Thorne ran, his boots slamming against the cobblestone streets. His heart hammered in his chest, not from exertion, but from the oppressive weight of certainty.

They had escaped.

The two men, the mysterious figure from the capital and the red-robed mage were free, and they were hunting him.

The wind whipped at his sweat-soaked hair as he dashed through the skeletal remains of Alvar. The streets were eerily quiet, devoid of the frantic cries and rushing feet that had once filled them. Fires still smoldered in pockets of the city, casting the world in an angry, flickering glow.

The stars above seemed dimmer now as dawn's first light stretched across the horizon. The sky above was painted in muted hues of gray and gold, the stars retreating, but the sun still hesitant to reveal itself fully. Shadows clung to the streets of Alvar, but the faint glow of aether followed him, billowing around his frame like a living cloak, swirling and coiling in his wake. It was an extension of him now, obedient, powerful, and relentless.

The city blurred past him as he ran, his glowing eyes darted from shadow to shadow, his senses straining for any sign of pursuit. He knew they were following. He could feel it, like a noose tightening around his neck.

He didn't dare slow down. If he stopped, even for a moment, he was certain they would catch him.

As he sprinted through the quiet streets, the aether around him churned, responding to his urgency. It danced like smoke in the air, forming intricate spirals and flares with every movement he made. Its glow cast faint, eerie patterns on the walls of the buildings he passed, as if the city itself were alive and watching him.

And then he saw it, something out of place, something wrong. The pristine streets of the noble quarter gave way to unfamiliar terrain, and for a moment, he faltered. His feet kept moving, but his mind struggled to reconcile what he was seeing. The Butcher's Quarter. Or what had been the Butcher's Quarter.

The shops, the homes, the frantic bustle that never stopped, not even at night. All of it. In its place was a massive crater, a void so deep that the faint light of dawn barely illuminated its edges. The ground around it was scorched black, jagged remnants of stone and wood jutting out like broken bones. Smoke curled up from the pit, its acrid scent stinging his nose. Thorne slowed just enough to glance down into the abyss, but he couldn't see the bottom.

His heart clenched. The guild... this was one of the entrances. The realization hit him like a blow to the chest. This wasn't just destruction; it was eradication. The Butcher's Quarter had been a cover, a façade hiding one of the guild's most secure bases. Now, it was nothing more than a scar on the earth, a grim reminder of the red-robed mage's power and precision.

The aether around him trembled, mirroring the storm of emotions within him. Sid. Eliza. Riley. Talon. All of them... gone. The truth of their deaths had already sunk in, but seeing this, it was different. This was the finality of it, carved into the earth for all to see.

Thorne gritted his teeth and forced his legs to move faster. He couldn't stop here. He couldn't afford to dwell on the past. They'll catch me if I hesitate. They'll kill me if I falter.

His focus sharpened. The docks. That was his only chance. He had to get out of Alvar, vanish into the world beyond the city's borders. He didn't know where he would go, didn't know how far he could get, but it didn't matter. He couldn't fight them, not now. The docks were his salvation, the path to survival.

With renewed urgency, Thorne sprinted away from the butcher's quarter, leaving the crater and the ghosts it held behind him. The aether surged, swirling tighter around him as if urging him onward. He could feel his body straining, the fatigue clawing at the edges of his resolve, but he didn't stop. He couldn't stop.

His thoughts raced alongside his feet. He replayed every word, every moment with the two men. The mage, Dravlik hadn't even used his full strength before Thorne had acted. And the mysterious man... Thorne gritted his teeth, his anger and desperation bubbling to the surface. The man had toyed with him, treated him like an asset to be analyzed, measured, and disposed of. But he wasn't a pawn anymore. He was no one's pawn.

I need to disappear. Hide. Regroup. They're too strong... even together, I couldn't take them.

