Inside the manor, the opulence was nauseating. Silk tapestries hung next to hissing brass valves. Kaelen and Lyra moved through the rafters like smoke. Below them, a party was in full swing. Nobles drank wine laced with Aetheria-dust, their eyes glowing with a faint, drug-induced blue.
"They're eating the very thing that's killing the mountain," Lyra hissed.
"They're addicted to the power," Kaelen replied.
They reached the door to Alaric's private study. The air here felt different—heavy, cold, and vibrating with a low-frequency hum that made Kaelen's teeth ache. His fifty-year-old intuition screamed at him to run. This wasn't a standard assassination. This was a trap.
"Wait," Kaelen whispered, grabbing Lyra's shoulder. "Something is wrong. The Aetheria in this room isn't flowing. It's being... sucked in."