The governing building, once the pristine heart of Alvar's bureaucracy, had transformed into a bustling nexus of survival. The grand halls were crowded with Thornfield soldiers resting on benches or sprawled on the marble floors, their armor dented and bloodied. Makeshift stations had been set up along the walls, where medics tended to the wounded, their tools gleaming under the flickering torchlight.

Supply crates were stacked haphazardly in every corner, their contents spilling out as soldiers grabbed what they needed, arrows, rations, or the rare health potion. The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood and the low hum of hurried conversations and groans of the injured. What had once been a symbol of order and power was now a chaotic sanctuary for the beleaguered Thornfield forces.

Thorne felt the tension in the air as the Thornfield soldiers flanked him on all sides, their green cloaks swaying as they moved in practiced formation. The weight of the day pressed heavily on him, his body battered and wounded. Yet, he found a moment to glance back at the two Lost Ones who had endured the battle alongside him.

He slowed, turning to face the woman with the braid and the hooded leader. The soldiers halted a few steps ahead, their faces impassive as they allowed the momentary pause.

"Thank you," Thorne said, his voice rough from exhaustion. "For everything."

The woman with the braid met his gaze, her expression neutral but not unfriendly. "We followed orders," she said, her tone flat but edged with something softer, a hint of respect.

Thorne nodded, though he could sense the weight of her words. She hadn't needed to say it, but the implication was clear. Orders or not, they had chosen to fight with him, to protect him when they could have easily prioritized their own survival.

His eyes shifted to the hooded leader. "And you?" he asked, his voice probing.

The man's hood tilted slightly, revealing nothing of his face. "We did what was necessary," he said, his voice calm and measured.

There was something off about him, something Thorne couldn't quite place. Instinctively, he reached out with his Veil Sense, trying to gauge the man's core. But there was nothing. A void.

No core? That's not possible.

The realization unnerved him, but he kept his expression neutral, forcing his thoughts back into focus. Defensive skills, perhaps. Something to mask his presence. Thorne dismissed the unease with a shake of his head.

Thorne turned his focus forward as the soldiers resumed their march.

They led him to a large spiral staircase that seemed to twist endlessly upward. Each step sent a jolt of pain through his body, reminding him of every wound, every strike he had endured. The cuts on his arms and legs ached, and his ribs throbbed with every breath. Yet, as the moonlight streamed through the occasional slit in the stone walls, he felt a subtle but undeniable warmth spread over his injuries.

Lunar Regeneration. His wounds, though far from fully healed, knitted together slowly as the silvery light caressed his skin. It wasn't enough to restore his strength, but it kept him moving, step after agonizing step.

When they finally emerged from the staircase, Thorne was momentarily struck speechless. The room at the top of the spire was vast and circular, its walls entirely open to the world outside. From this vantage point, he could see all of Alvar spread out below him, the city streets a chaotic tapestry of fire, smoke, and moving armies. Beyond the city's walls, the countryside stretched into the horizon, bathed in the pale glow of the moon.

At the center of the chamber stood a golden pedestal, its intricate designs glinting faintly. Encircling it was a wide, glowing ring, its edges engraved with symbols he couldn't decipher. The centerpiece of the room, however, was the enormous crystal embedded within the pedestal. A jagged, translucent gem that pulsed faintly with light, like a heart beating in rhythm with the city itself.

But what truly drew his gaze was the immense golden key suspended above the crystal. It hovered in midair, defying gravity, slowly spinning in a hypnotic motion. Its surface shimmered with aetheric energy, giving off a faint hum that resonated deep in Thorne's chest.

"What is this?" Thorne murmured, his voice barely audible over the faint hum.

One of the Thornfield soldiers, a grizzled veteran with a scar running down his cheek, glanced at him. "The city's key," he said simply, his voice heavy with reverence.

Thorne frowned. The city's key. Uncle had mentioned it before but never elaborated. Whatever it was, its significance was undeniable. The power radiating from the crystal and the golden ring made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps. Turning, Thorne saw a figure emerging from the shadows, a familiar silhouette that made his jaw clench.

Uncle.

The old man strode into the room with his usual air of authority, his eyes scanning Thorne as if assessing every wound, every breath.

Uncle stared up at the enormous key, its golden frame spinning steadily above the crystalline pedestal. The faint hum of suppressed aether filled the chamber, resonating with a power that made Thorne's skin prickle.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Uncle said, breaking the silence.

Thorne's glowing eyes stayed fixed on the key. The carefully woven bonds of aether, visible only to his enhanced sight, pulsed like a living thing. "So this is why all this is happening," he murmured, his voice tinged with a mixture of awe and revulsion.

Uncle chuckled, his eyes flicking to the Thornfield soldiers standing by the door. With a curt nod, he dismissed them, the clatter of their boots fading as they left the room.

"Why don't you just take it?" Thorne asked, his voice low but curious. It seemed so simple, just reach out and claim the power.

Uncle's face twisted with fury, his jowls trembling as he spat, "I can't."

