The shop was quiet, save for the occasional creak of wood settling in the cool night air. Thorne sat across from Ben, the faint glow of the last candle casting flickering shadows on the walls. The cheap wine between them had been untouched for a while now. Thorne had said everything, about Aetherhold, the summons, and the faint, dangerous hope it offered.

  Ben watched him with an unreadable expression, his fingers resting on the rim of his cup. Then, slowly, he signed. "You’re really going, aren’t you?"

  Thorne nodded, his throat tight. “I have to, Ben. It’s my only lead on Bea. If she’s there...” He couldn’t finish the sentence, the weight of it hanging heavily between them.

  Ben didn’t reply immediately, his hands moving with measured grace. "It’s dangerous. People like you... they’re not safe there."

  Thorne leaned back, running a hand through his hair. “I know. But when have I ever been safe?”

  The corner of Ben’s mouth twitched in something like a bitter smile. "Fair point."

  For a while, neither spoke. Ben finally broke the silence by signing, "We should go. Darius is probably at the tavern, and Jonah might already be back from... wherever he’s run off to."

  Thorne hesitated before nodding. He needed to see them, even if he didn’t quite know how to break the news.

  The night wrapped the city in a strange stillness, but it wasn’t the calm Thorne remembered. As he and Ben stepped out into the streets, the air felt charged, tense, as though something unseen hovered just beyond sight.

  Thorne’s sharp eyes caught subtle changes in the city he’d grown up in. Windows were shuttered tightly, more than a few bearing the signs of recent damage, splintered wood or hastily nailed boards. Shadows moved in alleyways where, just months ago, merchants and beggars had vied for space.

  Ben, walking slightly ahead, pointed to a boarded-up shop with a smashed sign. "That used to be a baker’s. Thornfields burned it down last week. Said the owner sold bread to Ravencourts."

  Thorne frowned. “And the guards?”

  Ben’s signing grew sharper. "Spread thin. Too many skirmishes, not enough hands. Everyone’s fending for themselves now."

  The further they walked, the more the city revealed its fractures. As they turned down a narrow street, Thorne’s eyes darted to a pair of figures huddled against the side of a crumbling building. A man whispered harshly to a younger woman, their hands darting to exchange a small pouch for a gleaming vial.

  “Desperation,” Thorne murmured, more to himself than to Ben.

  Ben tilted his head in silent question.

  Thorne nodded toward the exchange. “People are turning to black market goods. Probably alchemical stimulants or counterfeit medicines.”

  Ben frowned and signed quickly. "More than usual. The guild isn’t controlling it anymore. They don’t care who sells what now."

  Thorne’s brow furrowed. That wasn’t just carelessness; it was a deliberate choice. Uncle had always maintained a firm grip on illicit trades, controlling the flow of goods and ensuring no one operated without his say. To let it spiral like this meant one thing, he was too preoccupied elsewhere to manage it.

  Or worse, Thorne thought, Uncle was allowing it to flourish for some hidden purpose.

  Further down the road, a group of workers sat slumped against the side of an inn. They wore the tattered uniforms of dock laborers, their faces hollow, their eyes glassy with fatigue. One of them muttered something, his words slurred and bitter, before taking a swig from a dented flask.

  “The docks are slowing,” Thorne noted aloud, glancing at the men.

  Ben nodded. "Fewer ships coming in. Merchants don’t want to risk the trip. Too many rumors of sabotage."

  Thorne sighed. The docks were the city’s lifeblood, the point where wealth flowed in and out of Alvar. A slowdown there would ripple across the entire city, tightening belts and fraying tempers.

  “It’s not just the feud,” he said, his voice low, thoughtful. “The Thornfields and Ravencourts might be the match, but someone’s stoking the fire.”

  Ben glanced at him sharply, his hands moving in clipped signs. "Who?"

  “Uncle, most likely,” Thorne muttered, though his tone lacked conviction. The more he thought about it, the less certain he was. Uncle thrived on control, on precise calculations. The chaos rippling through the city now felt almost… untamed.

  “How long do you think this city has before it implodes?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

  Ben didn’t answer immediately. When he did, his hands moved with deliberate slowness. "Not long. People are hungry, they are reaching their breaking point. And when they snap, it’ll be bloody."

  Thorne nodded grimly. He could feel it too, the tension hanging in the air like a taut string, ready to snap at the slightest provocation.

