Thorne took a slow sip from his goblet, letting the cool wine trickle down his parched throat. It did little to soothe the dryness after speaking for nearly an hour, recounting every detail of his mission. He had gone over everything—almost everything. He had omitted two key details, and the knowledge of what he held back simmered beneath his calm exterior.

  Across from him, Uncle devoured plate after plate of food, his appetite insatiable. The piles of meat, bread, and gravy that accumulated around his plate contrasted sharply with Thorne’s untouched meal. Uncle was calm now, content, occasionally nodding along or asking for clarification. His earlier tension, the fury that simmered just beneath the surface when they began this dinner, had been subdued.

  Yet Thorne felt no satisfaction in his recounting. Not because he had failed, but because of what he chose not to say.

  He didn’t mention the conversation between Lord Valewyn and the mysterious man, though he knew it would have been invaluable to Uncle. A small, dark part of him took pleasure in withholding that information and keeping secrets of his own.

  After Uncle’s flat refusal to even entertain the idea of sending him to Aetherhold, this felt like a tiny act of rebellion. He knew Uncle would have loved to hear about the conversation, would have salivated over the potential value of such intel. But Thorne savored the secret.

  The second omission was more personal—Corwin’s betrayal. Uncle didn’t know about Thorne’s lapse in judgment, about the poison coursing through his veins. Thorne had taken care of Corwin, dealt with his mistake, and cleaned up his own mess. But in Uncle’s eyes, the fact that Thorne had been vulnerable enough to be poisoned would have been seen as a weakness, a failure. And Thorne wasn’t about to hand Uncle any more ammunition to use against him.

  A servant—an assassin in disguise, like the rest—entered the room with another platter of food, placing it in front of Uncle, who began tearing into it without so much as a glance.

  “That was excellent work, son,” Uncle said between mouthfuls, his voice thick with satisfaction. “Truly excellent.”

  Thorne gave a modest nod, his face perfectly composed thanks to his Mask of Deceit skill, though inside, he battled the rising tide of revulsion. How many times had Uncle called him son, and how many times had that word felt like a knife in his chest? He didn’t dare let his true feelings show. His plate remained untouched, the smell of food turning his stomach.

  Uncle wiped his mouth with a greasy napkin, leaning back in his chair. “I set certain goals for you, Thorne,” he said, his eyes narrowing slightly, “but truth be told, I wasn’t sure you would pull it off. This mission was important, yes, but it was also... a test.”

  Another test. How many more? Thorne suppressed the wave of anger that surged inside him. It seemed no matter what he did, no matter how perfectly he executed Uncle’s orders, there was always another test. Always another challenge to prove himself. He was exhausted.

  He kept his voice even, but now he saw his opening he had some questions that needed answers. “Uncle, about the mission... how did Lord Valewyn come by so much information on us?”

  Uncle’s eyes flicked sharply to the servants standing at the edges of the room. His face hardened, a warning. “The Warden was one of our earliest clients,” Uncle said through gritted teeth. “A dirty man, hiding filth from the Crown. A man with more secrets than sense, and he used us to clean up his messes. But by doing too many jobs for him, we left ourselves exposed. A mistake that won’t be repeated”

  Uncle wasn’t just speaking to Thorne. His tone was deliberate, aimed at the assassins-turned-servants who lingered nearby. His words weren’t just explanations; they were warnings to those in his employ.

  But Thorne wasn’t satisfied with vague answers. “Why would Valewyn collect all that information? What was he planning to do with it?” he asked, knowing he was pushing the limits of Uncle’s patience.

  Uncle’s hand tightened around his spoon, the metal bending slightly under the pressure. His gaze was cold, furious. “Why do you think?” Uncle hissed. “To sell it, of course. Information is worth more than gold to the right buyer.”

  Thorne’s mind drifted back to the mysterious man he’d overheard in Valewyn’s chamber. Yes, someone like that would find the guild’s secrets immensely valuable. Luckily, Valewyn hadn't sold the information—that he knew of. Thorne nodded, satisfied enough to let the matter drop.

  “More wine!” Uncle barked, his voice booming through the room. One of the servants rushed forward to refill his goblet.

  Uncle downed the wine in a single gulp, his tone shifting as he spoke again, lighter but no less sharp. “As I was saying, I wasn’t sure you could pull it off, blending in with the nobles. But I was wrong.” He smiled, though his eyes gleamed with something more than pride—curiosity, calculation. “I’m sure your skills helped with that.”

