Thorne’s grip on his dagger tightened, his gaze fixed on the two remaining assassins as he calculated his next move. The fake maid was the bigger threat; her level and the way she carried herself indicated that she was more skilled and experienced. He needed to take her out first, but the second assassin was too close to Lord Thornfield, and Thorne couldn't risk leaving him unguarded.

  His mind raced, analyzing their positions. He needed to keep the second assassin occupied while he dealt with the maid. An idea formed, and without hesitation, he activated Knife Fan, his hand flicking out as three daggers shot from his fingers, aimed at the assassin near Thornfield. The man cursed and dived behind a toppled bookshelf, barely avoiding the blades as they embedded themselves in the wooden surface with a series of sharp thuds.

  It was all the distraction Thorne needed.

  He turned to the maid, his body a blur of motion as he closed the distance between them. She met his attack head-on, their daggers clashing in a shower of sparks. Thorne activated Burst of Speed, his strikes becoming a whirlwind of steel as he pressed the attack, forcing her back step by step.

  The maid’s eyes narrowed, her lips curling into a snarl as she parried his strikes with swift, precise movements. She was good—better than the others—but Thorne could see the slight hesitation in her footwork, the faint tremor in her hand. She was still unsure, still underestimating him.

  He’d use that to his advantage.

  Thorne feinted to the left, his dagger slicing through the air in a deceptive arc. The maid moved to block, her body shifting to counter his attack. But it was a ruse. At the last moment, Thorne twisted his wrist, redirecting his blade and slashing at her exposed side. She gasped as the blade bit into her flesh, blood welling from the wound.

  Her face contorted in pain, but she didn’t falter. She kicked out, her boot catching Thorne in the knee and sending him stumbling back. He recovered quickly, his eyes locked on her as she raised her dagger, her eyes blazing with fury.

  “You’ll pay for that, you little bastard!” she spat, her voice a vicious hiss.

  Thorne didn’t respond. He lunged forward again, his dagger flashing as he aimed for her throat. She twisted, barely avoiding the lethal strike, but Thorne followed up with a brutal kick to her stomach. She doubled over, the air rushing from her lungs in a harsh wheeze.

  He pressed the advantage, his movements fluid and relentless as he drove her back toward the shattered remains of the door. She tried to counter, her dagger slashing out in a desperate attempt to ward him off, but Thorne was faster. He ducked under her swing, his blade cutting across her arm in a swift, vicious motion.

  The maid cried out, stumbling back as blood dripped from her arm. Her eyes darted to her remaining ally, who was still pinned down behind the bookshelf, desperately trying to find an opening to attack Lord Thornfield.

  Thorne saw the panic in her gaze, the realization that she was trapped, outmatched. He smirked, his eyes glinting with a predatory light.

  “Looks like you’re running out of options,” he taunted, his voice low and deadly.

  The maid’s face twisted in rage and fear, her grip on her dagger tightening. She lunged at him, her movements wild and uncoordinated, but Thorne was ready. He sidestepped her attack, his hand shooting out to grab her wrist and twist it sharply. She screamed as the dagger fell from her grasp, clattering to the floor.

  Thorne didn’t hesitate. He slammed his knee into her stomach, knocking the wind out of her before shoving her hard against the wall. Her head struck the surface with a sickening crack, and she crumpled to the ground, dazed and gasping for breath.

  He turned his attention to the last assassin, who was still crouched behind the bookshelf, his eyes wide with fear as he realized his predicament. Thorne activated Lethal Flurry, his body a blur of motion as he launched himself at the man.

  The assassin tried to defend himself, his dagger flashing out in a desperate attempt to fend Thorne off, but it was futile. Thorne’s blades cut through the air in a deadly dance, his strikes precise and unrelenting as he drove the man back. A savage slash across the assassin’s chest sent him stumbling, blood spraying from the wound.

  Thorne didn’t let up. He twisted his body, his dagger arcing through the air in a lethal strike that sliced across the man’s throat. The assassin’s eyes widened, his hands flying to his neck as blood poured from the wound.

  He fell to his knees, his body convulsing as he gasped for breath, his eyes filled with terror and disbelief. Thorne watched, his expression cold and unyielding as the light slowly faded from the man’s eyes.

  He wiped his blade on the assassin’s cloak, his gaze shifting to the maid who was still slumped against the wall, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She looked up at him, her eyes wide with fear and pain, her body trembling as she tried to push herself up.

  “Who sent you?” Thorne demanded, his voice low and menacing.

  The maid shook her head, her lips moving soundlessly as tears streamed down her face. Thorne’s eyes narrowed, his patience wearing thin. He took a step toward her, his dagger raised, but before he could act, she let out a choked sob and slumped forward, her body going limp as unconsciousness claimed her.

