The heavy door clicked shut behind the last of the guild leaders, sealing the room in a tense, suffocating quiet. Uncle stood motionless by the desk, his fingers tapping the edge with a deliberate rhythm, like a ticking clock counting down to an inevitable explosion.

  Thorne didn’t rush to speak. Instead, he straightened his posture and adjusted his cloak, letting a faint, confident smile tug at his lips. Every movement was precise, calculated, his Mask of Deceit and Acting skills molding him into a figure of practiced indifference.

  He crossed the room with languid strides, as if completely unfazed by the rage radiating from Uncle’s tense frame. Without hesitation, he sank into the nearest chair, the leather groaning slightly under his weight.

  He stretched his legs out lazily, draping his arms across the armrests as though he hadn’t a care in the world. The smirk deepened, his glowing eyes narrowing just slightly as they met Uncle’s fiery glare.

  The vein on Uncle’s forehead throbbed violently, and his jaw tightened. Thorne could practically hear the man’s teeth grinding.

  Seconds away from exploding, Thorne thought, his smirk curling into something sharper.

  And he didn’t care.

  In fact, seeing the fury simmering just beneath Uncle’s carefully maintained facade fed something deep inside him, something twisted and cruel. A small, defiant part of him relished the idea of pushing Uncle to his breaking point, just to see if he could. The aether motes around him shimmered erratically, mirroring the dangerous edge of his emotions.

  Uncle’s growl cut through the silence, low and rumbling. “You have exactly one chance, Thorne. One chance to give me a very good excuse as to why you didn’t return immediately after the party. Or why, once the battle broke out, you disappeared.”

  Thorne tilted his head slightly, letting the silence stretch for just a moment too long before he replied. “I wasn’t in the mood,” he said, his tone flippant.

  The leather of Uncle’s glove creaked ominously as his fist clenched at his side.

  “Not in the mood?” Uncle repeated, his voice dangerously low.

  Thorne shrugged, his expression remaining infuriatingly calm. “You didn’t think it necessary to inform me that you were planning to assassinate Lord Ravencourt. I assumed you didn’t value my input or my information. You had your little spies there, after all.”

  The words hit their mark. Uncle’s face turned a deep shade of red, his jaw tightening as he struggled to contain his fury.

  Thorne relished it. With just a few words, he’d managed to unbalance the man who had spent years controlling him.

  But he wasn’t done.

  He leaned forward slightly, his smirk widening into something sharper. “Great job on that assassination, by the way,” he added, his voice laced with mockery. “That turned out brilliantly.”

  The final jab broke Uncle’s restraint.

  With a furious roar, his fist lashed out, aimed squarely at Thorne’s face.

  Thorne’s heart raced. For a split second, his body froze, memories of past abuse flashing through his mind like shards of glass. The countless blows, the punishments, the pain, all of it threatened to drag him under.

  But something shifted.

  Instinct took over, sharp and unyielding.

  His hand shot up, activating Aether Surge in a single, fluid motion. The room pulsed as the aether within it writhed with excitement, and Thorne’s glowing eyes burned brighter, casting the space in an eerie bluish light.

  The force of Uncle’s punch slammed into his palm, sending a shockwave through his arm. A small gust of air escaped his lips as he pushed back against the overwhelming strength. Even with the enhanced power of Aether Surge coursing through him, it took everything he had to stop Uncle’s fist.

  They were frozen in place, mere inches apart. Uncle’s face was close enough for Thorne to see every line of fury etched into his features.

  But then, something else caught his attention.

  Surprise.

  Fear.

  And most startling of all, triumph.

  Uncle leaned in, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “Careful, Thorne. You’re dredging dangerous waters.”

  And then Thorne saw it, a faint, fleeting flicker of red light in Uncle’s eyes.

  It lasted only a second, a brief flash that disappeared as quickly as it had come, but it was enough to unsettle him. His grip faltered slightly, his mind racing as unease rippled through him.

  What was that?

  Thorne’s muscles burned with effort, but he forced his voice to remain steady, his tone even despite the strain. “I don’t think it’s too much to ask for a little respect.”

  Uncle’s eyes narrowed, the faintest flicker of confusion crossing his face.

  “For the man you helped raise,” Thorne continued, his voice firm. “For the man you call a son.”

  His words carried a weight beyond their meaning, infused with the power of Echoes of Truth. The skill hummed faintly as aether rippled through the air, sinking into the room like an invisible tide.

  Even Uncle couldn’t seem entirely unaffected. The tension in his arm faltered slightly, the force behind his fist weakening as his shoulders slumped.