  The word skills sent a ripple of discomfort through Thorne. Even though Uncle now knew about his aether core, the old instinct to guard his abilities kicked in. Thorne’s body tensed, but he masked it well. Uncle had a way of turning everything into leverage, and Thorne knew his skills were no exception.

  Uncle waved his goblet dismissively, spilling some wine. “No matter,” he said, his tone lighter. “It will make your next task easier.”

  Thorne felt the weight of those words settle over him. His helplessness was suffocating. No matter how much he achieved, no matter how perfectly he completed his missions, it would never be enough. Uncle would always have another task, another plan—and Thorne would always be the pawn.

  Without warning, Uncle pulled out his summoning crystal and infused it with aether. The aether motes rustled for a moment, and Arletta entered within seconds, her face as calm and composed as ever.

  “Master,” she muttered quietly, bowing slightly.

  Uncle dropped the crystal onto the table and spoke with finality. “Thorne will become a full-fledged member of the guild in a few weeks. His final trial will mark the end of his initiation.”

  The announcement hit Thorne like a blow. He hadn’t known his trials were nearly over. For a moment, hope flared within him—freedom was so close, just within reach. But then Uncle’s next words crushed it.

  “From then on,” Uncle continued, his tone cold and commanding, “Thorne will live here. In this house. He will be my heir, and he will be treated as such by everyone in this household.”

  The room fell into stunned silence. The servants stopped in their tracks, unsure of how to react, and even Arletta’s professional mask slipped for a brief moment. Heir? Had Uncle just named him his heir?

  Thorne’s mind raced. Uncle hadn’t prepared him for this. Hadn’t even hinted at it. He had spent years being thrown into the pit of assassins, trained to kill, to deceive, to follow orders without question. Now, suddenly, Uncle wanted to pull him out and thrust him into the world of noble society, a gilded cage just as dangerous as the guild.

  “You will continue your training at the base if you want, but you will not stay there. I have dozens of assassins at my beck and call to handle my tasks. But what I need, Thorne, is you. You’re the only one who can help me with what truly matters—taking Alvar.”

  Thorne’s world shifted. Just like that, Uncle had decided to upend his life again.

  Uncle’s eyes bore into him, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Why are you so surprised?” Uncle asked, his voice teasing. “You were the one who gave me the idea, after all.” Uncle said, his voice teasing. “You told me to find someone to further my goals. I found him. You.”

  Thorne blinked, struggling to keep his expression neutral, thanks to his Acting skill his voice came out calm, almost indifferent. “I meant someone more experienced,” he said, his expression controlled. “Someone already a noble, someone who knows how to navigate that world. Not me. Besides,” he added carefully, “what about Lord Thornfield? I thought he was the key to your plans.”

  Uncle scoffed, waving away the suggestion. “Thornfield?” he asked, his tone mocking. “The man is spineless. I have no faith in him. But you...” Uncle’s smile grew predatory, his eyes gleaming. “You’re different. You’re like me.”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  Thorne’s stomach churned at the words. Like him? No. He wasn’t like Uncle. He couldn’t be.

  “You’re calculating,” Uncle continued, his voice filled with dark admiration. “You can manipulate others, do what must be done, without hesitation. That’s what makes you perfect for this. With you by my side, Alvar doesn’t stand a chance. The city will be ours.”

  Thorne’s mind spun, the weight of Uncle’s declaration crashing down on him. His entire life had just been turned upside down again. First, Uncle had thrown him into the guild, into a world of blood and betrayal. Now, he was being thrust into another dangerous arena—one filled with nobles, politics, and manipulation. And Uncle expected him to embrace it, to be his heir, his tool for conquering Alvar.

  But what unsettled Thorne most was the shift in Uncle’s demeanor. Just hours ago, Uncle had been weary, defeated. Now, he was filled with feverish excitement, energized by the thought of power.

  And the way he spoke to Thorne, the words echoed in his mind: You are like me.

  But he wasn’t. He couldn’t be. Thorne clenched his fists under the table, reminding himself of that. He wouldn’t let himself become that man.

  Uncle turned to Arletta. “Prepare him,” he commanded. “Teach him everything he needs to know. Etiquette, local dynamics, the most prominent figures in our kingdom. I want him to know the intricate connections of the nobility inside and out.”

  Arletta, having regained her composure, bowed deeply. “Of course, Master.”

  Uncle took a final gulp of wine, setting the empty goblet on the table with a heavy thud. “Your education starts tomorrow,” he said, his tone final. “Now go upstairs and rest. You have a lot to learn.”

