The ride back to the governing building was steeped in silence. The only sounds were the rhythmic clattering of the wheels over uneven cobblestones and the creaking of the carriage frame.

No one spoke, not even Jory when he stirred, blinking groggily awake and instinctively glancing between Sid and Thorne. He picked up on the tension instantly and remained quiet, huddled in his corner with his hands folded neatly on his lap, as if afraid to draw attention to himself.

Thorne stared out the window, watching the battered streets of Alvar pass by in a blur. The weight of his conversation with Jonah and Ben lingered, gnawing at him.

Had it been enough? Would they leave the city as he warned or had his vagueness only confused them further? That persistent sense of unease hadn't faded. If anything, it had grown stronger, a pressure coiling tighter in his chest with each turn of the wheels.

Sid, across from him, was equally quiet, his face cast in half-shadow. His single hand rested on his knee, but his gaze stayed locked on Thorne, measuring. Judging. It was as if they were both waiting for something to break the silence, some revelation neither of them were ready to voice.

Thorne ignored it. He was getting far too used to keeping his secrets close.

By the time they arrived at the central square, the sight before Thorne was a stark contrast to the blood-soaked battlefield he had last witnessed.

The same space where hundreds had fallen in the brutal clash was now a spectacle of wealth and ceremony. Rows of gleaming carriages lined the square, the polished wood glinting under the moonlight. Noble banners flapped in the breeze, greens, reds, golds, and blues, each house flaunting their survival.

Horses stood restless in their bridles, held by servants dressed in fine livery, while lines of attendants milled about, carrying parcels, gifts, and wine for their masters.

But it was the nobles themselves who caught his eye.

Some wore expressions of quiet triumph, their chests puffed up, eyes scanning the crowd for allies and opportunities. Others were pale, drawn, their expressions tight as they approached the towering entrance of the governing building. Those ones had the look of survivors, nobles who had been forced to fight or watch their banners fall. And then there were the frightened ones, eyes darting nervously, whispering amongst themselves as they stepped over the very stones where blood had been spilled just a day prior.

A stage had been set. But it was not for mourning. It was for spectacle.

The carriage jolted as it came to a final halt. Before Thorne could speak, Jory jolted to life, springing into action like a trained dog. He snapped the door open, stepping down and bowing slightly, holding the door with both hands as he waited for Thorne with practiced, exaggerated formality.

Thorne stared at him for a heartbeat, then exhaled sharply. Of course he's playing the perfect valet now.

He turned to Sid. Their eyes met, no words exchanged, but a silent understanding passed between them. Sid gave a small, curt nod, as if saying, Stay sharp.

Thorne stepped out, his boots landing with a firm thud against the polished stone.

The instant he did, the shadows around him stirred.

The Lost Ones emerged.

Like wraiths, they fell into formation, moving soundlessly from the edges of the crowd where they had been watching, blending with the restless figures of the nobles' retainers. Twelve in total, a perfect protective ring. To a casual onlooker, they were merely bodyguards. But those who knew, those with the slightest understanding of who these figures were, would recognize the silver spiral insignias embroidered on their cloaks.

The mark of the guild.

And Thorne walked at their center.

The mask slipped into place as naturally as breathing. Thorne activated Sculpted Persona, the subtle skill reshaping his posture, his bearing. His shoulders squared, his stride lengthened, his head tilted slightly upward with the confidence of someone who owned the space he walked through.

The tension in his muscles faded, replaced by a languid grace, as though he belonged in this parade of wealth and status. His glowing eyes dimmed to a soft, otherworldly shimmer, just enough to be noticeable, but not overpowering.

The crowd reacted. Conversations faltered. Eyes shifted. Some stared openly, murmuring behind gloved hands.

The nobles had seen him before, some as Uncle's obedient shadow while others knew him as an eccentric noble from the other side of the kingdom. Now, he walked at the center of his own procession, ringed by a dozen of the deadliest assassins in Alvar, a silent, lethal force that matched his every movement. No longer a ward. No longer a background figure.

He was a power. And they knew it.

Conversations died.

Gazes shifted, some bold, others wary, lingering on his face, his glowing eyes. Whispers spread in his wake, low murmurs exchanged behind lace gloves and gilded fans. Some nobles averted their gazes, pretending disinterest, while others openly gawked, like prey watching a predator pass too close.

Even among the Thornfield banners waving overhead, the message was clear. Thorne Silverbane was no mere servant. He was Uncle's heir.

And with that realization came fear.

Not a word needed to be spoken. Thorne Silverbane had arrived.

The grand staircase loomed before him, the towering double doors of the governing building framed with gilded carvings, each panel etched with depictions of Alvar's long and bloody history. The city's victories, its struggles, stories told in polished gold and burnished oak.

