Kellan Thornfield was a bastard.

  Thorne’s gaze shifted to Lord Thornfield, who was still gripping his wife’s hair, his face twisted with rage. The man was a fool, a drunken fool who couldn’t see past his own nose, who was so blinded by his own anger and jealousy that he was willing to throw everything away, even the precarious hold he had on his own house. He was a liability, one that could easily be manipulated, but now... now he was a threat. To Kellan, to the Thornfield’s fragile alliance with Uncle, to everything they had been working towards.

  Thorne’s jaw tightened, his hand twitching towards the hidden dagger at his side. A part of him wanted to step out, to put an end to this pathetic display of violence, but he knew he couldn’t. Not yet. He had to play this carefully. If he revealed himself now, it would only complicate things further, draw attention to something that needed to be kept hidden. He had to wait, had to bide his time.

  He watched as Lord Thornfield finally released his wife, shoving her away with a sneer of disgust. Lady Thornfield crumpled to the ground, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs as she curled in on herself, the epitome of despair and broken dignity. Lord Thornfield straightened, his chest heaving as he ran a hand through his disheveled hair, his eyes darting around the corridor as if he suddenly realized where he was, how exposed they were.

  For a moment, Thorne thought he would turn, would walk away and leave her there, but then something shifted in his eyes, a flicker of fear and desperation that made Thorne’s stomach churn. He reached down, grabbing her arm and hauling her to her feet with surprising gentleness, his voice low and urgent as he whispered something in her ear. She nodded, her movements jerky and mechanical, like a puppet on strings, and he wrapped an arm around her, guiding her back towards the hall.

  Thorne stayed perfectly still, his breathing shallow as he watched them go, his mind a whirl of thoughts and possibilities. This changed everything. Kellan was already a weak link, a liability, but if this got out... if anyone found out that he wasn’t even a legitimate Thornfield, it would be the end of them. The end of Uncle’s plans, the end of any hope they had of taking control of Alvar.

  But it was also an opportunity, a weapon that could be wielded with devastating precision, if used correctly. Thorne’s lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile as he melted back into the shadows, his mind racing with the possibilities.

  He needed to find Uncle. They had a new piece on the board, and it was time to decide how best to play it.

  He took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm the storm of emotions raging inside him after the revelation he had just witnessed. He straightened his coat, brushed a hand through his hair, and then stepped back into the hall.

  It felt as if the entire atmosphere had shifted in his brief absence. The tension in the room was thick, almost tangible, buzzing with a kind of suppressed energy that hadn't been there before.

  He swept his gaze across the hall, taking in the clusters of nobles, the muted conversations, and the glances that darted around the room. It seemed that everyone had picked up on the change.

  The room hummed with whispers, the air crackling with anticipation. Thorne realized that the rumors he had seeded had spread like wildfire in the short time he’d been gone. He had underestimated Alvar’s elite. They may have seemed restrained and above petty gossip, but he had underestimated their appetite for scandal.

  He was scanning the room, assessing the reaction, when a familiar figure moved into his line of sight. Kellan Thornfield, looking utterly distraught, was making a beeline towards him. Thorne tensed, bracing himself. As Kellan approached, his worried eyes flashed with a look of intense animosity.

  Without preamble, Kellan hissed, “Is this your doing?”

  Thorne raised an eyebrow, his expression perfectly neutral. “I don't know what you're talking about, and let me remind you that we shouldn’t be seen together. We aren’t supposed to know each other.”

  But Kellan was too worked up to heed his warning. His voice rose, barely controlled. “Forget all that! Are you behind all those rumors about me badmouthing Alaric? Are you trying to get me killed?”

  There was genuine panic in Kellan’s voice now. His eyes darted around the room, landing on the Ravencourts, who still looked oblivious to the growing tension.

  Thorne, however, noticed the subtle shifts in the crowd around them. The admiration that had surrounded Alaric Thornfield had thinned, replaced with suspicion and curiosity. It was working. Thorne had to suppress the triumphant smile that threatened to show.

  Instead, he offered Kellan a pleasant, almost placating smile, his eyes never stopping their survey of the room. “Go back to your parents, Kellan, and let me do my job.”

  Kellan’s frustration bubbled over. He leaned in, his voice a whispering shout filled with desperation. “Your job is—”

  Thorne’s eyes snapped to Kellan’s, his gaze like ice. “That is enough.” The command in his voice was so cold and authoritative that Kellan flinched, as if physically struck. Thorne leaned in slightly, lowering his voice to a dangerous whisper. “Go back to your parents and do not approach me unless I instruct you to. Now leave.”

  Kellan’s jaw tightened, a flash of defiance lighting his eyes. But he was too shaken, too overwhelmed, and after a tense moment, he turned on his heel and walked away, casting one last, hateful glance back at Thorne.

  Thorne watched him retreat, his mind already calculating the next steps. Kellan was proving to be more volatile than he’d anticipated, but that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Unpredictable people were easier to manipulate, Uncle had said so; their emotional instability made them malleable, susceptible to suggestion. And right now, Kellan was on the verge of breaking.

