The walk back to Uncle's estate was filled with an unsettling quiet, the kind that lingered after violence but was now being slowly replaced by the sounds of recovery. The air was thick with the scent of damp stone and blood, though the worst of the carnage had been cleared. Street sweepers worked in tired silence, their brooms scratching over cobblestones stained darker than they should be. Bodies, too many bodies, were being carted away under grim tarps, while the shattered remains of homes and businesses lay exposed to the pale afternoon light.

Thorne's steps echoed on the uneven ground, the Lost Ones flanking him a step behind, silent as wraiths. More than once, patrols of Thornfield and Viremont soldiers crossed their path. The soldiers hesitated, hands brushing weapons but when their gazes met Thorne's glowing eyes or the silver spiral stitched into the cloaks of the Lost Ones, they stood down. The emblem was a brand now, no longer hidden in the shadows but displayed openly.

The Lost Ones weren't a secret anymore.

The realization sat bitterly in Thorne's chest. The guild had built its power from the unseen, the shadows where fear could be cultivated without exposure. And now, after the battle, they had announced themselves to the entire city. A statement. A warning. Perhaps a victory cry.

Or perhaps a grave mistake.

The mysterious man from the capital had no doubt noticed. If he hadn't understood the full scope of the Lost Ones' strength before, he certainly did now. The battle had made sure of it. Thorne's jaw clenched at the thought, had Uncle's need for spectacle would be his undoing?

The iron gates loomed tall as Thorne approached. The scars of battle etched the city, but here, at Uncle's estate, everything stood pristine, untouched by the chaos that had devoured the noble quarter. While mansions lay in ruin, their gardens scorched and windows shattered, Uncle's fortress remained whole. Intact. Protected.

The contrast made it even clearer; Uncle's power had kept his stronghold secure while others had burned.

The gates creaked open with practiced precision, the guards stationed there moving in synchronized efficiency. Dallen was among them, his bloodstained uniform rumpled, a thin gash visible along his neck, poorly tended. Yet he stood straight, his gaze sharp despite the exhaustion written across his face.

The moment Dallen saw him, his expression shifted, not just to relief but something heavier. "Young master," he greeted, dipping his head slightly. Not a deep bow, but enough to acknowledge authority.

The other guard mirrored the action, echoing the same words. Young master.

It wasn't the first time. Thorne had noticed the subtle change in how Dallen addressed him for some time now, an almost imperceptible shift in tone, the way he stood a little straighter in his presence, his deference more pronounced. And it hadn't been just Dallen. The household staff, the guards even the Lost Ones.

It had been gradual. Like the tide rising, gentle at first until it reached a point where it could no longer be ignored. Respect.

But the battle... the battle had solidified it.

The way the Lost Ones fought to protect him, the way they'd closed ranks around him like he was already a figure worth guarding, not just Uncle's ward. They saw him now. Not as a boy taken in by a powerful man. Not as a tool to be sharpened. But something more.

Powerful. Dangerous.

The heir.

A part of him should have felt proud, wasn't this what Uncle had always wanted? To mold him into a leader, a name that would echo with fear and respect?

Instead, it felt like shackles clamping tighter around his chest.

If they knew the truth...

If they knew he was plotting to betray the very man they feared. If they knew that beneath the mask, he felt nothing but growing disgust for the blood he'd spilled, the lives he'd taken in Uncle's name.

How quickly would their awe turn to scorn?

Dallen held the gate open for him, his gaze steady but cautious, as though waiting for an order or a reprimand. Thorne gave a small nod, acknowledging the greeting without returning the title.

The guards stepped aside, watching as Thorne passed through. No words were spoken. None were needed.

But he felt the weight of their gazes all the way into the estate.

Inside the estate, the heavy oak doors closed behind him with a dull finality, but the halls were unusually quiet. The Lost Ones who had escorted him lingered only a moment before melting back into the shadows, leaving him alone. The absence of sound was almost disorienting. No servants bustling. No Arletta watching from the staircase with her ever-sharp eyes.

Even the walls felt... waiting.

Thorne's stomach twisted with hunger, the ache suddenly unbearable. The battle, the aftermath, the search for Darius, it had numbed everything else until now. Guided by pure instinct, he turned toward the kitchen, hoping for some sign of life and food.

The kitchen was a shadow of its former self. The warm chaos of clanging pots and chattering voices was gone, replaced by two tired maids scrubbing the last of the bloodstains from the floor. The scent of roasted meat and spices was long absent, replaced by the sharp tang of disinfectant herbs.

And then he saw her.

Matilda.

She stood at the far counter, her back to him as she wiped down a large iron pan. For a moment, he simply watched her, taking in the sight of someone who had never looked at him like a tool, never expected him to be anything other than who he was.

"My favorite girl is here!" Thorne called, his voice breaking the hush.

Matilda startled, her hand flying to her chest as she whirled around. But the moment recognition hit her face, she dropped the cloth and rushed toward him, wrapping her arms around him so tightly he could feel the strain in her shoulders. His chin rested on top of her head, his eyes briefly closing at the comfort of the embrace.

