CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The Figsty district was cloaked in a heavy, oppressive darkness, the kind that seemed to swallow the faint glow of the gas lamps lining the narrow, cobblestone streets. In the backroom of an abandoned warehouse, Skyla Mellow stood at the head of a makeshift table, her fiery red hair tied back in a tight braid, her face a mask of stoic determination. The mutilated hand lay in the center of the table, the note from Prin Keli beside it. The room was silent, the air thick with tension as her inner circle—Jarek, Kael, and a handful of others—watched her with a mix of fear and admiration.

"This changes nothing," Skyla said, her voice low but firm. "If anything, it proves we're getting under their skin. We can't back down now."

Jarek, the wiry man with sharp features, leaned forward, his voice cautious. "But if they know about the plan—"

"They don't," Skyla interrupted, her tone sharp. "If they did, we'd already be dead. This was a scare tactic. Nothing more."

Kael, the shadowy operative who had delivered the grim package, spoke up. "Prin's playing games. He wants us to second-guess ourselves. To hesitate."

Skyla's jaw tightened, her hands clenching into fists. "Then we don't give him the satisfaction. We move forward. But we do it smarter."

Across the city, in the cold, sterile halls of the Rozzlyn estate, Ivan sat alone in his chambers, his mind racing. The duel with Lorcan had left him physically drained, but it was the emotional toll that weighed heaviest. He stared at his hands, still trembling from the fight, and thought of Fent's words: "You don't belong in that room."

A knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts. Metil, his ever-watchful aide, stepped inside, his expression unreadable. "Your father wishes to see you."

Ivan sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Of course he does."

He followed Metil to the study, where Brent Rozzlyn sat behind his massive iron-wrought desk, his expression as stoic as ever. Skarlett Abetha stood nearby, her Toledo blade resting at her hip, her piercing blue eyes sharp and calculating.

"Ivan," Brent said, his voice cold and measured. "Your performance in the duel was… adequate. But adequate isn't enough. Not for a Rozzlyn."

Ivan clenched his jaw but said nothing. Skarlett stepped forward, her tone softer but no less commanding. "You have potential, Ivan. But potential means nothing if you don't use it. The world isn't kind to those who hesitate."

Ivan met her gaze, his voice steady. "And what if I don't want to be part of this world?"

Brent's eyes narrowed, but before he could respond, Skarlett placed a hand on Ivan's shoulder. "Then you'll be crushed by it. The choice is yours."

In the shadows of Aether's underground prison, Derick Altrow leaned against a damp stone wall, his crass demeanor replaced by a rare moment of focus. The mole—a wiry, nervous man with a face obscured by a hood—stood before him, his voice trembling as he delivered his report.

"Skyla's planning something big. She's not backing down. If anything, she's more determined than ever."

Derick smirked, his voice a low growl. "Good. Let her dig her own grave. What else?"

The mole hesitated, then said, "She's talking about Grieg's Lair. She wants to make contact."

Derick's smirk widened. "Even better. Tell Prin. He'll want to know."

Aboard the sleek silver airship, Agatha Teen and Philus Meybryn sat in the dimly lit cabin, their expressions grim. The hum of the engines filled the silence as Agatha stared out the window, the city of Aether shrinking in the distance.

"They're hiding something," Philus said, his voice low. "Prin's too smug. He knows we're onto him."

Agatha nodded, her gray eyes sharp. "And Skarlett… she's playing her own game. But we can't act yet. Not without more information."

Philus leaned forward, his voice urgent. "What about Grieg's Lair? If the resistance is making contact—"

"Then we'll be ready," Agatha interrupted. "But we need to tread carefully. Aether's watching us. And they're not the only ones."

In the desolate wasteland of Grieg's Lair, a scout from the resistance approached the crumbling ruins, his heart pounding in his chest. The air was thick with the scent of rust and decay, the ground cracked and barren. As he stepped into the shadows of the ruins, a figure emerged—a tall, gaunt man with a face scarred by years of exile.

"Who sent you?" the man growled, his voice like gravel.

"Skyla Mellow," the scout replied, his voice trembling. "She needs your help."

The man's lips curled into a faint smile. "Help comes at a price. Is she willing to pay it?"

In the opulent halls of the Keli estate, Prin stood before a massive window, his crisp white shirt gleaming in the moonlight. Derick Altrow stood behind him, his presence a constant reminder of the darkness that lurked beneath Aether's polished surface.

"The resistance is getting bold," Derick said, his voice a low growl. "Skyla's not backing down."

Prin smirked, his voice smooth and calculated. "Let her. The bolder she gets, the easier it is to crush her. And when we do, we'll send a message to anyone else who dares to defy us."

Derick chuckled, his voice dark. "And Adelpha?"

Prin's smile widened. "They're playing their own game. But they're not as clever as they think. We'll deal with them when the time comes."

In the quiet streets of the Figsty district, Fent Erasmus met with Ivan under the cover of darkness. The two friends stood in the shadow of a crumbling building, their voices low.

"Ivan, you need to hear this," Fent said, his voice urgent. "The resistance is planning something big. And if they go through with it, a lot of people are going to get hurt."

Ivan's eyes narrowed. "What are you saying?"

Fent hesitated, then said, "I've been in contact with them. Skyla… she's not what you think. She's not just fighting for Millinggarde. She's fighting for all of us."

Ivan's jaw tightened, his mind racing. "And what do you expect me to do about it?"

Fent met his gaze, his voice firm. "Choose a side, Ivan. Before it's too late."

