Thorne pushed the heavy oak doors open, stepping into the dimly lit hall of Uncle’s mansion. The two guards stationed at the entrance fixed him with their usual death glares, but Thorne ignored them, his gaze trained forward. He had no energy left to waste on their petty attempts to intimidate him.

  As soon as the door clicked shut behind him, Arletta appeared, her face as severe and expressionless as ever. She was a picture of perfect composure, the unshakable help. "I trust your mission was a success?" she asked, her voice as placid as her face.

  Thorne smirked, brushing the dust from his shoulders. "Of course it was," he quipped, feeling lighter than he had in days. After days of beating his frustration out on aether beasts in the wilderness, his mood had finally lifted.

  Though he would have preferred to return to the base and enjoy a quiet night with Rielle, Sid had made it clear—Uncle wanted to see him immediately.

  As they walked down the long hallway, Thorne asked, "How’s Matilda?" He glanced around, almost expecting the woman to pop around the corner with a casserole in hand.

  Arletta’s lips twitched into the barest hint of a smile. "Beside herself, once she heard you were returning. She even made your favorite pie."

  Thorne resisted the grimace threatening to pull at his mouth. Blueberry pie had once been a comfort, but after the incident, it had lost all its appeal. "I’ll see her after dinner with Uncle," he said, keeping his voice even.

  Arletta nodded as they approached the doors of the dining room. She knocked once, her voice clear and professional as she announced, "Thorne has arrived."

  Uncle’s voice boomed from within. "Let him in!"

  Thorne stepped around Arletta and entered the room, his gaze immediately landing on Uncle. The man circled the long dining table, his heavy form hobbling awkwardly. Each step Uncle took around the table seemed heavier, more labored. He was still the same man who’d ruled over Thorne’s life for years, but now... now he was slower, weaker.

  Age and weight had caught up to him, and Thorne had to fight the urge to frown. Uncle seemed even older and more worn down than before. His once-imposing figure was now sagging, the lines of his face deeper, his once-bushy mustache now snow white.

  The weight of his power, of his sins, dragging him down like a stone tied to his neck. Thorne wondered how long it would be before that weight crushed him completely.

  As soon as Uncle spotted Thorne, his expression brightened, and he spread his arms wide for a hug. Thorne bit back his revulsion and stepped into the embrace, briefly enduring the contact.

  "Son, it’s so good to have you back! It’s been too long," Uncle exclaimed, patting his back with exaggerated warmth. "No more missions to far-off cities for a while, you hear me?" He waved a finger in mock chastisement and chuckled.

  Thorne forced a smile and nodded, playing the role. They sat, Uncle at the head of the table and Thorne beside him, the distance between them both physical and emotional. Uncle called for Arletta to serve the dinner, but even before the first dish appeared, he launched into his barrage of questions.

  "So? I got a letter from Sid telling me that you were successful. It’s true, isn’t it?" Uncle shook his head, already beaming with pride. "Of course it is! My son could do nothing less than the best!"

  The servants—who were assassins in their own right—began filing in with plates of food, but Uncle’s focus never wavered. His eyes gleamed as he leaned forward. "Tell me, how was your mission? Were there any unforeseen obstacles? With so many moving parts, I’m sure there were problems."

  Thorne nodded his thanks to one of the servants as a plate was set before him, then turned to Uncle. "There were a few complications, yes," he admitted, his tone nonchalant. "But nothing we couldn’t handle. We didn’t leave any loose ends—except those beneficial to us, of course."

  Uncle’s lips curled into a wolfish smile. "So, they saw through you, didn’t they?"

  Thorne arched an eyebrow, noting the confidence with which Uncle spoke. Did he expect me to fail? Thorne wondered. He couldn’t tell if Uncle had known the risks or simply lacked faith in him. Either way, the truth was undeniable—he had been discovered.

  Grudgingly, Thorne nodded. "The young man I used to infiltrate high society... he figured it out. He had skills I wasn’t aware of, and he used them against me."

  Uncle’s bright expression dimmed, his mouth thinning into a displeased line.

  "But," Thorne added quickly, "he did his job before I had to take him out. He never had a chance to tell anyone."

  Uncle studied him in silence for a moment, his eyes narrowed in thought. "Are you sure?" he finally asked.

  Thorne met his gaze and nodded firmly. "I am."

  "Good," Uncle replied, relaxing slightly. "Now, aside from him?"

  Thorne hesitated for a beat, choosing his next words carefully. "There was another incident," he began, "though it was more the fault of the other recruits than mine." He felt Uncle’s mood shift, his face reddening with anger.

