Thorne stood still, arms outstretched, as the servant worked on the last fastenings of his jacket. The servant—a young, nervous man—moved with deliberate care, his hands shaking ever so slightly as he fumbled with the intricate silver clasps on Thorne’s cuffs. Thorne glanced down, catching sight of the young man’s furrowed brow and darting eyes. The servant was clearly terrified of making a mistake.

  “Steady,” Thorne muttered, his voice low and restrained. The servant blinked and quickly nodded, focusing harder on his task. Thorne forced himself to remain still, though the formality of it all was beginning to wear on his nerves. The tailored jacket clung snugly to his frame, its deep burgundy fabric heavy with silver embroidery that shimmered in the soft morning light filtering in through the windows.

  “Where’s Uncle?” Thorne asked, breaking the silence. His voice was sharper than he intended, but the uncertainty gnawed at him. His uncle had been absent, more so than usual. In the past few days, Thorne had barely seen him, only hearing rumors about the growing unrest in the city.

  Arletta’s eyes narrowed, studying him for a moment before answering. "Your uncle has been busy, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. The city isn’t what it once was."

  Thorne nodded slowly, his thoughts drifting. Alvar was changing—shifting beneath his feet. The once-stable currents of aether had become erratic, rippling through the city like waves crashing against rocks. There was something wrong with the flow of magic in the air. Thorne had felt it, that imbalance, as if the very core of the city’s magic was trying to right itself after being thrown off balance.

  More people were showing strange skills. Useful for some, dangerous for others. He thought of the chaos he had witnessed in the streets, the guards struggling to contain the damage from people discovering new abilities they had no idea how to control. But worse still were the creatures—constructs of aether, creatures born from the magic itself. They had appeared suddenly, wreaking havoc before the city guards, ill-equipped to handle such threats, had brought them down.

  Ill-equipped and under-leveled, Thorne thought to himself. The guards aren't ready for this... they were used to chasing drunks, not fighting magical beasts.

  The servant finished with the jacket, then moved to adjust the collar. Thorne felt the young man’s hands graze the skin of his neck as he pulled the fabric tight. The pressure of the collar was uncomfortable, pressing against his throat with a stifling kind of formality. He gritted his teeth, holding back a sigh. The clothes were immaculate, yes, but they felt like armor—heavy, restrictive, and not his own.

  The servant straightened Thorne’s sleeves, his hands lingering on the edges of the cuffs before he stepped back, surveying his work. “Is it... satisfactory, my lord?” the servant asked, his voice small and uncertain.

  Thorne glanced at his reflection in the full-length mirror. The man staring back at him was barely recognizable. His dark hair, slicked back with precision, gleamed under the light. The jacket fit perfectly, the sharp lines of the tailored fabric enhancing his broad shoulders and lean frame. His polished boots caught the sunlight, reflecting an image of someone completely at ease in this world of nobles.

  And the truth was, he actually felt comfortable in these clothes.

  He gave a curt nod to the servant, who breathed an audible sigh of relief and stepped back further, keeping his eyes downcast. Thorne couldn’t blame the young man. The mansion had been filled with tension over the past few days, and everyone—from the servants to the guards—seemed to be walking on eggshells. Alvar was on the verge of something, and everyone could feel it.

  “Who controls the Lockridge lands?” Arletta’s sharp voice cut through the silence, pulling Thorne back to the present.

  “Lady Elena Lockridge,” Thorne answered instinctively, his eyes still on his reflection. The name, the alliances, the details—all of it had been drilled into him for days. He didn’t need to think anymore. The answers came automatically, as if he had lived and breathed them for years.

  “And their current allegiance?” Arletta pressed, her tone unrelenting.

  “Neutral for now,” Thorne replied, forcing himself to remain calm. “But leaning toward the Ravencourts.”

  Arletta nodded, her arms crossed tightly over her chest as she stood by the door, watching his every move like a hawk. She had been relentless since dawn, pushing him harder than ever before. It wasn’t just about knowing the names or alliances—it was about understanding the delicate balance of power that was constantly shifting in Alvar. And now, more than ever, Thorne needed to be ready to step into that web of politics without getting caught.

  He turned slightly toward her, his frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “I know who I need to approach,” he muttered, unable to hide his irritation.