His admission hung heavy in the air, and he waved a hand absently, as if trying to dispel his frustration. "You see, I am not one of them."

"Them?" Thorne asked, tilting his head.

Uncle sneered. "Only nobles can take control of a city's key. It requires a signet ring, one imbued with the king's aether signature. Without it, the key is useless."

Thorne finally tore his eyes away from the spinning artifact to study Uncle's face. "And that's why you need Thornfield."

"Yes," Uncle admitted through gritted teeth, the word coming out as though it pained him to say it.

Thorne's attention was drawn to a group standing nearby. Three of the leaders of the Lost Ones who had been present during Uncle's earlier meeting lingered a few feet behind, their expressions solemn. Notably absent was the man who had failed Uncle's earlier demands. A thin, fidgeting figure dressed in ostentatious clothes stood apart from them, his discomfort plain on his pale face.

Uncle noticed Thorne's gaze and said with a sneer, "Thornfield's representative. He's here to keep us informed about their incoming army, their numbers, their state... and to oversee the battle." He turned to glare at the man, his disdain palpable. "He's been a real help," he added sarcastically.

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The man stiffened, his voice shrill with offense as he replied, "I must remind you, my lord..."

Uncle's roar cut him off. "I am no lord!"

The representative shrank back but managed to find his voice again. "The hostilities have exploded in an unprecedented manner! We haven't seen this much blood and death since the war with Thal'Dorei. Our expectations were wildly inaccurate. At this rate, my lord will have no army left to speak of. He'll be defenseless, prey to those who will seek to capitalize on his weakness!"

Uncle took two furious steps toward the man, his jowls quivering with rage. "Shut it, worm!"

The man's pale face turned ghostly white, but he pressed on, his voice trembling. "If we don't stop this soon, House Thornfield..."

A Lost One intervened, grabbing the representative by the arm and dragging him to a nearby table. "Sit," the assassin commanded coldly.

A servant rushed in, offering Uncle a goblet of wine. He took it with a grunt, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand after a long gulp.

Thorne approached the pedestal, drawn to the suppressed energy radiating from the key. The aether surrounding the artifact was vaguely familiar. He activated his aether vision, and his glowing eyes traced the delicate, intricate web of aetheric threads that bound the artifact's power, a spell.

"What does this thing really do?" he asked, his curiosity overriding his fatigue.

Uncle approached, the smirk returning to his face. "It has many functions, but its primary purpose is to establish the king's claim on the land. This key is what truly binds Alvar to the rest of Caledris."

Thorne's frown deepened as he continued to examine the artifact.

Uncle continued, his voice carrying a reverent edge. "The king can use it to contact the city, call upon its forces, or enforce a change in policy. That was why it was activated a decade ago, to announce a raise in taxes."

He chuckled darkly, taking another sip from his goblet. "A representative of Alvar always has control over the key, a direct link to the king himself."

Thorne's gaze remained fixed on the intricate bonds of aether. "If it's so important, why did Lord Durnell leave it defenseless?"

Uncle's smirk widened. "He didn't. He left a force to guard it when he departed for the capital."

"And?"

"They were disposed of the moment that moron thought to betray me." Uncle's voice turned icy. "He believed his claim was unassailable, that no one would dare challenge him. That I would remain loyal enough to protect it in his absence."

Uncle's smile twisted into something wolfish. "His hubris will be his undoing. Soon, he'll have no power left. And only then... only then will I kill him."

Hurried footsteps echoed from the staircase, cutting through the tension in the room. A Thornfield soldier burst into the chamber, his face pale and his body battered.

"Master!" the man gasped, doubling over and clutching his knees.

Uncle turned, his expression darkening. "What is it now?"

The Thornfield messenger staggered into the room, his breathing labored and his face streaked with grime and blood. His words were rushed, urgency lacing every syllable.

"Lord Viremont's host approaches the northern gate. They'll be here in about an hour!"

Uncle's expression shifted as he exhaled slowly, the edges of his mouth lifting into a satisfied smirk. "Good," he said, his tone measured. Then his gaze hardened, and the commanding steel of his voice returned. "Inform them they are to wait for my command before attacking. Not before."

The Thornfield representative shot to his feet, his voice shrill with panic. "But we need them now! The Lockridge forces have all but obliterated the city guard! If they aren't opposed immediately, the barracks will fall, and with that, we lose the city! We must act!"

Uncle whirled on him, his face twisting with restrained fury. For a brief moment, Thorne thought he saw a red flicker in Uncle's eyes, but before he could make sense of it, Uncle closed his eyes and took a slow, deliberate breath.

When he opened them again, his voice was dangerously calm. "If we let the Viremont host attack on its own, they'll be slaughtered by the Lockridge army. To. The. Man." Each word was punctuated with a sharp tone that left no room for argument.

The representative wavered, his desperation battling against the authority in Uncle's words. "But..."

"We are waiting for the Thornfield army," Uncle said, cutting him off with a sharp wave of his hand.