  As Uncle pressed him for more details, Thorne’s mind briefly flickered back to the meeting he had witnessed—the way Lord Valewyn had cowered before the mysterious man, the weight of that conversation hanging over everything. He knew that man was important, knew that Valewyn’s betrayal might have been orchestrated by something larger, something more dangerous than Uncle yet realized. But Thorne also knew better than to hand Uncle everything. This information—this shadow lurking in the background—was his alone for now. Let Uncle believe Valewyn had simply been another noble playing a dangerous game and losing. Let him think the mission had closed that chapter cleanly. There was power in secrets, and Thorne intended to keep this one for himself, at least until he understood how to use it.

  Before the explosion came, Thorne fished into his pocket and produced two tokens, laying them on the table in front of Uncle.

  Uncle’s fury melted away the moment he saw the sigils. His eyes gleamed with greedy curiosity, and he leaned forward to inspect the tokens closely.

  "Leave us," he barked to the servants, not even bothering to look up as they hurried out of the room. As the door closed behind them, Uncle slumped back in his chair, his entire posture shifting from tense to... something else.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Once the door clicked shut, he lifted the tokens as if handling precious jewels.

  "You did it," Uncle breathed, his voice thick with wonder. "You actually did it."

  Thorne blinked, confused by the overwhelming relief in his uncle’s tone. He had never seen him like this—like a man who had narrowly escaped disaster.

  "When I gave you this mission," Uncle continued, "I hoped you’d manage to make a few connections—just enough to give us leverage. But this... securing tokens from the two most powerful families in Valewind?" He shook his head, clearly impressed. "You have no idea what you’ve done."

  Thorne remained silent, watching as Uncle ran his thumb over the sigils. The man looked almost... grateful. It was unsettling.

  Thorne remained silent, his confusion deepening. The relief in Uncle’s voice, the way his hands shook—it was unlike anything he’d ever seen from the man. "Uncle?" he asked, his voice cautious. "What is it? Why are these so important?"

  Uncle hesitated, glancing up from the tokens, a flicker of something—fear, perhaps—crossing his face. He sighed heavily, leaning back in his chair. "It’s Lord Durnell. He’s cut ties with us."

  Thorne frowned. "Lord Durnell?"

  "Yes. Now that he’s moved to the capital, he no longer needs me—or our arrangement. He decided transporting Alvar wool from the other side of the kingdom is no longer profitable." Uncle’s voice was bitter, his lips thinning into a hard line. "He’s found new suppliers. And with him pulling his coin from our operation, things are starting to unravel."

  Thorne felt a cold twist in his gut. He had heard of Durnell’s influence; losing his backing would be a heavy blow. "What does this mean for us?"

  "It means my hold in Alvar is weakening," Uncle admitted, his voice quiet, his eyes dark with worry. "Without Durnell’s money to grease the wheels, everything threatens to fall apart. But now..." His eyes returned to the tokens, gleaming with new hope. "Now that we have these, we have other potential clients. The money from Valewind’s nobles will keep us afloat."

  Uncle replied, still fingering the tokens. "With these families on our side, we’ll be stronger than ever. Valewind will be ours, and with it, a foothold to expand our influence."

  Thorne’s mind raced. He had been gone for weeks, focusing on his mission, while Uncle’s grip on the guild had weakened. His hold on Alvar was slipping, and his survival now hinged on a few families in a distant city. It was risky. Desperate, even.

  "And Durnell?" Thorne asked.

  Uncle’s expression hardened. "Durnell will regret severing ties with me. I will have to find a new puppet. Maybe I will use lord Thornfield, I still have... leverage on him." A wolfish grin spread across his face. "I have that letter, remember? The one that incriminates him in his sister’s death. If he thinks he can walk away clean, he’s mistaken."

  Thorne nodded, his mind already turning over the implications. The guild’s future hung by a thread, dependent on the whims of powerful men. It felt as though Uncle’s empire was crumbling beneath his weight, and yet the man still clung to power with a ferocious tenacity.

  Thorne leaned back, his thoughts swirling. So that was why Uncle had been so on edge, why he seemed more fragile than before. His empire was crumbling. It made sense now, the weariness that seemed to cling to him, the faint desperation in his voice. The powerful man who had loomed over Thorne for years was showing cracks. For the first time, Thorne saw Uncle not as a tyrant but as a man—aging, vulnerable, and afraid of losing control.

  It should have made him feel pity. But instead, it filled him with a cold, growing sense of satisfaction. Uncle’s time was running out, and Thorne was playing the long game. He wasn’t ready to show his hand yet, but when the time came...

  "Name your wish," Uncle announced, his eyes bright with an expectant gleam. "Anything, and it will be fulfilled."

  Thorne’s heart raced for a moment. The words he wanted to say were on the tip of his tongue—Bea. He finally had a trail, a reason to believe she might be at Aetherhold Academy. All he had to do was ask for Uncle’s help, and he could pursue that lead.