  He needed to maintain control, not just of Kellan but of the entire narrative swirling around them. The nobles of Alvar had proven to be more eager for drama and scandal than he had anticipated, and now the rumors were spiraling out of control.

  Thorne took a deep breath, centering himself. He needed to refocus, to make sure that everything was still on track. The revelation he had stumbled upon moments ago still sent a shiver down his spine. Kellan wasn’t just a weak link; he was a ticking time bomb. If anyone found out about his true parentage, it would shatter any hope of uniting the Thornfield name with the power and legitimacy they needed. But the potential leverage... The opportunity to use this information, to twist it to his advantage, was tantalizing.

  Thorne scanned the room, his sharp eyes noting the subtle shifts in the crowd. The rumors had taken hold fast. A thrill of satisfaction ran through him as he realized just how effective his strategy had been.

  The Ravencourt heir, Alaric, was now at the center of a smaller but more tightly knit circle. The nobles around him were watching him closely, their expressions a mix of fascination and wariness. Alaric’s face was set in a mask of strained politeness, but there was a fire in his eyes, a barely suppressed rage that Thorne knew would soon reach a boiling point.

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  Across the room, Lord Thornfield was slumped in a chair, his hand gripping a glass of wine so tightly that Thorne was surprised it hadn’t shattered. Lady Thornfield stood beside him, her face pale and composed, though her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen from recent tears. Thorne felt a flicker of pity for her but quickly pushed it aside. He couldn’t afford to be distracted by emotions. She was a pawn in this game, just like everyone else.

  His eyes roamed the room, searching for more potential allies—or threats. The Lockridges stood to one side, Lady Elena’s sharp gaze scanning the crowd with the practiced ease of a general assessing the battlefield. Bastian Lockridge was nowhere to be seen, which was unsurprising. Thorne suspected the young lord had already found some unfortunate soul to challenge to a duel. Dorian Viremont was lounging near the wine table, a lazy smile on his lips as he chatted with a group of younger nobles. Thorne made a mental note to speak with him later; the Viremonts’ wealth and influence could be pivotal in what was to come.

  Thorne’s attention was drawn to Selene, standing near her father. Even from a distance, he could see the tension in her posture, the way her shoulders were drawn up, her movements quick and agitated. She was speaking rapidly, her hands fluttering through the air as she gestured animatedly, trying to make her father understand something. Her eyes were wide, pleading, almost desperate, but Lord Ravencourt’s expression remained stony. His lips were pressed into a thin line, his eyes flicking back to his son every few seconds, a deep frown etched onto his face. It was as though the weight of her words didn’t penetrate his hardened exterior.

  Thorne’s gaze shifted to Alaric, who stood a few paces away, his back rigid, his fists clenched so tightly at his sides that the knuckles shone white. A young woman leaned in close to him, whispering something into his ear, her voice too low for Thorne to hear. But he saw the effect immediately. Alaric’s face darkened, his skin flushing an angry, mottled red. His eyes narrowed, the fury in them flaring to life like a fire stoked to a raging blaze. He whipped around, his gaze locking onto Kellan with a murderous intensity that made Thorne’s breath catch.

  It was a look Thorne knew well, that blind, seething hatred that threatened to consume everything in its path. It was the kind of anger that made men do reckless things, the kind of fury that made people dangerous. Thorne’s pulse quickened, anticipation thrumming in his veins as he watched the scene unfold.

  Alaric’s jaw tightened, the muscles working beneath his skin as the woman whispered something else. Her lips moved quickly, urgently, her eyes darting nervously between Alaric and Kellan. Whatever she was saying, it only fanned the flames of his rage. Alaric’s gaze never left Kellan, his breathing growing heavy, each exhale a ragged, trembling sound.

  Then, with a roar of pure, unadulterated fury, Alaric launched himself forward, his face twisted into a mask of rage. The woman grabbed his arm, her fingers digging into his sleeve as she tried to hold him back, but he shook her off with a vicious snarl. He barreled through the crowd, his eyes fixed on Kellan like a predator zeroing in on its prey. Nobles scattered out of his way, their indignant murmurs rising like a tide as they were shoved aside. The atmosphere in the hall shifted sharply, the festive air evaporating as the tension grew, palpable and electric.

  Lord Ravencourt, his face a mask of shock and dismay, called out, his voice booming over the din. “Alaric, stop!”

  But Alaric was beyond listening. His ears were deaf to everything but the roar of blood in his veins, the pounding fury that demanded he act, demanded he strike. He shoved people out of his path with such force that a few stumbled, catching themselves on tables and chairs, their eyes wide with alarm. The Ravencourt entourage trailed after him, their expressions ranging from shock to fear as they tried, and failed, to restrain him. The room seemed to hold its breath, every eye in the hall fixed on the unfolding scene, the air thick with the promise of violence.