He turned to the messenger, his voice a bark of finality. "Go!"

The soldier saluted hastily and fled the room, leaving the representative seething but subdued.

Uncle's eyes fell on Thorne, narrowing with irritation as if seeking a new target for his anger. "What about you?"

Thorne, his Mask of Deceit firmly in place, raised an eyebrow. "What about me?"

Uncle's lip curled into a sneer. "We've just received word that Rook has agreed to my terms. His mercenaries are with Sid, defending the docks as we speak."

A sudden explosion rocked the building, the sound reverberating through the chamber. All eyes turned toward the windows, where a plume of red smoke curled ominously into the sky.

Thorne took the opportunity to school his expression further. The brief chaos offered him a moment to think, to steady the simmering thoughts clawing for attention at the edges of his mind.

Uncle didn't flinch, his attention snapping back to Thorne.

The purple crow, the symbol that had marked the document he'd planted in Braddock's estate, flashed in his thoughts. Uncle had no idea about its presence, no clue about the message hidden in plain sight. It was a dangerous gamble, one that had paid off so far. The man from the capital had been weaving his web slowly, meticulously. Each thread he spun tightened around Uncle's neck, and Thorne was complicit in the trap.

Uncle's growling voice snapped him back to the present. "What did that man want, hmm? I'll wager he wasn't satisfied with my proposal."

Thorne allowed a slow smirk to spread across his face. He had been careful to shield Uncle from the signs of the purple crow's influence. Uncle believed himself untouchable, invincible, while the mysterious man had already begun infiltrating the very city Uncle sought to control.

"He wanted what we expected," Thorne said finally, his voice calm and measured. "Lord Braddock."

Uncle arched an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. "He's dead?"

Thorne nodded, his voice casual. "Met his ancestors a while back."

Uncle's face shifted from anger to something approaching glee. "You killed him?" he asked eagerly, his voice thick with anticipation for the details.

Thorne shrugged, his smirk deepening. "Not me. The Ravencourts. As if by magic, the side gate was left open, and they managed to get in. A tragedy, really."

He fought to keep the satisfaction from his voice. The truth, that Braddock's death had been orchestrated as much by the purple crow as by him would never reach Uncle's ears. The man was blind to the subtlety of the larger game being played.

Uncle threw his head back and laughed, the sound booming through the chamber. He turned to the gathered Lost Ones, his grin wolfish. "If anyone doubted my son, they should worry no longer. He was taught well; he gets his cunning from me."

Thorne stood still, his unease growing with Uncle's praise. He felt the weight of the Lost Ones' inscrutable gazes, sizing him up. Their eyes held questions, suspicions, and judgments. He held himself steady, letting his Mask of Deceit do its work.

Even as Uncle praised him, Thorne's mind wandered back to the man from the capital. The crow's shadow loomed large, a silent reminder of how perilously close Uncle had come to understanding his enemy. If anyone else would have gone to deal with Rook, Uncle would begin to suspect that there was a new adversary in town.

The purple crow had been clear in its implications. The document Thorne had planted wasn't just a trap for Braddock, it was a warning, a statement of intent from the man orchestrating chaos in Alvar. Uncle remained blissfully unaware of how deeply the capital's influence had begun to seep into his domain.

Thorne resisted the urge to laugh. Uncle was right to say he had learned cunning, but not in the way he thought. Thorne's lessons had come not from blind obedience but from survival, from learning how to navigate and manipulate the layers of intrigue surrounding him. And now, he was turning those lessons against his so-called mentor.

Finally, he spoke, his tone calm but calculated. "We may have a problem, though."

Uncle's smile faded as he turned his full attention to Thorne. "What problem?"

Thorne's smirk returned, this time tinged with subtle malice. "In order to side with us, Rook wanted something more. He had me plant a document that would give him half of Braddock's fleet. With so many ships... well, he could gain quite a bit of power. Too much power."

Uncle's expression darkened, his eyes glazing as he considered the implications. "Gain too much coin... too much influence..." he muttered, half to himself. Finally, he shook his head, his voice cold and resolute. "We'll deal with it in time. Right now, we have bigger problems."

Thorne nodded, hiding his satisfaction. It was so easy to think of himself and Uncle as a team. Years of working for the man had conditioned him to fall into that role. And yet, inside his head, he laughed.

The purple crow crowed loudly in his mind, a harbinger of Uncle's doom.

Uncle suspected nothing. He had no idea how close the man from the capital was, how carefully the trap was being laid.

The thought sent a thrill of satisfaction coursing through Thorne.

Hurried footsteps echoed from the stairwell, breaking the tension. A man clad in Thornfield's livery burst into the room, his face pale and streaked with sweat.

"Lord Thornfield has arrived!" he announced, his voice carrying over the murmurs in the room.

Uncle's face broke into a grin that Thorne didn't trust for a moment.

"Finally," Uncle growled, his voice brimming with anticipation. "It is time."

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