  Arletta raised an eyebrow but remained silent. Her eyes flicked to the servant, who quickly bowed and scurried out of the room, eager to escape the tension that had thickened the air. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Thorne alone with Arletta.

  She took a step forward, her movements controlled, deliberate. “This isn’t Valewind,” she said, her voice low but firm. “This is a different game. You can’t just survive. You have to thrive. And for that, you need to understand that every word, every glance, every gesture matters.”

  Thorne met her gaze, his jaw tight. “I know that. I’m not some child.”

  “Then act like it,” Arletta snapped, her eyes narrowing. “You’re walking into a pit of vipers. The slightest misstep, and you’ll be swallowed whole.”

  Thorne clenched his fists, his patience wearing thin. “I survived Valewind. I can handle this.”

  “Valewind,” Arletta said with a cold chuckle, “was chaos. This—” she gestured to the mansion, the city beyond—“is order. And order can be far more dangerous. At least in chaos, you can predict the next blow.”

  Thorne’s eyes flashed with anger. He stepped toward her, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous tone. “You think I don’t know that? You think I haven’t been preparing for this?”

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  “I think,” Arletta said sharply, her tone icy, “that you’re not taking this seriously enough.”

  Before Thorne could respond, she reached into the folds of her cloak and pulled out an envelope. The creamy parchment was sealed with an elaborate wax crest—House Langston’s crest.

  “This arrived earlier today,” she said, handing him the invitation. “The Langstons are hosting a garden brunch. It seems the rumors your uncle spread about hosting a traveling noble have finally caught someone’s attention.”

  Thorne took the envelope, his eyes narrowing as he ran his fingers over the seal. The Langstons. A fallen house, once powerful, now barely clinging to their noble status. Lady Rosalind Langston had her fingers in every political pot in Alvar, despite her family’s decline. The fact that they were the ones to extend the first invitation wasn’t surprising. Lady Rosalind was desperate to align herself with anyone who could restore her family’s former glory.

  “Your uncle has been careful,” Arletta continued. “He let just enough rumors slip about you—about Lord Thorne Silverbane, the southern noble traveling the kingdom for adventure. The Langstons, as expected, took the bait. They’re desperate for new alliances, especially ones that seem... promising.”

  Thorne’s eyes flicked up from the envelope, his anger cooling slightly as the weight of the situation settled over him. He knew what today meant. His first step into Alvar’s noble circles.

  His first test.

  “Lady Rosalind is cunning,” Arletta warned, her voice dropping slightly. “She’ll want to know everything about you. She’ll be watching for any sign of weakness.”

  Thorne slid his thumb under the seal, breaking the wax as he pulled out the invitation. The words on the parchment were formal, elegant, inviting him to the garden brunch as a guest of honor.

  He folded the invitation and slipped it into his pocket, exhaling slowly. Sculpted Persona began to settle into place again, wrapping around him like a cloak. The southern lord he had been rehearsing for days came to the surface, smoothing out the tension in his shoulders, softening the sharp edges of his frustration.

  “I know what’s expected of me,” he said, his voice calmer now, more controlled.

  Arletta’s eyes flickered, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Good. But remember, this isn’t about being the loudest voice in the room. You’re there to observe. To find the cracks.”

  Thorne nodded, though the frustration still simmered beneath the surface. “I know.”

  Arletta stared at him for a long moment, then took a step back, her gaze hardening again. “And your cover?”

  Thorne’s jaw tightened. “I’m a southern lord. Traveling the kingdom to see the people, eager for adventure.” He forced the words out, biting back the urge to snap at her again.

  “Then act like it,” Arletta said, her voice cold. She reached into her cloak again, pulling out the familiar signet ring—the same one he had worn in Valewind when he was pretending to be a noble. She held it out to him, her expression unreadable.

  Thorne took the ring, sliding it onto his finger. The weight of it felt heavier now, more final, as if he wouldn’t take it out ever again. The life he had known—the orphan boy from before—was slipping further away with each passing day.

  He had learned to wear different faces, to slip into different skins when needed. Sculpted Persona had become a part of him, and now it was more than just a skill. It was his survival.

  As Thorne admired the ring on his finger, Arletta stepped closer, her tone softening slightly. “I advise you to take some of the Lost Ones with you,” she said. “They can pose as servants, guards. You may need backup if things go wrong.”

