Thorne stood in the center of his room, arms stretched out as a small army of servants buzzed around him like a hive of bees. One smoothed the sleeves of his midnight-blue coat, while another carefully strapped a sheathed dagger to his forearm, hidden under layers of fine fabric. A third hovered near his head, combing and tying his hair back into a neat, elegant style. A fourth servant knelt by his feet, meticulously polishing his boots until they gleamed under the soft candlelight.

  The days leading up to the party had been a strange blur of activity. Despite his efforts to keep busy, time had stretched and compressed in ways that left him feeling disoriented. Sparring with the guards had become a daily ritual, with Dalen especially treating each session as a personal challenge, a stubborn determination driving him to improve. It was almost admirable, though Thorne had lost track of how many times he’d left the young guard sprawled on the ground, gasping for breath.

  In his downtime, he had frequented Jonah and Ben’s shop, helping them with whatever they needed and even joining them for a few drinks at the tavern when night fell. The shop had finally opened to modest success, and seeing his friends’ excitement had been a rare bright spot in the otherwise monotonous days.

  A servant gently tugged at his hair in an effort to smooth any stray strands. Thorne winced, earning a reprimand from Arletta, who stood by the door with her arms crossed, observing the scene with a critical eye. She stepped forward, her voice sharp and authoritative as she corrected the servant’s technique.

  “Be careful with his hair,” she snapped, her eyes narrowed. “It needs to be perfect.”

  The servant nodded hurriedly, adjusting her grip and continuing her task with more care. Thorne sighed, his gaze drifting to Arletta’s stern face. Despite the seemingly endless days, the upcoming party had arrived too quickly. And now that it was time to act and take care of his responsibilities as the heir of Uncle’s empire, he felt... Restless.

  Restless and nervous.

  As the servants continued their work, Arletta’s eyes seemed to pierce through Thorne, her expression hard and unyielding. Out of nowhere, she spoke, her voice carrying a note of disapproval.

  “I don’t like the boy,” she said flatly.

  Thorne blinked, confusion flickering across his features. “What boy?” he asked, glancing at her through the mirror.

  “The Thornfield heir,” Arletta replied, her tone laced with disdain. “He’s too weak.”

  Thorne couldn’t help but chuckle at the unexpected comment, his shoulders shaking with amusement. “I didn’t know you had opinions, Arletta.”

  Her glare was sharp enough to cut glass. “I do, and I’m telling you, he’ll ruin Master’s plans.”

  “Master’s plans?” Thorne echoed, still grinning. A servant offered him a selection of daggers, each gleaming with a lethal promise. He chose two finely crafted blades, their hilts wrapped in dark leather, and let the servant strap them securely into the concealed sheaths sewn into the lining of his coat and waistcoat. He could hardly feel the weight of them, yet they were perfectly positioned for quick, lethal access.

  “That’s a bit dramatic, isn’t it?” He asked, testing how easily he could take out his daggers.

  Arletta huffed, her arms crossing tighter over her chest. “He’s weak-minded. A liability. He doesn’t have the spine to do what needs to be done. He’ll be a problem.”

  Thorne considered her words, his expression thoughtful as he shifted his gaze to the reflection of his own face in the mirror. “I’m not so sure about that,” he said slowly, his voice musing. “There’s something more to him. He looks afraid, but that has something to do with his father, I think. He’s hiding something.”

  Arletta snorted, a sound of skepticism. “A coward’s secrets are nothing worth finding.”

  “Maybe.” Thorne’s smile faded as he pondered her words, his mind turning over what he had observed. “But it’s too early to say if he’s weak. He might surprise us.”

  Arletta shook her head, her lips pressed into a thin line. “He’s a fool, and fools make mistakes. We can’t afford that.”

  Thorne shrugged, feeling the weight of the coat settle around his shoulders as the servants finished their work. “We’ll see,” he said, his voice light, though a shadow of doubt lingered in his eyes. “For now, let’s not write him off just yet.”

  The final servant stepped back, bowing slightly as they surveyed their work. Thorne turned to the mirror, taking in his reflection. The transformation was striking. Gone was the scrappy, battle-hardened fighter. In his place stood a young noble, every inch of him polished and refined, the perfect image of Lord Silverbane.

  The long, high-collared blue black coat he wore was made of a rich, velvet-like material that seemed to absorb the light. The intricate silver embroidery along the edges caught the candlelight, casting delicate patterns reminiscent of swirling aether. The coat’s fitted cut flared slightly at the hem, giving him an imposing silhouette, while the collar and cuffs were lined with sleek black silk.

