Uncle’s thoughtful expression lingered as the silence stretched on, heavy and oppressive. He stood unmoving for a long moment, his piercing gaze fixed somewhere in the distance as though lost in his own calculations. Finally, with a deliberate motion, he went around the desk and lowered himself into his chair.

  Reaching into the folds of his coat, Uncle retrieved the small summoning stone. The ripple of aether that accompanied its activation was subtle but unmistakable, and Thorne felt the faint pull of its magic. Moments later, the heavy thud of footsteps echoed from the hallway.

  Arletta entered swiftly, her ever-neutral expression giving nothing away as she inclined her head.

  “Wine,” Uncle said curtly. “And food.”

  Arletta nodded and disappeared without another word.

  The quiet that followed was stifling. Uncle’s gaze barely shifted toward Thorne, as if he were nothing more than an afterthought. The old man seemed entirely consumed by his own thoughts, his fingers drumming idly against the edge of the desk.

  Thorne resisted the urge to fidget, his hands resting lightly on the arms of the chair. He’d thrown out the bait and could only hope Uncle would bite. Still, the silence gnawed at him, a sharp reminder of how easily Uncle could unsettle him even without a word.

  Eventually, the door opened again, and a group of servants entered the study. They moved with practiced efficiency, tidying the room, gathering the papers and objects Uncle had thrown earlier, and setting plates of food on the desk.

  Thorne glanced at the platters of roasted meat, fresh bread, and glistening fruits but found his appetite lacking. Across from him, Uncle dug into the meal with surprising vigor, tearing into a thick cut of bread and washing it down with a hearty gulp of wine.

  Of course, Thorne thought bitterly. The city is on the brink of collapse, and he’s feasting like a king.

  But as Uncle’s goblet clinked back onto the desk, the old man finally broke the silence.

  “The situation with the Ravencourts,” Uncle began, his voice casual but with a dangerous undercurrent, “isn’t as dire as I let those fools believe. I have it all under control.”

  Thorne remained silent, his glowing eyes fixed on Uncle as he wondered whether the man truly believed what he was saying or if this was just another performance. From where Thorne stood, everything seemed to be spiraling out of control.

  “That old crow, Rosalind Langston, earned her keep,” Uncle continued, spearing a piece of meat with his knife. “As well as she should have, with all the demands she made. Her network of bored housewives and gossipmongers managed to alert us long before the attack. Thanks to her, all our key allies evacuated the city safely, retreating to their ancestral homes outside of Alvar.”

  He took another bite, chewing deliberately before adding, “Even the Thornfields. They slipped away early this morning with a contingent of Lost Ones. They’re safe.”

  Thorne raised an eyebrow. So, the Thornfields escaped after all, he mused. That shrewd old woman actually saved their skins.

  Thorne raised an eyebrow at that, a flicker of genuine surprise breaking through his mask. So Hadrian Thornfield lives, he thought, recalling the frantic defense of the estate. He’d assumed the noble family had been caught in the chaos, but it seemed Lady Rosalind’s efforts had outpaced even Uncle’s informants.

  For a moment, Thorne couldn’t help but feel a grudging respect for Rosalind Langston. While Uncle’s informants were skilled at pulling information from the shadows, her network of noblewomen had proven invaluable in outmaneuvering the Ravencourts.

  Uncle’s expression darkened as he slammed a fist against the desk, making the plates rattle.

  “But Garrick,” Uncle growled, “his incompetence is blatant! Half the squads under his command didn’t even show up in time to make a difference. He’ll be stepping down from his position by the end of the day. That will show him.”

  The outburst was short-lived, but it carried the weight of his barely restrained fury. Thorne, who had been quietly observing until now, finally spoke.

  “Uncle, before coming here, I was at the noble quarter,” he said evenly. “Defending the Thornfield estate.”

  Uncle’s head snapped up, his glare sharp enough to cut. “Are you an idiot?”

  The full weight of Uncle’s anger bore down on Thorne, but he refused to flinch. He raised a hand in a calming gesture, his expression carefully neutral.

  “You could have been killed,” Uncle snarled. “Even the most experienced could lose their lives in chaos like that!”

  Thorne smirked faintly, his tone light as he replied, “You should know by now, Uncle, I’m not so easy to kill. You made sure of that.”

  For a moment, Uncle stared at him, his jaw tight. Then, grudgingly, he shook his head and muttered, “That doesn’t mean you should throw your life away.”

  Thorne leaned forward slightly, his smirk fading. “The situation is bad, Uncle. The Ravencourt army is more efficient than we expected, and with the Lockridges assaulting the city guard, I don’t see how we hold the city. The Lost Ones are effective, but...”

