Thorne slipped further into the belly of the Gravedigger hideout. Each step was calculated, each breath measured as he tried to blend into the shadows. The cold stone underfoot was uneven, every creak and groan of the ancient structure amplified in the silence. His eyes darted around, taking in every detail. The corridors stretched like veins through the ancient stonework, twisting and winding into shadowed corners, each turn revealing some new layer of decay.
His eyes scanned every flicker and shift in the low torchlight; the dancing shadows played tricks, making it hard to separate the real from the imagined threats lurking around him.
Doors lined the hallway, each one hinting at hidden stories. Some swung open onto empty, hollow spaces that smelled of rot and stale air, places long abandoned even by the Gravediggers.
Behind others, he caught the faintest sounds of life—the occasional murmur of conversation, the shifting of bodies in restless sleep. He pressed his ear to some, quickly pulling back when he sensed the faint glow of aether slipping through the cracks, like thin tendrils of energy seeking escape.
One or two doors, sleek and black, stood out with a polished sheen even in the dim light. Their surfaces were too clean, too deliberate, and the chill they radiated as he passed made him shudder; these were clearly meant to protect something far more valuable—and dangerous.
Moving carefully, Thorne relied on his Stealth skill, keeping to the shadows and placing each step with precision. His movements felt instinctual, his skill guiding him like a quiet voice, helping him skirt around loose stones and avoid the debris scattered across the ground. His feet glided over the floor, soundless, each placement deliberate and silent, and as he passed through another shadow, a notification blinked in his vision.
Skill Level Up: Stealth!
The satisfaction was fleeting, replaced by renewed focus. The further he ventured, the more he attuned to the faint signs of danger, his eyes now finely honed to spot even the slightest anomalies. He noted thin wires stretched across the floor, dust-covered pressure plates, and strange symbols etched into the walls that his Cunning Trapper skill warned against. Sounds guided him, too; he let his hearing expand until it was sharpened to a razor’s edge, filtering each scurry of rats, every faint drip of water, and the muffled conversations from behind doors. Together, these whispers painted a map in his mind of the hideout’s layout.
Oddly, he encountered no more guards, which felt both like a blessing and a warning. He couldn’t shake the unease crawling up his spine—if there were so few guards here, where had they gone? Was something larger at play, a mission or gathering that left this part of the hideout unguarded?
The low hum of distant voices pulled him from his thoughts. Conversations, faint but persistent, filtered through the corridor. His curiosity won out over caution, and he followed the sounds. The voices were a low murmur, like the hum of distant bees, drawing him closer.
He passed through an archway and found himself on a small, crumbling balcony overlooking a large round chamber full of decaying bookshelves. The shelves, once grand and imposing, now sagged under the weight of time, their contents spilling out in chaotic disarray. Dust motes floated in the air, illuminated by the dim light of lanterns hanging from the ceiling. The scent of old paper and mildew hit him immediately, tinged with the bitterness of stale alcohol.
Down below, dozens of figures crowded around rickety tables, talking in hushed tones or laughing too loudly, their voices mingling in a steady buzz that filled the space. The shadows stretched across their faces, giving them a harsh, almost sinister appearance in the flickering light.
Against one wall, a makeshift bar had been set up, where newcomers gathered to fill their mugs before joining their comrades. A bartender, a towering brute with a jagged scar on his cheek, poured drinks with a grim efficiency. His movements were brisk, automatic, as if he’d been pouring mugs for hours on end.
Pressing himself back against a crumbling column, Thorne activated his Shadow Meld skill, feeling himself sink further into the darkness, becoming just another shadow among many. The cold stone chilled him, but he remained still, every muscle tense as he listened. Another notification flickered in his vision:
Skill Level Up: Shadow Meld!
He stood there, unsure of what to do next. The low buzz of conversation grew and quieted every few moments, a symphony of whispers and laughter that seemed almost surreal in this hidden lair. Several conversations reached his ears, and he had trouble separating each one. Fragments of sentences, disjointed and overlapping, painted a picture of the unrest among the gravediggers.
