Thorne walked alongside Arletta, his steps measured as they passed through the dimly lit halls of Uncle’s mansion. The faint echoes of distant activity reached his ears, guards patrolling, murmured voices from other rooms, but here, near the heart of the estate, everything felt unnaturally still.
“How is he?” Thorne asked, his voice low.
Arletta didn’t glance at him. “Furious.”
Thorne exhaled sharply through his nose, feigning casualness. “At me?”
“At you,” Arletta replied evenly, “at me, at the city, at everyone.”
Great, Thorne thought bitterly, but he said nothing.
His mind spun, working through the possibilities. He didn’t know how much Uncle knew about the mysterious man from the capital, about what Eliza might have told him. How much had she heard and understood during their encounter? The thought unsettled him. Walking into Uncle’s presence without all the information was dangerous.
There was an opportunity here. Thorne could feel it, a faint flicker of a chance to finally break free, to shatter the chains Uncle had wrapped around him since he was a child. The idea sent a thrill coursing through him. Quick, sharp, and dangerous.
But he would have to tread carefully.
Uncle wasn’t just a man; he was a spider at the center of an intricately woven web. Every thread was tied to a secret, a debt, or a life, and pulling the wrong one could bring the whole thing crashing down, on Uncle, yes, but also on Thorne.
No more arrogance.
That lesson had been beaten into him over the years. Not always with fists, but with words, punishments, and schemes so convoluted he hadn’t realized he was being taught until it was too late.
No more believing I’m smarter than everyone else.
He’d thought that once, believed he could play the game better than the master who had set the board. He remembered the sting of humiliation when Uncle had proven him wrong, his carefully laid plans unraveled with a single, effortless tug.
Uncle had proven time and again that Thorne wasn’t.
Not yet.
He wasn’t there yet. But he was learning.
The crow mark on his palm itched beneath his glove, a constant reminder of the man he’d met in the shadows. That man had seen something in Thorne, something he could use, just like Uncle did. The difference was, Thorne hadn’t decided whether to play along or resist.
If I move too soon, I lose everything.
But if he waited too long, the opportunity would vanish, and Uncle would remain, his web stronger than ever.
For now, Thorne knew he had to play the role he’d perfected over the years: the dutiful, underestimated heir. He had to give Uncle no reason to doubt him, no excuse to look too closely.
One wrong step, and I’m done.
He shoved his hand deeper into his pocket, hiding the mark from sight. For now, it was his secret, his advantage.
They reached the double doors leading to Uncle’s study. Even through the thick wood, Uncle’s voice roared, loud and furious. Thorne paused instinctively, his senses sharpening as he picked up fragments of the tirade within, harsh words, the unmistakable crash of something hitting the floor.
Arletta hesitated, her eyes flickering toward the door as if debating whether or not to interrupt. She muttered, almost to herself, “He’s in a meeting.”
Thorne tilted his head, his brow rising faintly. Arletta rarely showed uncertainty.
She drew in a sharp breath, her expression hardening as if coming to a decision. Finally, she turned toward him. “He told me to bring you to him the moment you arrived.”
Before Thorne could respond, she rapped her knuckles firmly on the door and pushed it open.
“Master, Thorne has arrived.”
From within came Uncle’s growl, sharp and biting. “Send him in. What are you waiting for?”
Arletta stepped back, turning to Thorne with a curt nod that sent him forward.
And so it begins.
Thorne stepped into the study, his gaze sweeping the room in an instant as he assessed the situation.
The room was chaos. The contents of Uncle’s heavy mahogany desk were strewn across the floor, scrolls, ink bottles, and papers crumpled and scattered. Wine dripped lazily onto the rug from a toppled goblet, the deep red staining the ornate fabric.
At the center of the storm was Uncle.
He stood behind the desk, a half-full goblet of wine clutched tightly in one hand. Every movement sent the liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim. His face was a mask of fury, his sharp features twisted with barely contained rage.
In front of Uncle, a man stood with his head bowed, Garrick, the Quickshot.
Garrick was a veteran, one of the older members of the guild and a ruthless operator in his own right. His appearance was unremarkable enough for someone in their line of work, lean and wiry, with dark hair and a face that could blend into any crowd. It was his calm, quiet efficiency that had earned him a reputation, not his looks.
But now, Garrick looked anything but calm. A dark bruise marred his cheek, and a thin trail of blood snaked down from a split in his lower lip. The wound was fresh, the crimson sharp against his otherwise pale face. Thorne didn’t need to ask where the injuries had come from, they reeked of Uncle’s temper.