"You're okay," she whispered, voice trembling. "Thank the dead gods. You're okay."

Thorne felt his throat tighten, but he forced a grin. "You act like you were worried or something."

Matilda pulled back just enough to look at him critically, her hands still on his arms. She scanned his face, his torn clothes, lingering on the dried blood staining his sleeves.

"Are you?" she whispered, her gaze sharp now. "Are you okay, Thorne?"

For a moment, he considered lying. Mask of Deceit was so effortless now. But here, with her...he couldn't. Not completely.

"I'm here," he said, which wasn't quite a lie.

Matilda studied him for a moment longer before exhaling shakily and nodding. "Good. Now, sit. You look like you'll fall over any second."

She gently guided him to a stool by the counter, her usual motherly bossiness returning, but the worry lingered in her eyes.

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"I don't know how much I have left," she admitted, already bustling around the kitchen. "We had to feed a small army. Supplies are almost gone. But..." Her lips curled into a small smile as she knelt before a lower cabinet. "I might have hidden something special. Just for you."

Thorne couldn't help the small smile that pulled at his lips. For a moment, just for a moment, the tension faded.

Matilda returned with a pie, setting it in front of Thorne with a proud smile. Thankfully, it wasn't blueberry. This one was savory, the buttery crust golden brown with hints of steam curling from the edges, promising something hearty and warm.

"Go on, eat before it gets cold," she said, resting her elbows on the counter, watching him expectantly.

Thorne dug in without ceremony, more ravenous than he had first realized. The first bite was perfect, spiced meat and melted cheese with just the right balance of seasoning. His pace quickened, demolishing slice after slice, and Matilda's small smile tugged wider as she watched him eat with the care of a doting older sister.

By the time he was full, half the pie was gone. He leaned back, wiping his mouth with a towel, sighing in satisfaction.

"So," he asked, glancing around at the unusually empty kitchen, "where is everyone?"

Matilda's smile faltered. She exhaled softly, lowering her gaze as she answered. "Uncle is organizing a party at the governing building, a celebration for conquering Alvar. He sent most of the staff there to help with the preparations."

Thorne arched an eyebrow. "And why are you still here then? Surely Uncle would want his best cook preparing the feast."

Her eyes flicked away, unable to meet his gaze. Thorne's stomach twisted slightly at the evasive gesture. "Matilda... What's wrong?"

She was quick to reassure him, hands raised defensively. "Nothing's wrong! It's just... it's not my job anymore."

She paused, a blush rising in her cheeks as her hands drifted to her belly, patting it gently. A radiant smile bloomed on her face. "I'm pregnant, Thorne. I left my position here to prepare for the baby."

For a moment, Thorne could only blink, the words sinking in. Then his chair scraped back as he bolted upright, rounding the counter in a heartbeat and pulling her into a tight hug.

"You're what?! Matilda, that's incredible! I'm so happy for you! Truly!"

Her lips trembled, and in a voice smaller than he had ever heard from her, she whispered, "You're not... upset? You don't think I'm abandoning you?"

Thorne laughed, his arms still wrapped around her. "You crazy woman! Abandoning me? If you think I'm letting you get away from me just like that, you've got another thing coming! I'll be visiting constantly. You're not rid of me that easily."

Relief shimmered in her eyes, and she hugged him tighter, her round face pressed against his chest. "Good," she whispered, voice thick with emotion.

When they finally pulled apart, they both returned to their stools, smiling at each other like nothing had changed, though everything had.

"So," Thorne began, voice softer, "where are you going? Somewhere safe, I hope?"

Matilda's face turned dreamy, her hands still cradling her stomach. "Toby has a small cottage in the Langston lands, just a couple of hours outside the city. He grows vegetables there. He's going to keep selling produce to Uncle, so I'll still be close. You'll see me all the time."

Thorne tsked, crossing his arms. "I knew that man was trouble the moment he asked for your hand. Stealing my favorite girl away. Unforgivable."

She swatted his arm playfully. "Oh, hush. It's not far. And I'll make sure to send you pies."

"Not blueberry, right?" he teased, smirking.

"Never again," she replied with mock solemnity.

They continued talking, the warm, familiar banter easing the tension that had built in his chest. For the first time in days, he felt grounded, safe. But it couldn't last.

Finally, Matilda wiped her hands and gestured to the door. "Alright, enough now. You have to get ready. Arletta's at the governing building overseeing the arrangements, poor woman's been running ragged with all the chaos. Jory should be upstairs to help you prepare for the celebration. Besides..." Her gaze softened. "Toby should be here any minute now. Go on, shoo. Uncle will be furious if you're late."

Thorne hesitated, lingering just long enough to press a loud, exaggerated kiss to her cheek, earning a flustered laugh. Then his expression softened, a strange weight settling in his chest as he murmured, "Be safe, Matilda. Be happy."

She gave him an odd look, searching his face as if she sensed something left unsaid. But before she could question it, she smiled warmly and teased, "I'll see you in a week, silly boy. It's not like I'm leaving forever."

Thorne nodded but didn't reply. Because deep down, he knew the truth.

He wouldn't be here in a week. He wouldn't be here at all.