The Thornfield guards stationed at the entrance wore their house colors proudly green trimmed with gold. But at the sight of Thorne's procession, their expressions shifted from stiff professionalism to uncertainty.

They exchanged a glance, the tension evident as one nodded almost imperceptibly before both moved in sync, gripping the massive doors and pulling them open with a groaning creak.

They didn't question him.

They didn't need to.

Thorne stepped forward, the Lost Ones moving seamlessly with him, an extension of his will. Their cloaks whispered softly against the marble floor, the silver spiral sigils flashing in the moonlight as they fell into formation, four ahead of him, eight behind, an unspoken barrier between him and the world.

The entrance hall swallowed him in grandeur.

A massive domed ceiling stretched above, painted with celestial patterns, the architecture ancient yet meticulously maintained. Crystal chandeliers hung heavy overhead, their fractured light casting dancing patterns across the white marble floor veined with gold. Servants scurried along the edges of the hall, their heads bowed, while more Thornfield banners draped along the pillars, a show of dominance.

Yet Thorne barely registered the splendor.

His focus stayed on the figures beyond, lords and ladies in their finest silks and brocades, some lingering at the edges of the hall, others in the midst of hushed conversations. The scent of perfumes clung heavy in the air, mingling with the faint traces of wine and candlewax.

And the stares... More of them now.

Some noble faces he recognized, men and women who had once turned their noses up at him during his days as an invisible shadow. They watched him now with a mixture of curiosity and caution.

Respect.

Fear.

Power.

And through it all, Thorne knew who truly held control.

The Lost Ones weren't just his escort; they were a declaration.

A warning.

And Uncle would be waiting.

Thorne's gaze locked onto him. Uncle.

The center of attention.

He stood with calculated ease, surrounded by Alvar's most powerful figures. Lord Thornfield with his smug satisfaction poorly masked beneath his forced smile, Lord Viremont in his rich red velvet, still wearing that ridiculous hat, the weight of which seemed to bother him more than the bloodshed that had brought him here. To Uncle's right, Lord Rook with his sharp, predatory stare and half-smirk, already calculating his next move, and finally, Lady Langston, the old woman framed in pale silks, gaze sharp as glass, as if already plotting how to turn this victory into profit.

And in the center of them all, as if the entire city revolved around him, Uncle. His arms spread wide in apparent magnanimity, yet his every movement carefully measured, the slight upward curl of his lips too precise to be genuine.

The moment Uncle's eyes found him, there was no mistaking it. Pride.

But something else lingered beneath that satisfaction.

Caution.

Thorne could see the moment Uncle registered how the Lost Ones flanked him, not just as bodyguards but as a force. How they subtly shifted with every step, flowing around him like shadows drawn to their master. Protective. Controlled. Deadly.

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The realization struck Uncle, his lips parting slightly, his smile faltering for just a heartbeat as he processed the shift in dynamic.

Thorne smirked inwardly.

If I wasn't so dead set on ending you… he thought, his eyes narrowing with amusement. I would've loved to snatch the Lost Ones from your grip completely.

It was perfect.

They didn't orbit Uncle anymore.

They orbited him.

Yet outwardly, his expression remained composed, perfectly neutral. He let the smirk die before it reached his lips. No need to reveal his thoughts. He was calm, in control, as he approached the gathering of Alvar's elite, though the power they had once wielded felt diminished compared to the weight of the black-clad sentinels standing silently at his back.

As Thorne closed the distance, the Lost Ones did not melt back into the shadows as they once would have.

They lingered.

Two remained just behind him, standing in plain view. Four others fanned out across the edges of the grand hall, visible but silent. Not threatening. But unmistakable.

They wanted to be seen.

And Uncle noticed.

His gaze shifted once more, flicking between Thorne and his silent guards. His jaw tensed ever so slightly.

But then he recovered, plastering that same victorious grin back onto his face as Thorne finally stopped before them.

For his part, Thorne bowed, just enough to be respectful but not submissive. The perfect balance.

"Uncle," he murmured, his voice even and smooth.

"My dear boy!" Uncle's voice was warm, exaggerated. Too loud for sincerity. "Welcome! Welcome to the newly formed city council!"

The nobles around them nodded stiffly, some with tight smiles, others merely acknowledging him with silent appraisal.

Thorne's glowing eyes swept across them as he straightened.

Lord Thornfield, smug but guarded. Viremont, smug but cautious. Lady Langston, calculating. Rook, reluctant and fearful.

Thorne's expression softened, his Mask of Deceit working its magic as he offered a perfectly measured smile.

"A great honor," he replied smoothly, letting the warmth in his voice ring genuine as he addressed each noble in turn. "And I extend my sincerest congratulations for this… hard-fought victory. Truly, Alvar is fortunate to have such fine leadership in these trying times."