Yet, even as he thought it, a surge of defiance sparked within him. His aether stirred in response, crackling faintly along his fingertips. He was battered and broken, yes, but he wasn't finished. He would survive. He had to.

A sharp sound, a faint whoosh in the air, made his blood run cold. He veered sharply to the right, ducking into an alley. He pressed himself against the shadowed wall, his chest heaving as he strained to listen. The city held its breath with him, every creak of the scorched wood and groan of unstable stone magnified in his ears.

Then, there it was again. That faint, unnatural sound, like wind rushing through a hollow, dying tree. It was them. They were close. Too close.

Without hesitation, he pushed off the wall and continued running, weaving through narrow streets and alleys. His surroundings were a blur of firelight and ash, but his mind was sharp, calculating. He couldn't stay in Alvar. If he did, they would find him. He needed to get out of the city.

Another noise, a distant thrum of energy, followed by the faint smell of burnt ozone, confirmed what he already knew. They weren't far behind. And they weren't going to stop.

The disturbance hit him like a wave. It wasn't the usual ebb and flow of aether—this was something more, something unnatural. Through his Veil Sense, Thorne felt the ripple tearing through the air, a jagged force that sent shivers down his spine. He staggered for half a step, but the sound that followed made his blood run cold. That sound, that terrible, unnatural sound. Like metal scraping against bone, like a thousand whispers woven into a single hiss.

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He didn't want to look. He didn't dare to look.

But he did.

His head turned instinctively, and what he saw sent his heart into a frenzy. Behind him, something fiery slithered through the air. It wasn't fire in the traditional sense, it was alive, glowing with an unearthly light, its form serpentine and shifting. When he blinked, another appeared. And then another. And then many more. Dozens of fiery constructs were slithering through the air, their sinuous movements eerily hypnotic, their forms wreathed in intricate symbols that pulsed with malignant energy.

Thorne cursed under his breath, his voice barely audible over the pounding of his own heart. He didn't need his Veil Sense to know what was happening; the red-robed mage had cast something, a spell designed to hunt, to pursue, to kill.

"Move," he hissed to himself. "Just move!"

His legs burned as he pushed harder, picking up his speed. His muscles screamed in protest, his lungs straining to draw in enough air. He could feel his stamina plummeting, each breath a knife in his chest, but he didn't stop. He couldn't stop. The fiery constructs were closing in, their movements impossibly fast, their glowing maws opening and closing as if tasting the air for his scent.

And then he felt it.

His Veilbreaker trait flared to life, warning him of the attack before it even struck. It was like a sixth sense, a whisper of impending doom that prickled at the edges of his consciousness. At the last possible second, Thorne jumped to the side, activating Burst of Speed to propel himself out of harm's way.

The impact struck where he had just been, and the explosion that followed was deafening. Fire blasted outward, the shockwave sending him tumbling through the air. He hit the ground hard, rolling over rough cobblestones, his already battered body absorbing the brunt of the impact. His once-pristine suit, the symbol of his place among the Lost Ones, was now in tatters, charred and ruined. Small flames clung to the remnants of the fabric, and he slapped at them desperately, extinguishing them before they could do more damage.

He forced himself to his feet, every movement a struggle. His body screamed at him to stop, to give up, but he ignored it. His instincts screamed louder.

He heard the sound again, the hiss, the unnatural whispering and his head snapped up. Two of the fiery constructs were almost upon him, their razor-thin bodies writhing in the air, their glowing maws wide and hungry. They were insubstantial, like living fire given form, but the intricate symbols etched into their bodies betrayed the power that held them together.

Thorne didn't think. He raised his hands, and with a widening of his glowing eyes, he unleashed an Aether Burst.

The raw energy slammed into the constructs, halting their advance but failing to destroy them. The creatures writhed against the force, their fiery bodies flickering but holding firm. Thorne gritted his teeth, sweat pouring down his face as he gathered more aether between his palms. He condensed it into a compact sphere, the energy crackling and hissing with barely-contained power.