  *

  Thorne stood at the edge of the abandoned lighthouse, the wind tugging at his cloak as he watched the sun sink lower into the horizon. The sky had turned a deep red, streaked with hints of pink and orange, its vibrant hues reflected on the calm waters below. This place—isolated and forgotten—was his sanctuary, a place where he could think without the weight of Uncle’s gaze or the suffocating presence of the guild. No one knew about this spot except for Jonah, Ben, and Darius, his only real friends.

  He had chosen not to return to the base after his meeting with Uncle. He needed time—time to process everything that had just happened, to make sense of the whirlwind his life had become. He had been named heir, the successor to the lord of Alvar’s underworld. It felt unreal, like a decision that had been made without his input, another chain thrown around his neck. Who could tell him anything now? Who could demand his presence at training? He was the heir of Alvar’s shadow lord—untouchable, and yet... utterly trapped.

  Thorne sighed deeply, the sound coming from the very core of his being. He hadn’t wanted to see anyone from the Lost Ones. No one was waiting for him, not really. Perhaps Rielle, but even then, he wasn’t sure of her anymore. Vance and Rhea wouldn’t care if he never returned.

  The guild felt like a dead end. Everything he had gone through—the pain, the betrayals, the sacrifices—felt hollow now. He’d been cheated out of something, some imaginary reward for all he had endured. Becoming a full member had seemed like a destination, something he could cling to. Now, it was being ripped away. He wasn’t a recruit anymore. He wasn’t a full member either. He was something else entirely—Uncle’s heir. A title he had never asked for, a role he never wanted.

  And yet... he couldn’t shake the bitterness that came with leaving the guild behind. He had earned his place there, with every drop of blood he’d spilled.

  The sky had deepened into crimson, the color of old wounds. Thorne’s future, as ever, was up in the air, uncertain and terrifying. Why was it always like this? Why was his life always shifting, always being dictated by someone else? Now, he was expected to become a criminal lord, a fake noble to manipulate and control the city’s elite.

  He clutched the pendant around his neck, the only physical connection he had left to his family. He tried to remember his father’s face, his mother’s voice, but the years had blurred their features. What would his mother say if she saw him now? Would she condemn him for the things he’d done? For the blood on his hands? He could barely remember her voice, only vague echoes in his mind, like a distant wind that no longer carried the warmth of familiarity. Even the voice that occasionally spoke to him in his thoughts, the one that he imagined was hers, felt like a hollow imitation.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps on the lighthouse ladder. Thorne didn’t turn to look. He kept his gaze fixed on the horizon, grateful for the distraction.

  “How did you find me?” he asked, still staring at the setting sun.

  A familiar huff came from behind him, and when he turned, he found Ben climbing the final rung, his round face flushed from the effort. Ben stopped, catching his breath before signing, “Darius saw you earlier. Why didn’t you come to greet us? We were worried!”

  Thorne looked at his friend, guilt tugging at him. Ben, despite growing up in the harsh streets of Alvar, was still untouched by the darkness that had swallowed Thorne whole. He was still... pure, in a way that Thorne could never be. He was still a kid, even if the world had tried to beat that innocence out of him. And Thorne didn’t want to hurt him. He didn’t want to drag Ben into the mess his life had become.

  “I’m sorry,” Thorne said quietly. “I just needed some time to think.”

  Ben nodded and tipped his head toward the sunset. “We searched half the rooftops in the city to find you. Then we remembered your lighthouse.”

  Thorne allowed a small smile to tug at the corners of his mouth. There was something comforting about knowing that his friends knew him so well. He patted the spot beside him, inviting Ben to sit.

  Ben lowered himself awkwardly onto the edge, his weight making the old structure creak under the pressure. Once he was settled, Ben signed, “Your face is weird. Did something happen during your mission?”

  Thorne frowned, touching his face instinctively. “What’s wrong with it?”

  Ben’s hands moved quickly. “It’s too smooth. Like stone. No expression at all.”

  Thorne realized he still had the Mask of Deceit activated, hiding his true emotions even from his closest friends. With a thought, he deactivated the skill, and whatever Ben saw in his face then made him jolt, his eyes wide with concern.

  “What’s wrong?” Ben signed, his worry etched into every line of his face.

  Thorne turned back to the sunset, his voice low. “There are... a lot of things wrong, Ben. A lot of things.”

  The sea was calm, the gentle waves reflecting the pink and red hues of the sky. It was a rare moment of peace, a stillness that didn’t match the storm raging inside him.

  Ben’s sudden slap on Thorne’s hand caught him off guard. He whirled around, eyes wide. “Hey!”