Back in the warehouse, Skyla stood before her inner circle, her expression grim. The mutilated hand and Prin's warning were still fresh in their minds, but Skyla's resolve was unshaken.

"We hit them where it hurts," she said, her voice low but firm. "The mana refinery in the southern district. It's the heart of Aether's power. If we take it down, we send a message they can't ignore."

Jarek leaned forward, his voice cautious. "It's heavily guarded. We'll need a distraction."

Skyla's lips curled into a faint, almost predatory smile. "Then we'll give them one."

As the resistance prepared to move, a figure slipped through the shadows of the Figsty district, their face obscured by a hood. They moved with purpose, their steps silent as they approached the warehouse. Inside, Skyla was finalizing the plan, her voice steady but laced with urgency.

"We move at dawn," she said, her gaze sweeping over the group. "No mistakes. No hesitation."

The figure outside paused, their hand reaching for the door. As they pushed it open, the dim light of the warehouse fell on their face—revealing the mole.

The door creaked open, and the figure stepped inside, their hood falling back to reveal a face that sent a ripple of shock through the room. It was Mara, one of Skyla's most trusted operatives—a woman who had been with the resistance since its earliest days. Her expression was grim, her eyes shadowed with guilt and fear.

Skyla's sharp intake of breath was the only sound in the room for a moment. Then her voice cut through the silence, cold and dangerous. "Mara. What are you doing here?"

Mara hesitated, her hands trembling as she clutched a small, bloodstained pouch. "I… I had to come. I couldn't let you go through with this."

Jarek stepped forward, his voice low and threatening. "What are you talking about? Spit it out."

Mara's gaze flicked to Skyla, her voice barely above a whisper. "Prin knows. He knows about the plan. He's waiting for you."

The room erupted into murmurs, the tension palpable. Skyla's jaw tightened, her hands clenching into fists. "How?" she demanded, her voice sharp. "How does he know?"

Mara's eyes filled with tears, her voice breaking. "Because I told him."

The room fell silent, the weight of her words settling over them like a heavy blanket. Skyla's expression hardened, her voice cold and unyielding. "You betrayed us."

Mara shook her head, her voice desperate. "I didn't have a choice! They have my family. They threatened to kill them if I didn't cooperate. I thought… I thought if I gave them something small, they'd leave us alone. But they kept pushing. And now… now they know everything."

Skyla stepped forward, her gaze piercing. "And what did they promise you? Your freedom? Your safety?"

Mara's shoulders slumped, her voice barely audible. "They promised nothing. They just… took."

Skyla's expression didn't change, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes—pity, perhaps, or understanding. She turned to Jarek, her voice firm. "Lock her up. We'll deal with her later."

As Jarek and Kael dragged Mara away, Skyla turned to the rest of the group, her voice low but steady. "This changes nothing. We move forward. But we do it smarter."

Across the city, Ivan sat alone in his chambers, his mind racing. Fent's words echoed in his head: "Choose a side, Ivan. Before it's too late." He stared at his hands, still trembling from the duel, and thought of Skarlett's warning: "The world isn't kind to those who hesitate."

A knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts. Metil stepped inside, his expression unreadable. "Your father wishes to see you."

Ivan sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Of course he does."

He followed Metil to the study, where Brent Rozzlyn sat behind his massive iron-wrought desk, his expression as stoic as ever. Skarlett Abetha stood nearby, her Toledo blade resting at her hip, her piercing blue eyes sharp and calculating.

"Ivan," Brent said, his voice cold and measured. "Your performance in the duel was… adequate. But adequate isn't enough. Not for a Rozzlyn."

Ivan clenched his jaw but said nothing. Skarlett stepped forward, her tone softer but no less commanding. "You have potential, Ivan. But potential means nothing if you don't use it. The world isn't kind to those who hesitate."

Ivan met her gaze, his voice steady. "And what if I don't want to be part of this world?"

Brent's eyes narrowed, but before he could respond, Skarlett placed a hand on Ivan's shoulder. "Then you'll be crushed by it. The choice is yours."

In the dimly lit cell beneath the warehouse, Mara sat alone, her hands trembling as she stared at the bloodstained pouch in her lap. The door creaked open, and Skyla stepped inside, her expression unreadable.

"Skyla," Mara whispered, her voice breaking. "I'm sorry. I never wanted to hurt you."

Skyla's gaze hardened, her voice cold. "You did more than hurt me. You put everyone at risk."

Mara's shoulders slumped, her voice barely audible. "I know. And I'll pay for it. But please… don't hurt my family."

Skyla's expression didn't change, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes—pity, perhaps, or understanding. She turned to leave, her voice low. "We'll see."

Back in the warehouse, Skyla stood before her inner circle, her expression grim. The mutilated hand and Prin's warning were still fresh in their minds, but Skyla's resolve was unshaken.

"We hit them where it hurts," she said, her voice low but firm. "The mana refinery in the southern district. It's the heart of Aether's power. If we take it down, we send a message they can't ignore."

Jarek leaned forward, his voice cautious. "It's heavily guarded. We'll need a distraction."

Skyla's lips curled into a faint, almost predatory smile. "Then we'll give them one."

As the resistance prepared to move, a figure slipped through the shadows of the Figsty district, their face obscured by a hood. They moved with purpose, their steps silent as they approached the warehouse. Inside, Skyla was finalizing the plan, her voice steady but laced with urgency.

"We move at dawn," she said, her gaze sweeping over the group. "No mistakes. No hesitation."

The figure outside paused, their hand reaching for the door. As they pushed it open, the dim light of the warehouse fell on their face—revealing the mole.