didn’t serve Seraphina personally as Thorne did, his talents were well known—and much to Thorne’s chagrin, Orion was a natural in social settings.

He wasn’t fond of them, not by a long shot, but his sharp tongue and dry wit could make even the most guarded lord crack a smile.

He had a way of making people trust him, making them feel like they were in on something, making them feel like they mattered.

A dangerous gift.

Thorne, on the other hand, lacked that finesse. He was more apt to disappear into the shadows, avoid the spotlight at all costs. But Orion had been the one Seraphina had considered for this task, and in some ways, that had been the right call.

But then there were the risks.

Orion was skilled with a sword, with a lance—he was formidable in a fight, a force to be reckoned with on the battlefield.

But when it came to poison, he was in his element.

Poison had always been Orion’s preferred method of mortis.

It was clean, efficient, and often undetectable.

But it came with its own set of complications.

Too much, and it would be noticed; too little, and it would take far too long to take effect. There were risks Thorne couldn’t ignore—risks that could unravel everything they had worked for. If the king regent’s cupbearer were to drop dead at the wrong moment, chaos would ensue. Panic would ripple through the room, leaving no chance to recover the situation. The opportunity would slip through their fingers, and they would be left with nothing but failure.

Orion wasn’t sloppy, not by any measure.

He was meticulous, calculating, but even then, there were factors beyond their control.

The king-to-be might not drink from the goblet they had prepared.

He might be surrounded by extra security, the risk of detection higher than ever before.

And with the unpredictable nature of their target, there were no guarantees.

They didn’t know what the regent would be doing, where he would be, or who he would be with.

They were operating with limited information, a slim margin for error.

And that was something Thorne could not afford.

Not on a job like this.

It required precision.

It required a steady hand.

It required someone who could adapt, think on their feet, and execute without hesitation.

It required Thorne.

And he knew that.

There was no tool more precise, more final in its execution, than a blade.

And there was no one more dedicated to the art of efficiency than Thorne.

His understanding of mortality, of what it meant to take a life, had been honed long before his magic had manifested, pushing him down this dangerous path.

A lifetime spent as a silent observer of his father’s work, watching the intricacies of death unfold before him, had made him well-versed in the cruel economy of life and death.

Thorne had learned the lessons of precision long before he understood the full weight of what it meant to take the life of another.

His father had taught him in quiet moments, in the shadows of the family estate, where secrets were exchanged not with words, but with glances and careful movements.

There was no room for hesitation, no room for remorse. It was just a matter of removing the necessary obstacles, nothing more.

Lord Harper Demetrius, the patriarch of the family and an esteemed imperial physician, had served the king’s personal court for over two decades.

He had a finger on the pulse of the nobility, not just in the medical sense, but in every sense.

To be in such close proximity to the king and his court, to handle the most delicate matters of life and death, was to be privy to a wealth of knowledge, some of it benign and some of it catastrophic.

As a physician, Lord Demetrius was sworn to heal, to ease suffering and prolong life.

But as a man of the world, as a father, he knew the harsh reality that often, the most dangerous truths were those that could not be spoken, but only understood.

His sons, both deeply entrenched in the world of espionage—one serving the imperial princess herself—had a special use for the secrets their father collected.

They had learned the power of knowledge, how it could be wielded as a weapon or a shield.

But Lord Demetrius was not a man who dealt in shadows easily.

Though he had learned a great deal through his years of service, he seldom used the knowledge for personal gain or to manipulate.

His first and foremost duty was to protect his family.

The world of nobility, with its webs of manipulation and betrayal, had long shown him that sometimes saving a life didn’t earn a man’s trust.

In fact, saving a life often revealed the deepest grudges, those simmering emotions that festered behind closed doors, where no one could see.

People held their resentments close to their chest, like prized jewels.

And no matter how many lives he had saved in his time, no matter how many people owed their continued existence to his hands, Lord Demetrius knew better than to trust the fragile bonds that tied people together.

In the weeks leading up to the new year, there had been an undeniable change in his father’s demeanor.

Thorne had noticed it immediately.

Lord Demetrius, typically a man of stoic resolve, had been uncharacteristically quiet, withdrawn, his gaze distant.

There was something about it—something not entirely familiar, some new weight on his shoulders that wasn’t usually there.

Thorne had been set to journey to Erethos, and that, it seemed, had unsettled his father in a way that was impossible to ignore.

There was an unspoken tension in the air whenever Thorne approached him, and though his father was careful not to show it, there was a faint tremor of worry in his eyes.

For once, Lord Demetrius didn’t voice any reservations. He didn’t try to convince Thorne to stay, didn’t speak of the dangers that lay ahead. But his actions—his careful preparation, his insistence on packing a medical kit—spoke volumes. He didn’t want Thorne to go, but he wouldn’t stop him either. He couldn’t.

As the day of Thorne’s departure drew nearer, Lord Demetrius made sure his son had everything he might need for the journey.

A travel kit, extra supplies, his favorite knives neatly stashed away—everything had to be perfect.

Thorne hadn’t noticed it at first, but when he unpacked later, he found the small medical kit tucked discreetly into his things, hidden away with the care only a father could offer.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough to speak volumes about his father’s concerns.

When Thorne left, Lord Demetrius had bid him luck, had wished him safety, but his expression had been torn.

It was a look that betrayed the depth of his conflict, the fear he could not articulate.

Thorne had never seen him like that before. His father, who had always been the calm in the storm, the man who knew exactly how to hold the reins of the world, had been strangely adrift in those final moments.