  “They’re not meant for open warfare,” Uncle finished, his tone flat.

  Thorne nodded. “Exactly.”

  Uncle’s lips curled into a slow smirk, one that sent a ripple of unease through Thorne.

  “Boy,” Uncle said, leaning back in his chair, “you truly underestimate me.”

  The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken tension.

  Thorne’s glowing eyes narrowed slightly as he watched Uncle carefully. What game are you playing now?

  “Do you really think I’d leave something as trivial as open warfare to chance?”

  Thorne narrowed his glowing eyes, his mask firmly in place. He hated the smugness dripping from Uncle’s voice, but he knew better than to let it show.

  “I don’t underestimate you, Uncle,” Thorne replied evenly, though his heart beat faster as he spoke. “But this is a citywide assault. It’s chaos. Even your best plans might not account for everything.”

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  Uncle chuckled, the sound low and grating. “Oh, Thorne, my plans never account for everything. That’s impossible. But that’s why I always have contingencies.”

  “The Ravencourts are confident now,” Uncle continued, his voice growing sharper, “because they think they’re winning. Let them. Confidence breeds carelessness. They’ll stretch their forces too thin, overextend themselves and when they do, we’ll crush them.”

  “How?” Thorne asked, leaning forward slightly.

  Uncle’s smirk deepened, and he gestured lazily toward the door.

  Uncle leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled as his eyes gleamed with a calculating light. “Hadrian Thornfield is marching as we speak,” he said, his voice laced with satisfaction. “A modest host, bolstered by knights from several minor houses that pledged themselves to our cause. But that’s not all.”

  Thorne tilted his head slightly, his glowing eyes narrowing as he waited for Uncle to elaborate.

  “House Viremont,” Uncle continued, a satisfied smirk curling his lips. “They’ve finally seen reason and decided to ally themselves with us.”

  Thorne raised an eyebrow, feigning mild interest as his mind worked furiously. House Viremont was a name with weight in Alvar, not for its martial prowess but for its vast fields of grapes and its absolute monopoly on wine production. Their influence stretched far beyond the city, supplying neighboring regions like White Harbor and Netherton.

  “It took some intricate maneuvering,” Uncle said, his tone almost smug. “Lord Damien Viremont was reluctant at first, but a few well-placed whispers and carefully curated documents found their way into his hands. Evidence that young Ravencourt had made investments in importing wine from the Emerald Sands, in blatant violation of their agreement.”

  Thorne’s smirk twitched, amusement flickering through his irritation. So that’s how you did it.

  Uncle’s voice softened, a predator savoring his victory. “Damien values his monopoly more than anything, and once he believed his livelihood was at stake, he had no choice but to protect his interests.”

  Thorne’s brow furrowed slightly, the faintest crack in his composed mask. “That’s all well and good,” he said carefully, “but will it be enough? The Ravencourts have the Lockridges on their side, and their army is unmatched in strength.”

  Uncle’s sharp gaze flicked to him, the smirk deepening. “Say it,” he said softly, almost mockingly. “You don’t think it’s enough, do you?”

  Thorne hesitated for a fraction of a second before nodding. “I don’t.”

  Uncle’s laugh was quiet but genuine, a sound that sent a ripple of unease through Thorne. “You have a knack for this,” Uncle said, his tone almost approving. “You’re right, of course. Viremont’s support strengthens our position, but as things stand, the losses would be heavy. Too heavy.”

  Thorne nodded slowly, watching as Uncle’s smirk faded, replaced by a thoughtful frown.

  “No,” Uncle continued. “We need more. Another ally. And as luck would have it, there’s an opportunity.”

  Thorne’s frown deepened as Uncle’s tone shifted. “There’s another schemer in town,” Uncle said, his voice carrying a faint note of disdain. “Not as ambitious as us, of course, but useful in his own way. Lord Elian Rook.”

  Thorne couldn’t help but scoff. “House Rook? They’re practically inconsequential.”

  Uncle chuckled, shaking his head. “That’s what most would think. But House Rook is precisely what we need. You see, Lord Elian employs a rather large number of mercenaries to guard the cargo of his three trading vessels.”

  Thorne arched an eyebrow. “And as fate would have it, all of those vessels are moored in the docks right now. His mercenaries are sitting idle, drinking ale and chasing working girls.”

  The implication was clear, and Thorne leaned back slightly in his chair. “What does he want?” he asked.

  Uncle shrugged. “What every man wants. Coin.”

  Thorne rolled his eyes, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “Of course,” he muttered.

  “I have an inkling of what his demands might be,” Uncle continued, his fingers drumming lightly against the desk. “But nothing is certain until we meet. Still, if I were to guess...”