Sid stood slightly apart from the others, leaning against the far wall with his single arm folded across his chest. The empty sleeve of his coat was tied off neatly, though the fabric seemed looser now. He caught Thorne’s eye and gave a curt nod before turning his attention back to Uncle.
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Beside Sid, Talon stood rigid, her arms crossed, her expression locked in the blank indifference of a seasoned killer. Three other men lingered nearby, Thorne recognized them immediately as veteran guild operatives, men Uncle only called when something had gone very wrong.
The tension in the room was palpable.
Uncle’s gaze snapped to Thorne the moment he stepped in, his sharp, burning eyes narrowing like twin daggers. “Thorne.”
Thorne stood his ground, meeting Uncle’s gaze with an expression carefully crafted into neutrality. “You wanted to see me.”
Uncle’s lip curled into a bitter, humorless smile. Without warning, he slammed the goblet onto the edge of the desk. Wine splashed across the scattered papers and dripped in thin rivulets onto the rug.
“Do you have any idea what’s happening out there?” Uncle’s voice was low, shaking with the effort it took to keep from shouting. He gestured broadly toward the window, as if the smoke rising in the distance were somehow Thorne’s fault. “Do you have the faintest inkling of how close we are to losing everything?”
Thorne said nothing, his fingers flexing faintly at his side. He could feel the weight of every gaze in the room, Sid’s steady observation, Talon’s blank indifference, the veterans’ cold scrutiny.
Uncle’s attention shifted, and he pointed toward Garrick, who still had his head bowed. “You see this?” Uncle snarled. “This is failure. This is incompetence. My guild crumbling while the Ravencourts sweep through the city like wolves through a flock of sheep!”
Garrick didn’t move, but Thorne saw the faint tremor in his shoulders, a tiny betrayal of the man’s otherwise stoic composure.
Uncle turned back to Thorne, his expression darkening. “And now you’ve finally decided to grace me with your presence.”
Uncle’s glare bore down on Garrick, his tall frame rigid with rage as the veteran assassin knelt before him. Garrick’s bruise had deepened to an angry purple, and blood dripped sluggishly from his split lip. He stayed in position, his head bowed in submission, though the tension in his shoulders betrayed the effort it took to remain silent.
“You were supposed to ensure the Thornfield manor held!” Uncle roared, his voice reverberating through the room. “You were supposed to oversee the squads, to make sure they arrived on time, to give me results! And instead...”
He gestured furiously toward the broken glass and scattered papers across his desk. “You’ve given me excuses and ashes!”
Garrick raised his head slightly, his face tight. “Half of my squads didn’t arrive in time,” he said cautiously, his voice steady but strained. “They were on missions, and recalling them took longer than expected. But most of them returned, and I sent them to bolster the defenses at the governing building.”
“Most?” Uncle’s voice dropped, low and dangerous.
“One squad remains unaccounted for,” Garrick admitted, each word weighed with caution. “They should have reported back by now. I made a poor choice, Master... I assigned that Vance boy as their leader. He’s too green for this, but I thought...”
Uncle moved with startling speed, his hand cracking across Garrick’s face before anyone could react. The force of the slap sent Garrick sprawling, his head snapping to the side as he hit the floor.
“You thought?!” Uncle bellowed, his hand still raised as if ready to strike again. “I don’t pay you to think! I pay you to deliver!”
Garrick lay motionless, his cheek pressed to the carpet. “Understood, Master,” he murmured hoarsely.
Uncle stepped back, his breathing heavy as he raked a hand through his graying hair. His gaze swept over the remaining leaders in the room, each of whom looked as though they’d prefer to vanish into the shadows. When Uncle spoke again, his voice dropped to a chilling whisper.
“The governing building will not fall,” he hissed, the quiet fury in his tone sending a chill down Thorne’s spine. “If that brat bonds with the city’s key, Alvar is his. The city will be his. That. Will. Not. Happen.”
A tense silence followed.
One of the men in the back, a wiry figure with sharp eyes and an air of barely restrained confidence stepped forward. “Master,” he began, his voice steady, “if we pull back some of our forces from the north, perhaps the city guard barracks, we could reinforce the governing building. It would buy us...”
Uncle’s hand shot out, grabbing a heavy paperweight from the desk. Without hesitation, he hurled it at the man.
The paperweight struck the wall inches from the speaker’s head, the sound of the impact loud and final. The man flinched, his calm shattered, but he held his ground, though he dared not speak again.