  And when it did, he thought bitterly, Uncle would undoubtedly find a way to benefit.

  Thorne’s mind was a storm of questions and half-formed theories. When they reached the tavern, the familiar sign above the door seemed faded, almost forgotten. Inside, the warm glow of candlelight and the low murmur of voices greeted them, but the atmosphere was subdued.

  Ben glanced at him, his expression unreadable, and gestured toward the door. Thorne took a deep breath and stepped inside, the weight of the city’s unrest following him like a shadow.

  Thorne spotted Darius at a corner table, his chair tilted back as he nursed a drink. His usually jovial demeanor was absent, replaced by a weariness that aged him beyond his years.

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  Ben clapped Darius lightly on the shoulder as they approached, startling him. He blinked, then broke into a tired grin. “You finally came.”

  “Thorne?” Darius stood abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. “Well, look who decided to show up. Where the hell have you been? You disappear for weeks without a word, and now...”

  His words trailed off as his eyes met Thorne’s. He froze, his expression flickering with shock and uncertainty. “Your eyes…”

  Thorne shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny but kept his voice light. “A new skill. Useful, don’t you think?”

  Darius didn’t look convinced. He leaned closer, peering into the swirling blue-white aether that now defined Thorne’s irises. “That’s a skill? Looks like something out of a bard’s tale.”

  Ben nudged Darius’s shoulder lightly, signing quickly. "Stop gawking. He’s still Thorne."

  Darius blinked and shook his head as if to clear it. “Yeah, yeah, of course. Just... give a guy a warning next time, will you? You look like you’ve been blessed, or cursed, by some ancient spirit.”

  Thorne gave him a wry smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Darius dropped back into his seat, gesturing for them to join him. “Alright, sit down. You owe me a drink, and you sure as hell owe me an explanation.”

  Thorne slid into the seat across from him, his sharp eyes scanning the room. “Yeah, yeah,” Thorne laughed and looked around. “Where’s Jonah?”

  Darius shrugged, setting his mug down. “Haven’t seen him all evening. Figured he’d be here by now.”

  Ben frowned, signing quickly. "He said he had a meeting. A new supplier."

  Thorne and Darius exchanged a look.

  “New supplier?” Thorne asked, his voice low.

  Darius leaned in, his tone grim. “Things are bad, Thorne. Prices are through the roof, and half the goods are barely making it into the city. Everyone’s scrambling. Jonah’s been... desperate. He didn’t say much, just that he found someone who could help.”

  Ben’s hands flew in sharp, anxious movements. "He said he’d be back by now. Something’s wrong."

  Thorne’s jaw tightened. “Where was this meeting supposed to happen?”

  Darius hesitated, scratching the back of his neck. “He didn’t say, but if he’s not here...” His voice trailed off, and his gaze shifted toward the docks.

  “I’ll find him,” Thorne said, already rising.

  Darius reached out, grabbing his arm. “Not alone, you won’t. This city’s a damn powder keg right now.”

  “Darius...”

  “No,” the guard said firmly. “You’re not the only one who cares about Jonah. We’ll go together.”

  Ben nodded, already standing, his expression set with determination.

  Thorne hesitated for only a moment before relenting. “Fine. Let’s go.”

  As they left the tavern, the brisk night air greeted them, carrying with it the scent of salt and damp stone. The streets were quieter now, though the occasional sound of distant voices or a rattling cart broke the silence.

  Darius glanced at Ben. “You’re sure Jonah said something about the docks?”

  Ben nodded, signing with sharp, deliberate movements. “I overheard him talking about meeting someone who could ‘help.’ He mentioned meeting someone. A supplier, he said.”

  Darius groaned, raking a hand through his hair. “A supplier? At the docks? Has he lost his mind? You don’t deal with dock scum unless you want a knife in your back. No one legitimate operates there, especially not during a feud like this.”

  Ben’s hands moved again, quicker this time. “He’s desperate. No one’s buying herbs or salves anymore. People can barely afford bread.”

  Thorne, who had been walking ahead, slowed his pace, listening to their exchange. “Ben’s right,” he said, his voice low. “Jonah’s not stupid, but desperation makes people do reckless things.”

  Darius shook his head. “Reckless doesn’t begin to cover it. The docks are crawling with trouble. Smugglers, mercenaries, desperate merchants, all of them looking for a quick profit.”