  But something held him back. The timing didn’t feel right. Not yet.

  "I’ll think about it," Thorne said, offering a small smile. "Thanks, Uncle."

  Uncle nodded, clearly satisfied. "As you wish. Now, tell me about the Valmonts and the Vaynes."

  Thorne launched into a detailed explanation of his time in Valewind, focusing on Seraphina Valmont and Percy Vayne, and how both families were desperate to secure power in the city now that the Warden of the West was dead.

  "From what I’ve observed, these two families will eventually control Valewind, with or without our help," Thorne said. "The Valmonts have wealth and connections, and the Vaynes... well, they have their heir."

  Uncle frowned, his eyes glazing over as if trying to recall some distant memory. "Their heir...?" he muttered.

  Thorne saw his opening. "Yes, Uncle. Percy Vayne, the mage-in-training. He attends Aetherhold Academy."

  Uncle’s eyes sharpened with sudden clarity. "A mage? In their family?" he repeated, clearly impressed. "To have a mage... that’s the ultimate weapon. Many families strive for that power, but few achieve it."

  Thorne nodded, hiding his growing excitement. This was it. This was his chance to ask.

  "I got to know Percy," Thorne began cautiously. "And I found out something interesting."

  Uncle’s focus returned to him, razor-sharp. "Do tell," he said eagerly.

  Thorne leaned forward. "The Vaynes don’t have the money or influence to send their heir to Aetherhold. But they found another way."

  Uncle’s eyebrows shot up. "Go on," he urged, practically straddling the table in his eagerness.

  Thorne paused for effect, then dropped the bombshell. "The king helped Percy get into the academy."

  Uncle’s eyes widened in shock. He leaned back in his chair, blinking in surprise. "The king?" he repeated, his voice tinged with disbelief. "Are you sure?"

  "I’m sure," Thorne replied with confidence.

  Uncle’s expression turned thoughtful, and he lapsed into silence, no doubt scheming about how to use this new information.

  "Uncle?" Thorne prompted after a moment, his voice soft but insistent.

  "Hmm?"

  "I was thinking..." Thorne hesitated, but he knew this was his only chance. "Since you’ve already said that having a mage in the family could be advantageous... wouldn’t it be useful to have a mage in the Lost Ones?"

  For years, he’d dreamed of finding Bea, of knowing for sure what had happened to her. Now, with the academy in sight, he felt that hope burning bright again. This was his chance.

  Uncle’s face darkened instantly, and his tone turned ice-cold. "No."

  Uncle’s voice slammed into him like a blow, and Thorne froze, the hope that had sparked inside him flickering out, then die.

  "But—"

  "I said no, Thorne!" As Uncle's voice rose, filling the room with his booming commands, Thorne’s fists clenched under the table. It was always the same—Uncle dictating his future, planning every move as if he were a mere pawn. And each time, the flame of rebellion inside him flickered brighter. But this wasn’t the moment to show his hand. Not yet.

  "I’ve planned your future to the finest detail. Your next years are carefully arranged. I will not have you jeopardize my plans because you want to play at being a mage!"

  Thorne’s anger bubbled beneath the surface, but he forced himself to stay calm. "With the king’s help, I could attend the most prestigious magic school in the world," he argued. "All we have to do is sign a contract—"

  Uncle’s fist slammed onto the table, rattling the silverware and spilling wine across the white tablecloth. "Are you stupid?" Uncle roared. "You want the king—the most powerful noble in the kingdom—to know about us? About the Lost Ones, the guild of assassins that targets nobles?"

  Thorne remained silent, his hands trembling in his lap.

  "Besides," Uncle continued, his voice cold and venomous, "signing a contract is not something to be taken lightly. Magical contracts are binding, Thorne. Once signed, they cannot be undone. You will never sign such a thing without my knowledge. Am I clear?"

  Thorne didn’t respond, the weight of Uncle’s words pressing down on him. Patience. That’s what Sid had always taught him. The strongest strike was the one delivered when your enemy didn’t expect it. Uncle might control him now, but Thorne was learning—watching for the moment when the scales would tip.

  "Am I clear?" Uncle roared again, spittle flying from his mouth.

  Thorne nodded stiffly, the cold pit of helplessness in his stomach growing. Uncle leaned back, the storm of his anger passing, and sighed heavily.

  "Good. Now, no more nonsense about magic and mages."

  Thorne sat there, feeling small and powerless—just as he had so many times before. He hated Uncle for making him feel like this, for turning him back into the scared boy who had no control over his life. But for now, there was nothing he could do but obey.

  "Now," Uncle said, his voice calmer, "tell me everything that happened in Valewind, in the smallest detail."

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