His mother had been a stark contrast.

Where his father had been withdrawn, distant, his mother had been her usual, vibrant self.

She’d cracked a sharp, knowing grin as she reassured Thorne of her confidence, and though her words were lighthearted, her eyes had conveyed a depth of understanding that both frightened and comforted him.

She knew what it was to stand on the precipice of something far larger than oneself, to be swept along by forces beyond one’s control.

And Thorne knew that if he were to fail—if anything were to go wrong—his mother would never let him forget it.

Her love was fierce, but it was also demanding.

Orion had not been there the morning of Thorne’s departure.

He’d been occupied with some official duty of his own, no doubt part of the endless web of obligations that had grown between him and Palea in recent years.

But he had been there the night before.

Orion had always been a steady presence, a constant, when it came to these things.

Thorne could still feel his brother’s hands on his shoulder, could still hear his voice low and reassuring as they went through their preparations.

Orion had insisted on helping Thorne choose the right knives for the journey.

The Sylvan-toothed dagger, a gift for his sixteenth birthday, had been the one Orion had pressed into Thorne’s palm with all the gravitas of a formal oath.

Orion’s voice had been firm, resolute.

“I fear nothing, little brother.

I know you’re doing this for us, as much as for her.”

His words had been simple, but there was a weight behind them.

Orion wasn’t one to express fear, and he wasn’t one to mince words.

He knew what was at stake, and he knew that Thorne’s role in this mission would be more than just a duty—it would be a test, a trial, one that would shape him in ways he wasn’t yet prepared for.

Thorne’s heart had swelled with a strange mixture of pride and unease as he gripped the dagger.

He hadn’t wanted to show it, hadn’t wanted to appear weak, but the truth was, it felt different this time.

This mission, this journey—it felt like more than just another assignment.

It felt like a turning point.

He sniffled, rubbing his eyes again, blinking rapidly to clear the sting.

Maybe he was allergic to the snow.

There was an awful lot of it in his eyes all of a sudden.

Thinking of the things he would tell Orion when he got home, Thorne nearly missed the creak of the balcony doors opening behind him once more.

He had been lost in thought, caught up in the memory of Orion’s sharp tongue and steady hand, and the weight of what awaited him back home.

The thought of his brother, of their conversations yet to be had, was a welcome distraction from the intensity of the evening.

But then, light poured forth from the ballroom, a brilliant and almost blinding gleam that cut through the night, spilling across the terrace like a trail of molten gold.

The door swung shut with a soft click, followed by the sound of someone moving purposefully through the light, their figure emerging from within its radiant glow.

The silhouette was tall, shifting, and as the figure strode toward the railing, Thorne’s body tensed instinctively.

Even before the moonlight caught the edges of the person’s cloak, before the cool silver of the night illuminated their features, Thorne knew the shape of them.

He knew it far too well by now.

The beast.

The figure moved with a quiet, deliberate purpose, stepping across the balcony with such certainty that Thorne could feel the weight of their presence in the air around him.

The moonlight touched the stranger’s form, casting stark shadows across their face and body, and Thorne’s pulse quickened.

The figure moved to the far end of the terrace, their posture stiff, shoulders rising and falling beneath their cloak, a silent sign of tension.

They seemed almost poised, ready for something, but what? A blow? An escape?

The figure didn’t move, not yet, but their stillness was unnerving.

They seemed to be bracing themselves, caught in a moment where every second of waiting felt too long.

And yet, they quivered beneath the cold moonlight, like some creature of the night, shadowed by the clouds that marbled the sky above.

Every inch of the figure was enshrined in this eerie light, almost as if they were some phantom risen from the depths of the mountain itself.

Thorne’s body froze.

Why was the beast here, in the same place he had stepped to for a moment of respite? Was it simply the chaos of the party spilling out into the open air? Perhaps the beast, like Thorne, was seeking some quiet to collect himself, to escape the noise of the celebration.

But even in that fleeting thought, Thorne sensed something off, something about the way the figure carried itself.

It wasn’t the quiet contemplation of a man seeking solace—it was the tension of someone who was waiting for a fight, preparing for something to happen.

Had the beast followed him out here?

The sudden chill of alarm flared up within him, faster and more intensely than anything Thorne could have predicted.

His finely honed instincts kicked into overdrive, straightening his posture, sharpening his senses.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

His eyes narrowed, trying to track every detail of the beast’s movements, watching for anything that would signal the next move.

It was a celebration of the prince’s crowning.

Of course, security would be heightened.

Guards patrolling the crowd, even in costume, would be normal.

But the beast...

he had been moving through the crowd with an air of purpose.

Had he followed Thorne? The realization sent a wave of unease through his body, as the possibility that he was being watched—tracked—began to take root in his mind.

The Duskinar bodyguard had been conspicuously absent all night.

Thorne had noticed it earlier, but had thought nothing of it, distracted by his own worries and the pressures of his assignment.

Now, the absence of that one figure began to make sense in a much darker light.

If the bodyguard was indeed on his trail, if the beast was here to watch him, then that could only mean one thing: he was being hunted.

The question wasn’t whether he was being followed—it was why.

Thorne’s gaze didn’t leave the beast’s form, though the figure had yet to move.

The wolf-like man hovered at the apex of the balcony, his stance domineering, as though he ruled over the space just by standing there.

The way he stood, shoulders squared and head tilted down with a predator’s grace, made Thorne feel like prey.