  Thorne held his gaze, unrelenting. “Talk,” he said, his voice a command. “Talk to me.”

  The silence that followed was heavy.

  Finally, Uncle pulled back, his fist lowering as he leaned against the edge of the desk behind him. The wood groaned under his weight, the sound breaking the stillness.

  “Very well,” Uncle said grudgingly, his tone clipped. “Let’s talk.”

  Thorne released a slow breath, the glow in his eyes dimming slightly as the tension in the room eased. He straightened in his chair, his fingers curling slightly as he prepared for whatever came next.

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  Uncle shifted his weight against the desk, his sharp eyes fixed on Thorne like a predator stalking prey. The room felt smaller under the weight of his scrutiny, and the faint glow of Thorne’s eyes didn’t go unnoticed.

  “Before we discuss the battle,” Uncle said, his voice low and measured, “I need to know what happened at the party. Every detail.”

  Thorne resisted the urge to fidget under the piercing gaze. He could feel Uncle’s eyes scanning him, dissecting him, waiting for the slightest crack in his facade.

  This is it, Thorne thought.

  His mind raced, sifting through possibilities. He could play it safe, recounting every event truthfully, presenting himself as the dutiful son Uncle expected or... he could lie.

  But not just any lie.

  A lie that could shift the tides, that could trap Uncle in his own game and pave the way for his downfall.

  A lie that could turn the man from the capital into an opportunity.

  The only problem... Thorne’s jaw tightened faintly. How much does Uncle already know?

  He decided to test the waters.

  Thorne narrowed his eyes, letting a flicker of irritation cross his face. His Acting skill took over, crafting an air of injured pride. “You already know,” he said, his tone sharp. “Why waste time rehashing it? Should we really be talking about this while the Ravencourts are about to take over the city?”

  Uncle’s expression didn’t shift much, but his narrowed eyes and the faint twitch of his jawline were enough to signal his displeasure.

  Ah, there it was, that flicker of impatience. Uncle hated feeling out of control, hated even the suggestion that someone might have information he didn’t. Thorne suppressed a smirk. Let him stew for a moment longer.

  “If you want me to take you seriously,” Uncle growled, “stop acting like a spoiled brat.”

  The insult didn’t sting, it never did anymore. If anything, it was almost amusing, how easily Uncle reverted to the role of the scolding father, as if that act could still intimidate him. Thorne tilted his head, his glowing eyes narrowing slightly. Let him think I’m just a child throwing a tantrum. That’s what he wants to see.

  Thorne sighed theatrically, letting his body slump back into the chair. He rubbed his forehead as if burdened, muttering, “It was a mess. There’s no point telling you about the Ravencourts’ allies; you already know about them, considering they’re tearing through the city as we speak.”

  Uncle’s silence felt heavier than any words, and Thorne could sense his growing impatience. He added a pause for effect, then continued, his voice carefully measured.

  “What you may not know,” he said, lowering his voice slightly, “is that a man had a meeting with Ravencourt. Just before he died.”

  Thorne leaned back slightly, watching Uncle’s reaction out of the corner of his eye. The tightening of his face, the sharp intake of breath, it was subtle but telling.

  He knows, Thorne thought, his stomach sinking slightly. Eliza’s already talked.

  But then came the question that mattered most.

  How much does he know?

  Uncle’s voice broke the tension. “Go on,” he said flatly.

  The lack of surprise in Uncle’s tone was confirmation enough. Thorne’s mind spun faster now, working through possibilities, angles, and openings.

  The man is after Uncle, the thought came again, unbidden. The crows are circling.

  The phrase repeated like a mantra, the faint pulse of the crow mark on his palm reinforcing the truth of it. The man was here to bring Uncle down, and maybe, just maybe, he could help him.

  But how?

  For a moment, Thorne’s mind raced through the encounter at the party, replaying every word the man had said, every glance, every smirk. He’d been deliberate, composed, dangerous. The man wasn’t someone to cross lightly, but that didn’t mean Thorne couldn’t use him.

  He weighed his options carefully, the tension in the room stretching thin as Uncle’s gaze bore into him.

  Thorne’s mind churned as Uncle’s glare pinned him in place. The man’s demand for answers had been expected, but the sudden weight of the moment pressed against his chest like an iron bar.

  Durnell.

  The name surfaced like a spark in dry kindling, and with it, the tangled threads of memory and association. Lord Durnell, Uncle’s old pawn. The man who had used Uncle to rise to power, only to sever ties the moment his feet touched the gilded floors of the capital.

  Uncle had plucked him from relative obscurity, propped him up as the face of Alvar, and exploited his newfound power for his benefit. For years, Durnell had played the role of loyal puppet, until he wasn’t.