  Thorne cursed under his breath, his eyes scanning the room for any other threats. The fight was over, but questions still swirled in his mind. Who had sent these assassins, and why?

  He glanced at Lord Thornfield, who was still huddled on the floor, his face buried in his hands as if he was afraid to see what was happening. Thorne’s lips curled in disgust. The man was useless, a pathetic excuse for a man. But he was still important to Uncle’s plans, and that meant Thorne had to protect him, no matter how much he despised it.

  With a sigh, Thorne sheathed his daggers, his mind already racing with possibilities and suspicions.

  Thorne had to get Lord Thornfield somewhere safe. His body felt like lead, every muscle screaming in protest from the overuse of raw aether, but he shoved all thoughts of exhaustion away. The manor was under siege.

  He turned to the lord, still paralyzed in shock on the floor, his eyes unfocused and glazed over. Thorne marched to him, kneeling and shaking him violently. “Pull yourself together!” he roared into the man’s face. “We have to get out of here, somewhere safe!”

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  Lord Thornfield mumbled incoherently, chanting over and over, “I’m going to die. I’m going to die.”

  Thorne slapped him, the sharp crack echoing in the room, but it did no good. The man just kept murmuring like he was in a trance, his mind far away from the immediate danger closing in around them.

  Thorne’s gaze snapped to the window as something moved outside—a shadow passing so quickly he thought he’d imagined it. But for a heartbeat, the relentless pelt of rain had lessened. His eyes widened. How many freaking assassins are there?

  They didn’t have time to find out. He grabbed the lord and dragged him to his feet. The man stumbled, his legs limp and useless, but Thorne forced him forward, practically shoving him out of the room.

  He scanned the area. The hallway was empty, eerily so, but sounds of battle filtered through the rain from downstairs. Clashing steel, the thud of heavy blows, and the occasional scream pierced the suffocating silence above. He bit down a curse. It was only a matter of time before those sounds reached them.

  He pulled Thornfield along, opening door after door, desperate to find anywhere they could hide. Each room was worse than the last—windows shattered, furniture overturned, clear signs that others had already passed through, searching for the same kind of refuge. Useless.

  His mind raced. He had to reach Eliza and Tom. They needed backup. They needed the guild. His eyes roamed the hallway again and again, searching for a solution that wasn’t there, until his heart sank. A figure loomed outside the window as lightning split the sky, its silhouette sharp against the flash. Damn it.

  Thorne shoved Thornfield through the nearest door, slamming it shut behind him. He turned just as the window shattered, glass spraying through the hallway, and a crossbow bolt sailed through the air. The only thing that saved him was his Acrobatics skill and his heightened reflexes because it was night.

  Thorne bent backward, feeling the bolt whistle past his face as he fell into a roll, coming up with his dagger drawn.

  No time to breathe.

  Pain exploded in his thigh as a dagger buried itself in his flesh. He grunted, teeth clenched, and yanked it free, his blood slick on the blade. He didn’t even have time to register the injury before the assassin was on him, moving with inhuman speed. One second the figure was across the hall, the next it was within arm’s reach, its form flickering like a shadow in the wind.

  “I have no time for this shit,” Thorne growled through gritted teeth, raising his hand. He called on the last reserves of his strength, summoning the raw aether, feeling it burn through his veins. He activated Aetheric Grip. Spectral arms erupted from thin air, glowing with an ethereal light, and wrapped around the assassin, lifting him off the ground. The man struggled, his movements frantic as the arms tightened, crushing him.

  A sickening crunch echoed through the hallway. The arms disappeared, and the assassin fell in a boneless heap, lifeless eyes staring blankly at the ceiling.

  Thorne exhaled sharply, his chest heaving as his vision blurred. He stumbled, catching himself against the wall, his fingers digging into the wood. His head pounded, the room spinning, his body screaming for rest. He forced himself to stay upright, swallowing down the bile that rose in his throat. No time to be weak. Not now.

  He pushed open the door, finding Lord Thornfield in the same pathetic position he’d left him, swaying slightly like a broken marionette. Seeing him like that, helpless and useless, something snapped inside Thorne.

  “Get your shit together!” he snarled, crossing the room in three strides and punching the lord square in the face. Thornfield’s head snapped back, blood blooming on his lip. But his eyes focused, his face flushing red with indignation.

  Good.

  Anger was better than fear.

  Thorne didn’t let him speak. “Is there any place we can go? Somewhere safe, preferably without windows.”

  Thornfield hesitated, wiping the blood from his mouth, his gaze still unfocused. “M-my safe,” he stammered. “I’m the only one who can enter.” He fumbled with his ring, emblazoned with a raven, his hands trembling.