  Before anyone could react, Alaric reached Kellan. He grabbed him by the collar, his fingers bunching in the fabric of Kellan’s jacket, and yanked him around. Kellan’s eyes widened in shock, his mouth opening in a wordless gasp, but he had no time to defend himself. Alaric’s fist crashed into his face with a sickening crunch.

  The sound echoed in the hall, a sharp, brutal crack that sent a shiver through the gathered crowd. Kellan crumpled to the floor, blood spraying from his nose, his limbs sprawling awkwardly on the marble as gasps and shrieks erupted from the spectators.

  For a heartbeat, there was nothing but stunned silence. It was as though the entire room had frozen, suspended in the aftermath of the violence. Kellan lay there, clutching his nose, blood flowing freely between his fingers. Alaric stood over him, his chest heaving, his eyes wild, feral. He looked like a man on the edge of madness, his rage consuming him, driving him beyond reason.

  “How dare you speak my name?” Alaric shouted, his voice shattering the silence, raw and furious. His words were a blade, slicing through the air. “How dare you spread those lies about me?” He gestured around the room, his hand trembling with the force of his anger. “But that’s what the Thornfields are, isn’t it? Foul-mouthed snakes, every one of them! Liars, deceivers, and murderers!” His voice rang out, clear and unyielding, every syllable laced with venom.

  Thorne’s expression remained impassive, but inside, he was practically humming with excitement. This was going even better than he had hoped. Alaric’s rage was like a wildfire, and Thorne had only needed to provide the spark. Now it was spreading, consuming everything in its path.

  Faces turned, expressions ranging from shock to horror to morbid fascination. It was as if the whole hall had been drawn into the vortex of Alaric’s wrath, unable to look away from the unfolding spectacle. Lord Ravencourt pushed through the crowd, his face pale, his eyes wide with something close to panic. He lunged forward, grabbing his son’s arm, his voice a desperate command.

  “Alaric, stop this madness!” he pleaded, his tone firm but edged with a tremor of fear. “This is not the place.” But his words fell on deaf ears.

  Alaric shrugged off his father’s hand, his gaze locked on Kellan’s crumpled form, his eyes blazing with hatred. “I won’t let them get away with this any longer, Father. They killed Mother. They destroyed our family. And now, he dares spread lies about us?” His voice broke on the last word, the pain and rage twisting together in a vicious snarl.

  Selene stood behind them, her face drained of color, her eyes wide and glistening with unshed tears. She wrapped her arms around herself, her shoulders trembling as she called out to her brother, her voice small, pleading. “Alaric, please,” she whispered, but he didn’t hear her. His world had narrowed to a single point, and nothing, no voice, no reason, could reach him now.

  Lord Thornfield, swaying slightly, his voice slurred and dismissive, suddenly cut through the chaos. “Ravencourt, control your crazy son!” he sneered, stumbling as he tried to straighten his jacket. He waved a hand in Alaric’s direction, his disdain palpable. “This is a party, not a street brawl.”

  Lord Ravencourt’s jaw clenched, his mouth thinning into a hard line, but he didn’t respond. His focus was entirely on his son, his voice low, almost pleading. “Alaric, please. This isn’t the way.”

  Kellan, who had been struggling to sit up, his mother’s hands fluttering uselessly around him, finally managed to push himself to his knees. His face was ashen, blood smeared across his cheeks and chin, his eyes wide and glassy with fear and pain. “Alaric, please,” he croaked, his voice barely more than a whisper.

  Thorne’s lips twitched, the barest hint of a sneer forming. Kellan’s weakness was almost pitiful. Almost. But it was exactly what Thorne needed. A weak opponent invited sympathy, and sympathy was a powerful tool. He tilted his head slightly, his gaze intent as he weighed each word Kellan spoke, calculating the impact.

  “We shouldn’t fight. What happened... what happened to your mother was a mistake. A grave mistake, but it’s in the past now. We—”

  “Mistake?” Alaric roared, cutting him off. His voice reverberated through the hall, raw and broken, filled with a pain so deep it seemed to crack the air around him. “You call killing my mother a mistake?” His eyes blazed, his body shaking with the force of his rage.

  Selene called his name again, her voice cracking with desperation, but he didn’t even glance at her. His focus was entirely on Kellan, his hatred a living thing that seemed to pulse and throb in the space between them.

  Thorne watched it all with a cold, detached interest, leaning casually against the wall, his wine glass held loosely in his hand. A satisfied smile played on his lips as he took in the chaos he had orchestrated.

  This was power, true power.

  Not the brute force of fists and steel, but the subtle, insidious control of words and whispers, the ability to shape events, to pull the strings and watch as everyone danced to his tune. It was intoxicating, more exhilarating than any battle, more thrilling than any victory.

  But even Thorne was taken aback by Alaric’s next words, the challenge that sent a ripple of shock through the room, the tension snapping like a taut rope finally giving way.

  “I call Kellan Thornfield to a duel to the death!”

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