  Thorne remembered the aftermath vividly.

  Durnell had climbed higher than anyone expected, drunk on the prestige of his new position, and used Uncle’s influence to consolidate his power. But as soon as he had secured his seat in Alvar, he’d cut ties with Uncle, severing the strings that made him dance. He’d deemed Uncle beneath him, an old relic of a dangerous underworld that no longer served his ambitions.

  And Uncle had been furious.

  What if Durnell could become more than just a memory?

  The idea formed slowly at first, each piece clicking into place with growing clarity. Uncle’s hatred for Durnell was more than a grudge, it was a blind spot. A weakness. And weaknesses could be exploited.

  The man from the capital was here for Uncle, that much was clear. But he’d been careful, deliberate in his movements, his words. He was no fool. If Thorne could redirect Uncle’s attention toward Durnell, make him believe that the mysterious man’s interests aligned with his desire for revenge, then maybe...

  Maybe Uncle could be lured into the trap himself.

  It was risky, a gamble that could just as easily backfire. But what choice did he have? The man from the capital wasn’t an enemy, not yet at least. And if there was even the faintest chance that he could be an ally, a tool to dismantle Uncle’s iron grip, Thorne had to take it.

  The plan solidified in his mind, sharp and calculated. He wouldn’t offer it outright. That would be too obvious. Uncle didn’t trust easily, and a suggestion too bold would only raise suspicions. No, he had to weave the lie carefully, layer it with just enough truth to make it believable.

  Thorne let his glowing eyes narrow slightly, his expression shifting into one of reluctant disclosure.

  This is it.

  Finally, Thorne spoke, carefully choosing his words.

  “He wasn’t just some guest,” he began, his tone deliberate. “The way he carried himself, the way he spoke it wasn’t casual. He had an agenda.”

  Uncle’s eyes narrowed further, but he didn’t interrupt.

  Thorne hesitated, feigning uncertainty, as if debating whether to share more. The act was intentional, designed to make Uncle press for details.

  “I overheard... a few things,” he admitted slowly, leaning forward as if confiding a secret. “It wasn’t clear, but he mentioned Lord Durnell. Something about debts unpaid.”

  The effect was immediate.

  Uncle’s face darkened, his expression twisting with anger and something colder, something murderous.

  “Durnell,” Uncle muttered, the name like venom on his tongue. “That rat crawled to the capital the moment I made him, and now he thinks himself untouchable.”

  Thorne noted the reaction carefully, suppressing a smirk. Perfect. Just perfect. Uncle’s hatred for Durnell was as fresh as ever, and it was clouding his judgment. Thorne didn’t even need to nudge him in the right direction, Uncle was already halfway there, spiraling into the narrative he was crafting.

  “He wasn’t happy,” Thorne continued, careful to add just enough truth to his lie. “He seemed... frustrated. Like he was looking for someone to deal with a problem Durnell created. I think...” Thorne paused, letting the words hang in the air, “That was why he approached Lord Ravencourt... I think he might be looking for help.”

  Uncle’s eyes flickered with something dangerous, his hands tightening into fists at his sides.

  “Help?” Uncle echoed, his voice sharp.

  Thorne nodded slowly, letting the idea take root. “If Durnell has made enemies in the capital and if this man is one of them, he might be looking for allies here. Maybe... maybe he thinks the Lost Ones could be useful.”

  Uncle fell silent, his expression unreadable as he processed the information.

  Thorne remained still, his mask of calm carefully in place, but his mind churned with possibilities. This was the gamble. The lie had been planted, and now he had to see if it would take hold.

  If Uncle buys this... if he focuses on Durnell... then maybe...

  The pulse of the crow mark on his palm was faint but insistent, a reminder of the man who had set all of this into motion.

  Maybe this is how it all falls apart, Thorne thought.

  Uncle straightened, his gaze narrowing on Thorne with renewed intensity. “If you’re lying to me...”

  “I’m not,” Thorne interrupted smoothly, his voice steady. “Why would I? If this man has something against Durnell, that could be your opening. A chance to remind the capital that the Family is not to be trifled with and settle old scores.”

  For a moment, Uncle said nothing, his sharp eyes studying Thorne as though trying to unravel his every thought.

  “Interesting,” Uncle said at last, his tone cold and clipped. “Very interesting.”

  Thorne allowed himself the faintest of smirks, careful not to let it linger too long. Uncle thought he was in control, thought he’d just uncovered a critical piece of the puzzle. But the truth was, the board had already shifted, and Thorne was the one moving the pieces.

  Let the game begin.

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