  Thorne’s body stiffened, his hand curling into a fist as he turned to face her. The mention of the Lost Ones—the guild he had left, the betrayal still raw—stoked the anger he had been holding back. He could feel the heat rising inside him, the bitterness gnawing at his chest.

  “I don’t need the Lost Ones,” Thorne said sharply, his voice hard. He stepped toward Arletta, his gaze locking onto hers. “Uncle has already approved my helper. I don’t need anyone else.”

  Arletta’s eyes narrowed, and for the first time in days, Thorne saw a flicker of surprise—maybe even defiance—in her gaze. “This isn’t a game,” she said, her voice low and biting. “You can’t afford to let your pride get in the way.”

  “It’s not pride,” Thorne shot back, his voice rising. “I don’t need anyone else.”

  “They’re more experienced than Jonah,” Arletta snapped. “They can protect you.”

  “I don’t need protection,” Thorne growled, stepping closer. “And I don’t need the Lost Ones. They’re not coming with me.”

  “You’re being reckless,” Arletta said, her voice tight with frustration. “You’re letting your emotions cloud your judgment.”

  Thorne clenched his fists, his breath coming faster. “I’m not taking the Lost Ones. End of discussion.”

  Arletta stared at him, her lips pressed into a thin, furious line. For a moment, it seemed like she might argue further, but then she exhaled sharply, stepping back. “Fine,” she said coldly. “But don’t say I didn’t ...”

  Thorne cut her off, stepping forward with a deliberate weight behind his words. "Don’t forget your place, Arletta," he said quietly, but with enough venom to leave no doubt about his meaning. "I don’t answer to you."

  A brief flicker of something—surprise, anger—flashed in her eyes, but it was gone just as quickly. She pressed her lips together and inclined her head ever so slightly, taking a step back. "As you wish, young master."

  Thorne didn’t respond. He turned on his heel, heading for the door. His patience had worn thin, and the weight of what was to come pressed heavily on his shoulders.

  As he descended the staircase to the main floor, Thorne forced himself to breathe deeply, to calm the storm that raged inside him. Sculpted Persona slid back into place, easing the tension in his chest, smoothing his voice, his thoughts. The role he had to play was clear now. The southern lord was fully formed.

  Arletta trailed behind him, a silent shadow, but he paid her no mind. His decision was made, and he had no intention of changing it.

  He reached the grand entrance, the door already ajar, letting the morning sunlight filter in. The crisp air was a welcome relief as Thorne stepped outside, feeling the warmth of the sun on his face. He squinted slightly, taking in the sight of the courtyard.

  By the gate, Jonah stood awkwardly, tugging at the high collar of his new shirt. His eyes were wide, darting between the mansion and the guards, who were glaring at him with obvious disdain. Jonah looked completely out of place, but the sight of him—so uncomfortable, so unrefined—brought a genuine smile to Thorne’s face.

  “Ready to cause some trouble?” Thorne called out, amusement flickering in his voice.

  Jonah blinked, tearing his gaze away from the mansion. He grinned nervously, still tugging at his collar. “If this collar doesn’t kill me first,” he muttered. “I swear, nobles must enjoy torturing themselves.”

  Thorne laughed, clapping Jonah on the back as they started walking. “You’ll get used to it,” he said. “Besides, we’re not here to enjoy it. We’re here to survive it.”

  Jonah made a face, clearly unconvinced. “I’m just trying not to trip over my own feet.”

  They stepped out of the courtyard and into the bustling streets of Alvar. The morning sun bathed the city in a golden glow, casting long shadows across the cobblestone roads. The streets were already coming to life, merchants setting up stalls, children darting between wagons, and the scent of fresh bread and flowers filling the air. But Thorne’s mind was already turning, focused on the task ahead.

  The garden party. A seemingly innocent gathering of nobles, but Thorne knew better. This was the first real test. His first step into a world where every word mattered. Where every move could either secure his place—or destroy it.

  As they walked toward House Langston’s estate, Thorne glanced at Jonah. His friend was still fussing with his collar, looking like he’d rather be anywhere but here. Thorne smiled. “Come on, Jonah. Let’s see what kind of trouble we can stir up.”

  Jonah grinned back, though there was still a hint of nervousness in his eyes. “Lead the way, spider prince.”

  And with that, they set off toward their first taste of noble life.

  P.S.

  Shoutout to CharlyHa for Thorne’s awesome new nickname! ??

  Here’s to the Spider Prince! ?????

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