Thorne’s heart hammered as he crouched low, his gaze flitting around the chamber. He felt the oppressive weight of time pressing down on him; every second here was another risk, another chance he’d be spotted before he could find Ben. He had to move fast, had to keep his mind sharp, but the noise and tension among the gravediggers was like static in his ears, pulling him in and clouding his thoughts.
He had to hurry!
He took a quick look at his aether reserve and grimaced.
Aether: 172/290
His Shadow Meld skill had been effective, but it was draining too much. He needed to conserve what was left if he was going to get out of here with Ben. Releasing the shadows, he let his Stealth skill take over, trusting it to keep him silent and hidden as he moved. Each step was measured, and he could almost feel his skill pulsing, guiding his body through the narrow slivers of light and shadow in the room.
Peering over the ancient banister, Thorne’s eyes scanned the chamber with growing urgency. The room was a chaotic sprawl, decaying bookshelves and rickety tables forming haphazard rows and nooks. It looked more like a derelict library than a hideout, with only the low murmur of conversation and clinking mugs to remind him that it was filled with cutthroats, not scholars. Several doors branched off the chamber, each one a potential route for escape or, more importantly, a path to Ben.
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A man, newly arrived, caught his eye, moving through the crowd toward the barkeeper. Thorne’s attention sharpened, his instincts pricking at the low murmurs that rippled among a group of gravediggers watching the newcomer with keen interest. The hushed words “He’ll have the update” and “finally, some real information” passed between them, and Thorne focused on the man's every step, his senses tuned to the faintest sound. He felt the tension in the room shift, the idle chatter ebbing as more eyes turned toward the stranger. Thorne crouched lower, blending into the shadows behind a crumbling column, his breath shallow and controlled.
The newcomer reached a table and sat down with two gravediggers who had been waiting impatiently. As he settled in, they leaned forward, practically vibrating with anticipation. Thorne shifted for a better view, muscles taut, forcing himself to stay calm, to absorb every word. His heart lurched at the first mention of Ben.
“I’ve been guarding the boy ever since they brought him here,” the newcomer said in a low, weary voice. "But the news isn’t good.” He took a deep breath, his face grim. “The Uncle doesn’t want to negotiate.”
A murmur of discontent rippled through the room, quickly followed by a tense silence. It seemed Thorne wasn’t the only one listening in—every gravedigger within earshot had fallen quiet, their attention zeroed in on the stranger’s words.
One of the two men at the table leaned forward, his voice low, each word edged with tension. “So, are we... are we going to disband?”
The newcomer scoffed and shook his head, looking at his companion as though he’d asked something absurd. “Don’t be stupid. The cousins? They’re a bunch of weaklings. The boss won’t let this slide. He’s planning to attack—and kill the Uncle himself. Won't tolerate this slight! That snake has used us, framed us, taken everything he could grab. He’s a greedy bastard.”
Thorne's breath caught as he listened, his pulse quickening, pounding against his ribcage. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to stay hidden and silent, even as a chill snaked down his spine. One of the men, his voice hesitant, asked, “What about the boy?”
The newcomer shrugged indifferently, taking a long swig from his ale. “Garret’s watching him. But it doesn’t matter. The kid’s good as dead now. Since the Uncle refused to negotiate, he’ll be killed. Besides, he’s stashed away in the tower. No one’s sneaking in there.”
Thorne felt the cold, sinking realization settle in his chest. Uncle hadn’t just refused to negotiate; he’d dismissed any notion that Thorne—or Ben, as they thought—was worth the trouble. He had never truly expected a change of heart from the man, but the cold, hard confirmation twisted in him all the same.
They’d snatched Ben, believing him to be valuable leverage, when all the while, Uncle had dismissed his supposed “favorite” as expendable. Thorne’s hands curled into fists at the thought, the feeling of helplessness and fury twisting together.
He stayed rooted to the spot, ignoring the insistent urge to charge in recklessly. If he was going to save Ben, he needed to think—every move had to be precise. He forced himself to breathe deeply, shifting his focus back to his mission.
His mind raced.
If he wanted to get Ben out alive, he had to move, but he couldn’t afford recklessness. This place was crawling with gravediggers, each armed and alert, and he was already dangerously outnumbered. He’d have to be smart, faster than them all, and keep every single move as quiet as a whisper.