  Ben tapped Thorne’s shoulder, signing with a questioning tilt of his head. “Any guesses where exactly? The docks are huge.”

  Thorne stopped abruptly, his gaze scanning the area around them. “Wait here,” he said, his voice firm.

  Darius frowned. “What do you mean, wait? You’re not going alone.”

  “I won’t be long,” Thorne said curtly, already stepping away. “Just stay out of sight. This isn’t your kind of thing.”

  Before Darius could argue, Ben tugged at his arm, signing for him to let it go. Darius muttered under his breath but relented, staying with Ben as Thorne disappeared into the shadows.

  Thorne moved with purpose, his steps near soundless as he slipped into the shadows of the dockside streets. The world around him seemed to narrow, the dim lanterns above casting pools of weak light that barely pushed back the gloom. The occasional creak of ropes and the distant crash of waves against the harbor’s edge provided a muted soundtrack to his search.

  He stopped at a junction where several paths split off into the maze of warehouses and alleyways. For a moment, he simply stood still, his head tilting slightly as he allowed the ambient noise to wash over him. He activated his Tracking skill, his eyes scanning the ground and walls for anything unusual.

  Nothing.

  Thorne didn’t let the absence of clues deter him. Tracking wasn’t magic; it was an art, a methodical process of deduction. He moved further down the nearest alley, his keen gaze flitting across every surface, every corner, every shadow.

  The faintest hint of scuff marks caught his attention, a line in the dirt that seemed out of place. He knelt, running his fingers over the mark. “Could be nothing,” he muttered under his breath, “or…”

  He stood and followed the line until it disappeared into a patch of gravel. Frustration flickered in him, but he pushed it aside. Years in the guild had taught him patience and persistence.

  His fingers traced the edge of a crate, the faint impression of fingers on the dust-covered wood barely visible in the dim light. Someone had leaned here recently. His mind began assembling a picture: someone stopping here, pausing, before moving further into the labyrinth.

  Still, there wasn’t enough to confirm Jonah’s path. He had to go deeper.

  Thorne moved toward the main thoroughfare, his movements fluid and deliberate, sticking to the edges of the street where the shadows offered cover. He crouched low near a cluster of barrels, his Tracking skill sharpening his awareness.

  There, a faint scrape of a boot against cobblestone. It was faint, almost swallowed by the ambient noise, but it was enough. He followed the sound, his ears tuned to every subtle shift in the environment.

  At the next intersection, a flicker of movement caught his eye. A single piece of fabric, torn and snagged on a protruding nail from a crate. Thorne pulled it free, inspecting the texture. Cheap material, hastily stitched. Jonah’s shirt.

  He allowed himself a brief moment of satisfaction before moving again, more cautious now. The fabric confirmed he was on the right trail, but it also meant Jonah wasn’t alone.

  As he approached a row of weathered warehouses, he noticed something else, a small patch of the ground disturbed near the base of a door. Kneeling, he ran his fingers over the marks. Dragged footprints, faint but clear enough to a trained eye.

  Thorne’s mind painted the scene: Jonah, struggling, dragged toward the warehouse by at least two others.

  He reached for the door handle, but the soft glow of lantern light from a crack in the wood made him pause. Quiet voices filtered through, too muffled to discern, but there was no mistaking the low, taunting laughter.

  Rafe.

  Thorne’s lips tightened, his hand brushing against the hilt of his dagger. He straightened, stepping back into the shadows. Jonah was inside, and so was Rafe.

  He exhaled slowly, forcing himself to calm. He’d been in situations like this before, isolating a target, assessing the threat, striking with precision. This was no different.

  Turning, he headed back toward where he’d left Darius and Ben. As he moved, his mind raced, formulating a plan. The stakes were higher now, but he couldn’t let that cloud his judgment.

  When he reached his friends, Darius looked at him expectantly. “Well?”

  Thorne’s voice was low but steady. “Found him. He’s in a warehouse up ahead. He’s not alone.”

  Ben’s hands moved quickly. "Who?”

  “Rafe and two others,” Thorne said, his tone cold. “They’ve got Jonah, and it doesn’t look like they’re in the mood to talk.”

  Darius swore, his hand drifting toward his sword. “Then let’s make them talk.”

  Thorne nodded, his expression grim. “Stay close. Follow my lead.”

  The three of them moved together, fury started shimmering. As they approached the warehouse, Thorne’s mind sharpened, every detail coming into focus.

  He was ready.

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