With a roar, he hurled the Aether Ball at the constructs.

The resulting explosion rattled the nearby windows, the force of it sending a shockwave through the street. The two fiery creatures shrieked as they were consumed by the blast, their bodies disintegrating into smaller explosions that lit up the dim morning like miniature suns.

Thorne didn't wait to admire his handiwork. He couldn't. His mind raced, piecing together the mage's strategy. They're stalling me. That's what this is. They're not here to kill me, they're here to delay me until they can.

He turned on his heel, refusing to look back, and resumed running. The fiery constructs might have been destroyed, but he knew more would come. The mage and the mysterious man from the capital weren't giving up, not until they had him. His only chance was to keep moving, to stay ahead, to get to the docks before they closed the net around him.

His feet hit the cobblestones with renewed urgency, and the aether that swirled around him responded, surging in tandem with his resolve. But in the back of his mind, a single thought gnawed at him: How much longer can I keep this up?

Thorne sprinted through the winding streets of Alvar, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his body threatening to give out with every step.

The docks, he had to reach the docks.

The thought pulsed in his mind like a mantra as he sought a way out. The fiery eels, constructs of the red mage, had been relentless, cutting him off at every turn. Twice they had caught up to him, their unnatural screeches piercing through the early morning air, and twice he had obliterated them with concentrated Aether Bursts. Each time, the explosion from their destruction seared his back as he ran, the heat biting into his already tattered clothes and blistering his skin.

The third attack came without warning.

A fiery eel emerged from a shadowed alley, its glowing form coiling in the air like a predator about to strike. Thorne skidded to a halt, his boots scraping against the cobblestones. He threw his hand out instinctively, activating Aetheric Grip. Spectral purple hands materialized around the creature, grabbing it in a vice-like hold. The eel writhed and twisted, its unnaturally long body trying to break free. Thorne gritted his teeth and flicked his wrist, tightening the grip.

The creature let out a horrible screech, the sound akin to metal grinding against stone. It flailed violently, trying to escape, but Thorne poured more aether into the spectral hands, forcing them to hold firm.

But then, to his horror, the spectral hands began to shimmer unnaturally. Flames licked at their edges, and the intricate purple energy that formed them began to unravel. Thorne watched, stunned, as the aetheric construct started to catch fire. The creature was consuming the very energy that restrained it, feeding on his power like a parasite.

"Damn it!" Thorne cursed, panic creeping into his voice. He didn't have time to think. Summoning more aether, he created a swirling sphere of energy between his hands. His vision blurred as he struggled to gather enough raw energy, the reserves in Alvar were nearly spent, the relentless assault of the red mage depleting the once-abundant aether like a well running dry.

His own body screamed in protest, muscles trembling, the strain of overuse threatening to collapse him entirely. He knew this couldn't last much longer; even if he survived, the toll would leave him unconscious for days, weeks, maybe. But he didn't stop.

The arcs of aether crackling around his body flared brighter, his connection to the energy deepening despite the strain. With a final shout, Thorne hurled the miniature ball of aether directly at the fiery eel. The impact was deafening, a burst of light and heat erupting as the creature was consumed in flames, its shriek echoing through the empty streets. Thorne staggered, his breath shallow, relief washing over him too soon.

Before he could move, a sharp, searing pain flared beneath his collarbone. His body froze, his eyes widening in shock. A scream tore from his throat, raw and guttural, as he stumbled forward. He looked down, his vision swimming, and saw the glint of steel peeking through his bloodied, burnt jacket. A dagger. The blade was slick with his blood, protruding from his chest like a grotesque declaration.

He turned his head, dread pooling in his stomach.

The mysterious man had caught up to him.

The man's wolfish smile stretched wider as he twisted the blade slightly, making Thorne choke on his own scream. "Running doesn't suit you, boy," the man said, his voice smooth and mocking. "Did you really think you could escape me?"

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