  “House Braddock,” Thorne said, cutting him off.

  Uncle nodded approvingly. “Exactly. The Braddocks are his primary competitors in marine trade, with the largest fleet in Alvar. Destroying them would elevate House Rook significantly.”

  Thorne let out a low chuckle. “And if his demands are more noble? Feeding the poor, perhaps?”

  “Don’t count on that,” Uncle replied, smirking faintly. “Still, we’ll meet him on his terms. Whatever he wants, we’ll make it happen. We need him.”

  Uncle leaned forward slightly, his tone sharpening. “If we want a clean victory, if we want to protect Thornfield’s assets, then his men are essential. They’ll hold the docks and guard the warehouses.”

  Uncle reached into his coat and withdrew an envelope, sealed with red wax bearing the spiral emblem of the Lost Ones. He held it out to Thorne.

  “I want you to arrange the meeting and deliver my proposal,” Uncle said firmly.

  Thorne stood, taking the envelope and inspecting it briefly. The wax was smooth, the seal flawless, a subtle display of the guild’s precision.

  “And if he has more demands?” Thorne asked, tucking the envelope into his jacket.

  “Make them happen,” Uncle replied, his tone brooking no argument. “We need him, Thorne.”

  Thorne nodded slowly, his expression calm and confident. “It will be done,” he said, his voice steady.

  Uncle’s smirk returned, self-satisfied and dripping with condescension. “Always the obedient little assassin,” he said, his tone mocking yet strangely affectionate, as if those words were the highest compliment he could bestow.

  The words clawed at Thorne’s composure, but he forced his smirk to stay in place. “Obedient?” he said lightly, tilting his head as if considering the term. “I’d prefer to think of it as loyal.”

  Uncle chuckled, the sound low and grating. “Loyalty, obedience, they’re two sides of the same coin, boy. And you’ve always known which side to show.”

  Thorne’s fingers curled slightly, hidden by the folds of his cloak. The aether motes around him shimmered erratically. It was as if they sensed his emotions, feeding on the anger bubbling beneath the surface.

  Uncle leaned forward, his elbows resting on the desk as his sharp eyes bore into Thorne. “You don’t fool me, you know,” he said softly. “You’re clever, ambitious, dangerous, even. But you’re still young. You think you’ve seen the world, think you know how this game is played. But you don’t.”

  The words were a familiar refrain, one Uncle had used countless times to assert his dominance. But this time, they didn’t land as they once had.

  Thorne smiled faintly, tilting his head in mock acknowledgment. “I suppose you’re right, Uncle. I still have much to learn.”

  The lie slipped effortlessly from his lips, his Mask of Deceit flawless. But inside, his thoughts seethed.

  You have no idea how much I’ve learned, old man.

  As Uncle settled back into his chair, reaching for his goblet of wine, Thorne’s gaze flicked to the aether motes dancing around him. They swirled like restless fireflies, their glow intensifying whenever his thoughts darkened.

  The mark on his palm, the crow, throbbed faintly beneath his glove, a subtle reminder of the man from the capital and the opportunity he represented. For years, Thorne had played Uncle’s pawn, moving wherever the old man commanded, sacrificing pieces in a game he’d never fully understood.

  But not anymore.

  Just a little while longer, Thorne thought, his glowing eyes narrowing. Just long enough to set the board, to let the right players take their places. Then we’ll see who’s really in control.

  Uncle’s voice broke the silence, dragging Thorne back to the present. “Don’t disappoint me, boy,” he said, his tone sharp despite the smirk still curling his lips. “Lord Rook’s mercenaries could be the difference between victory and ruin. Handle this carefully.”

  Thorne inclined his head, his expression calm and obedient. “Of course, Uncle,” he replied smoothly.

  Uncle nodded, satisfied, and turned his attention back to his meal, dismissing Thorne without a word.

  Thorne lingered for a moment, watching as Uncle tore into a piece of bread with the same careless ease he used to tear lives apart.

  Always the obedient little assassin, the words echoed in his mind, fueling the storm of emotions churning within him. He turned on his heel, his cloak sweeping behind him as he strode toward the door.

  Just before he exited, Thorne glanced back over his shoulder, his glowing eyes glinting faintly in the dim light. Uncle didn’t look up, too consumed by his meal and his endless schemes.

  Enjoy your throne of lies while you can, Thorne thought, his hand brushing against the sealed envelope in his jacket. Your reign is almost over.

  As the door clicked shut behind him, Thorne let out a slow breath. The aether motes dimmed slightly, retreating into stillness as he walked away. But the mark on his palm pulsed again, faint yet insistent, a reminder that his plan was already in motion.

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