The time for Aetherhold was fast approaching.

Jory awaited Thorne with an almost ceremonial air, his hands carefully presenting the set of clothes laid out on the bed. The outfit was far more elaborate than anything Thorne had ever worn, a stiff black suit that shimmered faintly in the dim candlelight. Golden thread coiled from the cuffs, climbing in elegant, curling spirals up his forearms and stopping just below the elbows. The design, subtle yet unmistakable, wove together in a familiar sigil, the emblem of the Lost Ones.

A statement. A brand. No longer a secret society lurking in the shadows but a force declaring its influence openly.

The fabric felt heavier than mere cloth, stiff with ceremonial weight rather than comfort. Thorne shifted his shoulders, the golden spirals catching the light with each movement, making him feel more exposed than ever before. This was meant to draw the eye, to announce his presence in the grandest halls of Alvar, not to hide him in the dark where he had always belonged.

Uncle was making a point. Look upon my heir, the living symbol of my power.

While Jory busied himself tidying the already immaculate room, Thorne methodically armed himself. He moved with silent efficiency, strapping twin daggers beneath his sleeves, the hilts hidden by the elaborate golden embroidery. Two smaller blades were secured along his thighs, nearly invisible against the dark fabric, while a slim stiletto nestled just inside his boot, its edge sharp enough to pierce even reinforced leather.

Whatever role Uncle expected him to play tonight, Thorne would not be defenseless.

"Do you need help with the clasps, young master?" Jory's voice broke the silence, a touch too eager, too polite. The boy's hands hovered at his side, clearly awaiting permission.

Thorne shook his head. "No. Leave it."

Jory hesitated but obeyed, retreating a step as Thorne turned to the mirror. He adjusted the collar, the intricate embroidery pressing against his throat like a gilded noose. The golden spirals mocked him, their brightness an insult to everything he had once been, hidden, unseen, a blade in the dark. But now? Now he was expected to play the role of the heir of the most prominent man in Alvar, to be on full display for the world.

The only piece of himself that felt truly his was the pair of black leather gloves he pulled on, one finger at a time, ensuring the mark of the crow remained hidden from sight. It was a secret not even Uncle could know, a dangerous one. The memory of the symbol pulsing with dark aether burned in his mind, a constant reminder of the invisible chain around his wrist.

Jory cleared his throat softly. "Master Thorne, would you like me to prepare?"

"Out." Thorne cut him off, his voice sharper than intended.

The young valet's face paled, but he obeyed instantly, retreating through the door with a mumbled, "Of course, young master."

The moment the door clicked shut, Thorne moved swiftly. He crossed the room with silent precision, his hands working at the panel hidden behind the wardrobe. A blade slipped easily from his sleeve, and he wedged the steel beneath the seam of the paneling, prying it open with practiced ease.

The compartment was small but deep, a narrow alcove carved into the wall where he had stashed his most precious secrets over the years. His escape plan. His failsafe.

The green sapphire he had taken from Braddock's estate, its surface smooth as glass.

The scroll from Aetherhold Academy, the one that had led him down this twisted path and the very reason he had stayed this long, the reason he couldn't fail now.

The multifaceted crystal the Aetherhold construct had given him, to show upon his arrival on the academy.

The milky white crystal sphere, still thrumming with unknown energy, a stolen prize from long ago that he had never fully deciphered.

Coins, small gems, scraps of rare metal, years of carefully hoarded wealth, a fortune he had accumulated under Uncle's watchful eye, all tucked away for the day he might need to disappear forever.

Tonight wasn't that night, but it felt closer than ever before.

By the time he finished, the suit felt heavier, the fabric subtly bulging from the hidden weight tucked beneath. He patted the concealed treasures carefully, feeling the outlines of the stolen objects pressing against his ribs. Satisfied, he stepped back from the wall, securing the panel back into place with the heel of his palm.

When he turned toward the door, Jory was waiting just outside, fidgeting with his hands.

Thorne scowled, stepping out and towering over the young man, his glowing eyes narrowing with suspicion. "What are you doing lurking, Jory?"

The servant flinched but stammered, "I... I was only waiting, Master Thorne. The carriage is ready. I'm to escort you..."

Thorne's glare made him stop and take a step back. Thorne shoved past him walking down the long hallway.

Once, Jory had pretended to be nothing more than a loyal servant, but lately, he wasn't even attempting to disguise the truth, he was Uncle's eyes, planted in the very heart of his private space. The boy's efforts at subtlety had eroded with time, now watching him openly, memorizing his movements, his habits. Yet Thorne found he no longer cared. Let him watch. Let Uncle think he knew everything. There were some truths only Thorne would ever keep for himself.

As he stepped into the grand foyer, his gaze was drawn to his reflection in one of the many gilded mirrors, the polished surface capturing his image with a ghostly clarity.

Steeling himself, Thorne faced the mirror, his own glowing reflection staring back at him, polished, untouchable, lethal.

The golden flames on his sleeves caught the light, and for the first time, he understood the design.

They weren't just flames.

They were the marks of a weapon forged in fire.

And he had every intention of living up to it.

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