  Underneath, his deep charcoal shirt shimmered subtly with every movement, the fabric lightweight and almost ethereal. Small onyx buttons fastened it, gleaming against the dark fabric. Over this, a fitted waistcoat hugged his torso, the dark material only revealing its intricate pattern—a motif resembling a constellation or swirling aether lines—when the light struck it just right. Silver filigree buttons adorned the waistcoat, matching the embroidery on the coat.

  “Isn’t this a bit much?” he asked, a hint of amusement in his voice. “I feel like I’m being dressed for a coronation, not a party.”

  Arletta’s gaze softened, just slightly, as she observed him. “You look the part,” she admitted grudgingly, her voice tinged with an almost reluctant approval.

  “Let’s hope I can play it,” Thorne murmured, his fingers brushing over the hidden dagger at his forearm. He turned away from the mirror, meeting Arletta’s gaze head-on. “It’s time.”

  She nodded curtly, stepping aside to let him pass. “Don’t get distracted,” she warned, her voice low. “Remember why you’re there.”

  Thorne offered her a crooked smile, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of anticipation and resolve. “I never forget.”

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  And with that, he stepped out of the room, the heavy door closing behind him with a soft thud. The night awaited, and with it, the party that could shape the future of Alvar.

  *

  Thorne strode across the courtyard, the night air crisp and tinged with the scent of wet earth. His boots echoed lightly on the cobblestones, and Arletta followed a few paces behind, her eyes scanning their surroundings with her usual hawk-like vigilance. The carriage, sleek and polished, stood waiting near the gate. The horses, dark and powerful, snorted softly, their breath misting in the cool air. A lantern hung from the driver’s seat, casting a warm, golden glow over the entrance.

  Thorne nodded to the guards stationed by the carriage, noting Dalen’s small, impressed smile. The young guard had been taking their training sessions seriously, and it seemed Thorne’s brutal sparring had earned him some grudging respect. Thorne gave a brief nod in return before moving to enter the carriage.

  Just as he reached for the door handle, Arletta’s hand shot out, stopping him. “Wait,” she ordered, her eyes darting around the courtyard. “You have to wait.”

  Thorne frowned, his patience already thin from the long preparation. “For what?”

  Arletta muttered under her breath, a rare look of irritation crossing her usually composed features. “Where are they? Master will hear of this.”

  Thorne’s frown deepened. “What’s going on?”

  “Master gave orders that you are to be escorted by bodyguards,” she said briskly, still scanning the courtyard as if expecting someone to materialize out of thin air.

  His eyes narrowed, his tone sharp. “Bodyguards? Who exactly?”

  “The Lost Ones.”

  A cold fury washed over him, his jaw tightening as the memories flooded back. “I don’t want anyone from the guild following me around,” he hissed, his voice low and dangerous.

  Arletta met his glare evenly. “These are Master’s orders, Master Thorne. I can’t do anything about it.”

  He gritted his teeth, his hands clenching at his sides as he struggled to control the anger simmering beneath the surface. The guild was a shadow that never left his mind, a constant reminder of what he had been trying to escape.

  Rielle, Vance, Rhea...

  Rhea’s words echoed in his mind almost daily, like an invisible noose tightening around his throat.

  Before he could argue further, the sound of approaching footsteps echoed through the courtyard. Two figures emerged from the shadows, their silhouettes dark against the lantern light.

  “There you are,” Arletta snapped, her voice cutting through the silence. “You’re late.”

  “Wasn’t our fault,” a familiar voice replied, casual and unbothered. “We weren’t told about the mission until a few minutes ago.” Devon stepped into the light, his lean form and smirk instantly recognizable. Thorne felt a surge of déjà vu. Devon had been one of the good ones among the recruits, and they had been through hell together. He still remembered battling together in the catacombs, fighting off a horde of undead. It felt like a lifetime ago.

  But Thorne barely registered Devon’s presence. His eyes were drawn to the second figure standing beside him. Rielle. She stared back at him, her face an emotionless mask, her eyes hard and unreadable.

  A cold realization settled in Thorne’s gut. This complicated things. He could deal with Devon, with his lazy grin and nonchalant attitude. But Rielle?

  His heart twisted, a mix of anger, pain, and something he couldn’t quite name knotting in his chest. He had thought he was done with her, that he had moved on. But seeing her now, so close, brought everything rushing back—every betrayal, every secret she had kept from him.

  Arletta’s voice broke the tense silence. “You will accompany Lord Silverbane to the Lockridge estate and ensure his safety throughout the evening.”

  Thorne forced himself to look away from Rielle, his voice clipped. “I don’t need them.”