“I am surrounded by idiots!” Uncle snarled, his voice rising once more. “If we abandon the barracks, the Lockridges will sweep through the north like a tide, and the city will be lost! Do you think Alaric is stupid enough to let us reposition without consequence?”
The veteran bowed his head quickly and stepped back into the shadows, his shoulders hunched with shame.
The tension was broken by Sid, who cleared his throat and stepped forward, his one good arm resting against his side. His expression was calm, though his sharp eyes betrayed his careful calculation.
“We pull back from the docks,” Sid said, his voice measured.
Uncle’s head snapped toward him, his gaze piercing.
“The Ravencourts sent Farroway soldiers to the docks,” Sid continued, unfazed by the weight of Uncle’s stare. “Their weakest force. With the Lockridges focused on the north, targeting the city guard and residential quarter, and the Thornfields tied up defending the governing building, we have an opening.”
Uncle turned away from the group, his gaze distant as he paced behind his desk. His voice, when it came, was softer but no less sharp. “The docks,” he murmured, almost to himself. “The docks and their warehouses are the Thornfields’ greatest investment. They are our lifeline. If we lose them... If the Ravencourts destroy the warehouses, we lose more than money.”
The docks were more than just a source of income; they were a lifeline for the Thornfield family’s power. The warehouses stored more than goods, they held leverage, secrets, and favors owed. Losing them would be catastrophic.
He paused, his gaze snapping to Sid. “We lose leverage. Control. Influence. Without the docks, the Thornfields are nothing. Do you understand me?”
Sid nodded, his face impassive. “Yes, Master.”
Uncle gestured toward him sharply. “Speak, then. What would you suggest?”
Sid inclined his head slightly, stepping forward. “We pull back from the docks, temporarily,” he said. “Deploy the dockworkers, smugglers, the cousins and anyone else with something to lose. Let them hold the line. They’ll fight harder knowing they’re defending their livelihoods.”
Uncle’s brow furrowed, his eyes narrowing in thought.
Sid pressed on. “The Farroway forces stationed there are weak. If we can bait them into overextending, we can crush them in one decisive strike.”
Uncle nodded faintly, his expression calculating. But then his lips tightened, and he shook his head. “No. The docks are too important to risk. A single mistake, and everything burns.”
Suddenly Uncle’s eyes locked onto Thorne, pinning him in place like a hawk sighting prey. Thorne felt his heart hammer in his chest, the crow mark on his palm pulsing faintly as he shoved his hand deeper into his pocket.
“But... Maybe...” Uncle muttered, his gaze shifting away as he turned back to the room. “Talon.”
The tall woman stepped forward, her twin swords resting lightly against her hips. She was a mountain of controlled power, her movements precise even as she uncrossed her arms.
“You’ll take five squads,” Uncle commanded, his voice like steel. “Pull them from the forces outside if necessary. Sweep the southern districts, the slums, fish market, and merchant quarter. I want them cleared of every Ravencourt, Lockridge, and Farroway soldier by sundown.”
He leaned forward, his tone sharp. “Funnel the Farroway forces toward the docks. I want them drawn out and exposed. Once they’re in position, we’ll crush them there.”
Talon nodded sharply. Without a word, she unsheathed her swords, inspected their edges with practiced precision, and slid them back into place. “It will be done,” she said before striding out of the room with purpose.
Uncle’s gaze shifted to Sid. “You will secure the docks. Organize the dockworkers and anyone else who owes us a favor. Every smuggler, every cutthroat, make them fight. Their survival depends on it.”
Sid hesitated, a flicker of uncertainty passing across his face.
Uncle’s hand twitched, his fingers curling slightly as if preparing to strike.
“Help will be on the way,” Uncle added, his voice low and dangerous. “Now go.”
Sid nodded curtly, though his hesitation lingered in his stiff posture as he turned to leave. As he passed Thorne, his eyes met Thorne’s glowing gaze lingering for a brief moment. But whatever Sid might have been thinking, he kept it to himself and disappeared into the hallway.
Uncle turned to the remaining four men, his glare sharp enough to cut stone. “You will defend the governing building until sunset. If it falls before then, you will wish the Ravencourts had killed you first. Am I understood?”
The four men nodded hurriedly, their voices trembling as they chorused, “Yes, Master.”
“Then get out,” Uncle growled.
They scurried out of the room like frightened rats.
The door closed with a heavy thud, leaving Thorne alone with Uncle.
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