  Relief washed over Thorne, but it was short-lived. “Where is it?”

  The lord’s eyes darted around, confusion flickering across his face as if he was just now realizing they weren’t in his study. “Downstairs. In the basement.”

  Thorne closed his eyes in resignation, taking a deep breath to steady himself. “Great. That’s just great.” He muttered to himself, then his eyes snapped open as he remembered something. “Where is your wife and son?”

  Thornfield’s eyes widened in realization. “In the left wing…” His voice was barely a whisper, filled with dread.

  Thorne’s heart sank. “We have to get to them,” he said, urgency bleeding into his words. He couldn’t leave them to face the assassins alone.

  The lord looked down at him, his face pale and drawn. “We can only reach them through the entrance hall.”

  Thorne balled his fists, frustration boiling over. The entrance hall was swarming with enemies, and they’d barely made it past the ones upstairs. This was a suicide mission. But there was no other choice.

  “Let’s go!” He didn’t wait for a response. He grabbed the lord’s arm, hauling him out of the room, and they stumbled back into the hallway. His mind raced through options as he dragged Thornfield along. They had to move fast. One mistake, one hesitation, and they were dead.

  Thorne pushed Lord Thornfield ahead of him, barely sparing a glance at the wreckage that was once a grand hallway. The wind howled through the shattered windows, sending broken glass skittering across the floor and the heavy curtains whipping like they were alive. The portraits lining the walls rattled in their frames, the eyes of long-dead ancestors seeming to follow them with grim judgment.

  “Don’t stop,” Thorne hissed, his voice barely audible over the wind’s roar. Thornfield’s eyes were wide and frantic, darting from shadow to shadow, every noise making him flinch. But Thorne didn’t give him a chance to freeze up again. He tightened his grip on the man’s arm and pulled him along, his own eyes scanning the hallway with a predator’s focus.

  They moved quickly, their steps uneven on the broken floor, and then Thorne’s worst fears were confirmed. Through the cracked glass of the windows lining the corridor, he saw them—dark figures, swinging on ropes, descending with eerie precision. His stomach twisted. There were so many of them. More than he could count. More than they could possibly fight off.

  “Run!” he bellowed, the word torn from his throat. Thornfield followed his gaze, his face draining of what little color it had left. They took off, their footsteps pounding against the marble as they raced down the corridor, the air alive with the sounds of shattering glass and the howling wind.

  Thorne didn’t look back. He couldn’t afford to. He could hear the crash of more windows breaking, the whoosh of ropes as the assassins swung inside, their dark forms hitting the ground behind them with barely a sound. They were gaining.

  They reached the landing, skidding to a stop at the banister. Thorne’s heart sank at the sight below. The entrance hall was a maelstrom of chaos. Eliza and Tom were fighting like demons, their blades flashing as they held off wave after wave of attackers, a handful of guards around them struggling to keep up. Another guard fell, crumpling like a rag doll, and Thorne’s jaw clenched. They were being overwhelmed.

  “We have no other choice,” Thorne muttered, his voice tight with frustration. Thornfield just nodded, his eyes glued to the scene below, his mouth moving soundlessly as he watched the carnage unfold.

  The sound of footsteps, rapid and echoing, reached them from behind. Thorne twisted, just in time to see three cloaked figures emerge onto the landing above them, moving with predatory grace. One of them zeroed in on Thorne, a glint of steel flashing in his hand. Thorne ducked, a dagger slicing through the air above his head, missing him by a hair’s breadth. An arrow followed, aimed straight for Thornfield.

  “No, you don’t,” Thorne growled, his hand snapping up as he activated Invisible Threads. The ethereal strands of aether twisted through the air, catching the arrow mid-flight and yanking it off course. The arrow buried itself harmlessly in the wall beside them, and Thorne didn’t wait to see the assassin’s reaction. He grabbed Thornfield’s arm again, practically dragging the man down the stairs.

  They hit the ground floor, Thornfield’s breath coming in ragged gasps, but they couldn’t stop. “Where should we go?” Thorne asked, his voice barely controlled. He could feel the assassins closing in behind them, like a dark wave threatening to crash over their heads.

  Thornfield pointed with a trembling hand, his eyes wide with fear. “Th-through the kitchens,” he stammered. Thorne turned, pushing the lord in the direction he’d indicated.

  They barely made it three steps before the kitchen door burst open, and two more assassins stepped through, their faces hidden behind black masks. Thorne skidded to a halt, his heart thundering in his chest. He glanced back at the stairs, hearing the footsteps of their pursuers growing louder. They were boxed in.

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