  Ben’s hands flew through the air in a flurry of signs. “Are you in trouble? Should we leave? Let’s go to another city!”

  For a moment, Thorne was stunned by the suggestion, but then the absurdity of it hit him, and he started to laugh. He laughed so hard his eyes misted over, his chest aching with the release of tension.

  “Ben, thank you,” Thorne said between chuckles. “The idea of running away from this cursed city... it’s hilarious.”

  Ben’s face fell, hurt flashing in his eyes, and Thorne’s laughter died in his throat.

  “I’m not laughing at you,” Thorne quickly reassured him. “It’s just... the thought of leaving is so impossible. If I tried to leave the city, Uncle would send every assassin in his guild after me.”

  Ben’s frown deepened, his concern unwavering. “We could run,” he signed again. “Find somewhere safe.”

  Thorne’s heart ached at the innocence in Ben’s words. He reached out and patted his friend’s leg. “Don’t worry about me. I’m a survivor. We all are. I just... I got some unexpected news today. I need time to process it.”

  Ben didn’t push, but his worry remained clear. They sat in silence, watching the last of the sunlight dip below the horizon. The quiet, the simple presence of Ben beside him, soothed something deep inside Thorne. This—this moment of peace, of friendship—was a rare gift in his world of lies and shadows.

  The sound of footsteps echoed up the ladder, and moments later, Jonah appeared, his face twisted in mock annoyance.

  “You boneheaded idiot!” Jonah shouted, waving his arms. “Did you have to come all the way out here? It’s cold! And maybe, just maybe, you should consider repairing this wall—it’s drafty.”

  Thorne couldn’t help but smile as Jonah plopped down beside him, grumbling all the way.

  “What are we watching?” Jonah asked, handing each of them a piece of sugared bread.

  “The sunset,” Thorne replied, taking a bite.

  Jonah shook his head in exaggerated exasperation. “You and your sunsets. What’s up with that?”

  Thorne never told them why he watched sunsets. It reminded him of his family, the last memory he had of them before everything changed. It made him feel... closer to them, somehow. But he never shared that with anyone.

  Jonah, of course, couldn’t help himself. “I’d understand if you had a girl here, trying to seduce her with this view, but all you have is this fat lug.” He pinched Ben’s side, making the boy flush and swat at Jonah in retaliation.

  “Hey!” Thorne protested with mock offense. “I happen to like Ben’s fat rolls!” He sent a ridiculous kiss in Ben’s direction, causing the boy to turn a deeper shade of red.

  Jonah burst out laughing, wiping away a tear. “To each their own! Just don’t let your scary girlfriend hear you say that.”

  The mention of Rielle killed Thorne’s laughter instantly. His face darkened, the reminder of the guild weighing heavy on his heart. Jonah noticed the shift immediately, raising an eyebrow.

  “Trouble with your spy friends?” Jonah asked, his tone less playful.

  Thorne stood up, lighting a few candles to ward off the encroaching darkness. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Jonah and Ben shared a glance, but neither pushed the subject. Jonah shrugged, his usual energy returning. “That’s fine by me, because I have news! Big news! What are you doing tomorrow? Do you have a day off?”

  Thorne hesitated. Jonah’s excitement could come from any number of things—some legitimate, others not so much. It was a toss of a coin whether he’d be talking about a market deal or stealing from the docks.

  “I could have the day off...” Thorne said cautiously.

  “Good! Because tomorrow,” Jonah said, practically bouncing with excitement, “you’re going to help me clean my new shop! I finally got the key!”

  From his pocket, Jonah pulled out a rusty, old key, holding it up like it was the crown jewel.

  Thorne’s eyes widened, and his face split into a grin. “You did it? You actually did it?”

  Jonah beamed with pride, and Ben took the key, examining it with wide eyes. “I scraped together the last few coins! I’m a shop owner! A full-blown merchant, Thorne!”

  All three of them started jumping in excitement, like children again. It felt like when they had first met, before the world had become so complicated. Thorne couldn’t stop smiling. “I’m so proud of you!”

  They hugged each other, laughing, hopping up and down in a weird, awkward dance.

  “We did it!” Jonah cheered. “Now, let’s go celebrate! Darius is waiting at the tavern, and Gilly promised to save the freshest fish for us!”

  Thorne hesitated, glancing back at the dark horizon. Another day away from the guild. Another day to pretend everything wasn’t falling apart around him. He could do that. For one more night, he could be just Thorne, with his friends.

  “Let’s go,” Thorne said, grinning as they headed toward the tavern.

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