He scanned the chamber again, noting the positions of the gravediggers and the layout of the room. He could see two main doors flanking the chamber, probably leading to the corridors he’d noticed earlier, and at the back, a worn staircase led upward. The bar, stationed near the far wall, was still busy with other gravediggers grabbing drinks, their laughter and conversation trickling back into the room as the news settled.
Thorne breathed in, steadying himself, and slipped along the edges of the balcony, his Stealth skill shrouding him as he navigated each shadow. His gaze traced the staircase leading down from the balcony, and he padded silently to the base, slipping closer to the ground floor. He had to reach the tower before the gravediggers were any the wiser, and he’d have to move faster than he’d ever dared.
As he reached the bottom of the stairs, Thorne spotted a small side door, half-obscured by a haphazard stack of old crates. Slipping behind them, he eased the door open, slipping into a cramped, dimly lit corridor lined with decaying bookshelves. The damp, musty air was heavy with rot, and the flickering torches cast eerie shadows that twisted and shifted on the walls like dark specters, reminding him of just how deep he was in enemy territory.
Moving with deliberate caution, he kept his senses on high alert, each creak of the wood and distant murmur of gravediggers in the main chamber making his pulse quicken. If anyone so much as sneezed, it felt like he’d hear it. This wasn’t the time for mistakes.
Thorne’s mind was racing. He needed a plan to reach the tower, but barging through the front entrance wasn’t an option. Each step had to be calculated; one slip could blow his cover and put Ben in even more danger. When he reached an intersection, he paused, his ears straining for the faintest sound of footsteps or voices. Nothing. With a silent exhale, he continued, scanning the corridor for anything that might give him a clue to the tower’s location.
Turning a corner, he finally spotted a narrow staircase winding upward, its steps worn and uneven. Thorne grimaced. The wood looked as if it hadn’t been touched in years, and even the smallest shift of weight made it creak in protest. He placed each step carefully, controlling his movements to keep the noise to a minimum. Faint light leaked from above, his only guide. At the top of the stairs, he found a small landing with a single door made of that same slick black metal, faintly pulsing with aetheric energy.
Thorne’s pulse quickened. The door’s aetheric shimmer was a clear warning: it was probably warded or alarmed. There was no way he could risk opening it without triggering some kind of alert. He surveyed the landing, his eyes narrowing as they landed on a small vent near the ceiling. It was barely large enough for him to crawl through, but it looked promising.
He climbed onto a nearby shelf and carefully pried the vent cover loose. The air inside was stale and thick with dust, making him wrinkle his nose as he crawled in. The cold metal pressed against his arms and legs, and he had to stifle a sneeze as he inched forward, biting back irritation at every shift and scrape in the tight space.
Finally, he reached the end of the vent and peered through the grate below. He could see a semi-circular room with a single man slouched against the wall, absentmindedly twirling a dagger in his hands. His posture was relaxed, almost bored, but a massive padlock on the door behind him made it clear this was a serious guard, stationed there for a reason.
Thorne swore under his breath, his mind racing. The guard was between him and Ben, and there was no sneaking past this time. He needed a way to take him out quickly and silently.
Then he remembered the snake venom sacs.
As carefully and silently as he could, he pulled out the fleshy sacks. For a moment, the man paused, and Thorne's breath caught in his throat. After a tense moment, the man resumed playing with his dagger, twisting it artfully between his fingers. Thorne continued with his task.
When he had told Ben what those sacks were, the boy had turned excited and showed him his small book. After leafing through pages, Ben had shown him a particular page that detailed how to extract poison from various sources. Ben had been so excited and later had asked him to experiment with one of the sacks. Holding them both now, Thorne could feel the difference, one being lighter than the other.
Thorne made a small cut on the full one and carefully squeezed the small gland. A drop of purple liquid fell on the serrated blade of his dagger. He repeated the process two more times until the blade was fully coated by the purple poison and then did the same with his second dagger. A sigh of relief escaped his lips as he placed the sacks back in his pocket. That small slip-up was enough to alert the man beneath him.
He looked down, only to see the guard staring up, his eyes locking onto Thorne’s. Thorne froze, but his cover was blown.
“Oh, shit!”