  “They’re not here for you, Thorne,” Arletta said sharply. “They’re here because Master ordered it. It’s for his peace of mind, not yours.” After some small hesitation, she added almost reluctantly, “and a show of power...”

  Of course...

  Thorne’s hands itched to grab one of his daggers, to lash out, to do something. But he forced himself to take a deep breath, his mask of deceit settling over his face like a second skin. He couldn’t show weakness now, not in front of them.

  “Fine,” he bit out, his voice cold. “Let’s get this over with.”

  He turned and climbed into the carriage, his movements stiff with barely contained anger. Devon followed, his casual demeanor betraying none of the tension in the air. Rielle hesitated for a moment before stepping in after them, her expression still impassive.

  The door closed behind them with a soft click, sealing them inside the small, confined space. Thorne leaned back against the plush seat, his mind racing, his heart pounding.

  This was going to be a long night.

  Inside the carriage, the atmosphere was thick with unspoken words and tension that crackled like static in the confined space. Thorne stared out the window, his fingers absently tapping against his knee, the rhythm betraying his inner turmoil. The ride felt excruciatingly long, each bump in the road a reminder of the awkward silence between them.

  Devon, ever the one to fill uncomfortable silences, cleared his throat. “So, uh, quite the night for a party, huh?” He glanced between Thorne and Rielle, his smile strained.

  Thorne didn’t bother looking at him, his gaze fixed on the passing buildings. “Yeah,” he replied curtly, the single word carrying an edge that cut off any further attempt at conversation.

  Devon scratched the back of his head, his grin faltering. “Right... I heard the Lockridges throw a good bash. It’s probably gonna be... fun.”

  Thorne could hear the effort in his voice, the attempt to make things less tense. But he wasn’t in the mood for it. Not tonight. “Where’s Cassandra?” he asked, his tone flat.

  Devon blinked, taken aback by the sudden question. “She’s... ok,” he said slowly, his eyes flicking to Rielle, who sat silently, her gaze fixed on the opposite wall of the carriage. “She’s busy with missions. All of us are. Now that the last trial is almost upon us, everyone tries to get a little bit stronger before then.”

  Thorne nodded, not really caring for the details. He just needed something to focus on that wasn’t the twisting emotions churning in his gut every time he glanced at Rielle.

  The rest of the ride was spent in tense silence, each of them lost in their own thoughts. It didn’t take long to cross the winding streets of the noble quarter and reach the Lockridge estate, but it felt like an eternity. Thorne’s nerves buzzed, and he forced himself to take slow, even breaths as the carriage rolled to a stop.

  Stepping out, Thorne adjusted his coat, taking in the sight before him. The Lockridge estate was buzzing with activity. It was a far cry from the quiet, subdued affair at the Langston brunch. This was closer to the Valewind celebrations he was accustomed to—though still lacking the full, chaotic energy he had come to expect.

  A couple of carriages waited idly by the main entrance, their occupants already mingling inside the courtyard. Servants scurried around with lanterns in hand, their faces drawn and tired, while a few nobles chatted animatedly, their laughter carrying through the night air.

  The courtyard was utilitarian, with none of the decorative frills that adorned the other noble estates. Instead, it bore a stark, almost military appearance, with a barracks situated along one side, its stern facade showing the Lockridge family’s martial prowess.

  As Thorne walked into the courtyard, flanked by Rielle and Devon, he noticed several men and women clad in armor loitering around. Some were nursing drinks, their boisterous laughter echoing in the crisp air, while others were engaged in drills, even at this hour. This was the famed Lockridge army—at least, a small part of it. They carried themselves with the easy confidence of seasoned warriors, their movements sharp and precise.

  A servant wearing the Lockridge livery rushed forward to greet him, his manner deferential but hurried. Thorne followed, feeling the weight of several pairs of eyes on him as he passed the small clusters of nobles who had yet to join the party inside. Whispers followed in his wake, but he kept his head high, his expression composed and unreadable.

  They approached the massive double doors, flanked by two imposing guards clad in gleaming armor. The doors themselves looked formidable, as if they could withstand a siege, a clear display of the Lockridge family’s might. Thorne’s Veil Sense flared, and he noted, with some surprise, that both guards were above level 40—a testament to the strength and discipline that the Lockridges instilled in their forces.

  He kept his expression smooth, betraying nothing of his thoughts as the massive doors swung open with a creak of ancient hinges, revealing a dazzling spectacle beyond.

  Behind him, Devon let out a low whistle. “Now that’s the high life,” he muttered, his eyes wide as he took in the scene.

  Thorne’s lips twitched in a faint smile, his eyes scanning the crowd, already calculating. This was going to be an interesting night.

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