The words were as hollow as the toast Uncle had made hours earlier, but they sounded convincing.

Even Uncle seemed pleased.

And as Thorne stepped into their circle, speaking as if he belonged among them, the Lost Ones remained close, no longer hidden tools of power.

Now, they were part of it.

And so was he.

The hours Thorne spent with the newly formed city council were, to him, an elaborate exercise in endurance. Discussions, though seemingly focused on Alvar's reconstruction, often devolved into gloating and boasts about their victory. Plans were laid out to reward loyalists with positions of influence while harsh retributions were proposed for those who had supported the Ravencourts and Lockeridges.

Most of the talk though centered on punishment. The nobles were eager to divide the spoils of war, debating which estates and lands to confiscate and how to make examples of Ravencourt and Lockridge loyalists. The cruelty of their proposals made Thorne's stomach churn, but he masked his disgust with disinterested calm.

He spoke only when necessary. Each suggestion he made was measured, careful to reveal neither too much ambition nor disinterest. Yet, his subtle comments about rebuilding infrastructure or creating opportunities for common folk were met with lukewarm responses. The council's focus remained on solidifying their newfound power rather than repairing the fractured city.

Thorne's patience was further tested when Lady Langston cornered him. With a honeyed smile and sharp, calculating eyes, she subtly angled their conversation toward her granddaughter, Sabine. Thorne's memories of Sabine painted her as insufferable, an arrogant, prying noblewoman who had looked down on him when she believed him to be of minor status.

Now, Sabine's demeanor had transformed. She fluttered her lashes, spoke in soft tones, and made attempts to appear demure. The stark difference between her previous condescension and this newfound allure was almost amusing. Thorne, however, hid his disdain behind a mask of polite aloofness, answering her probing questions with noncommittal words and subtle deflections.

Lady Langston's gaze darted between her granddaughter and Thorne, her ambitions plainly etched across her face. Thorne endured the exchange, inwardly rolling his eyes.

What finally broke the monotony of the evening was the tension brewing between Uncle and Lord Thornfield. Across the room, Thorne noticed the two men speaking in low, urgent tones. Their faces were masks of civility, but their stiff postures and the sharpness of their gestures betrayed their frustration.

Thorne tilted his head, his interest piqued. Uncle's jaw tightened, and Thornfield's hand hovered near his side as though resisting the urge to make a grand, angry gesture. Whatever they were discussing, it wasn't going well.

When the two men slipped out of the reception area, Thorne excused himself. He didn't need to force his curiosity, his instincts screamed that whatever they were discussing was important.

The reception area, so meticulously restored for the celebration, gave way to the stark reality of the building's other sections. Here, the scars of the recent battle remained unhealed. Shattered glass crunched beneath his boots, and scorch marks marred the walls. The remnants of overturned furniture and hastily discarded weaponry cluttered the halls.

Thorne activated his Tracking skill, but the sheer number of overlapping footprints muddled his search. Each corridor seemed to branch into another maze-like path, and frustration prickled at him. He passed through rooms bearing signs of hurried attempts at cleaning but found no sign of his uncle or Thornfield.

Realizing he was wasting time, Thorne decided to return to the party. As he neared the reception area, however, Lord Thornfield stormed past him. The noble's face was twisted in fury, but as he stepped into the party, his expression smoothed into one of neutral civility, as if the moment of anger had never existed.

That was all the confirmation Thorne needed. He turned away from the party and activated his Tracking skill once more. This time, the trail was clear: Thornfield's hurried steps led back to the room he had departed with Uncle. The glowing imprints of boots in his vision painted a distinct path.

He followed the trail with measured steps, his mind already crafting the mask he'd wear when confronting the truth.

The room was dimly lit, the faint glow of lanterns barely reaching the high ceilings. Rows of shelves lined the walls, stacked with old documents and scrolls. Uncle sat at the far end of the room, a half-filled goblet in his hand. He didn't flinch when Thorne pushed the door open softly, stepping in with the grace of a shadow. The silence was thick, broken only by the faint creak of the door hinges.

"You look troubled, Uncle," Thorne said, his voice light but laced with a tinge of concern. He didn't ask permission to enter, he simply did, gliding forward and leaning casually against the heavy oak table. "I wasn't expecting to find you here, alone."

Uncle's gaze snapped to him, his expression hard and suspicious. "What do you want, boy?"

Thorne smirked inwardly but kept his expression carefully neutral. The edge in Uncle's tone betrayed his unease. Good. Let him think I know more than I do.

"Want? Nothing," Thorne said, swirling the wine in his goblet lazily. "I just couldn't help but notice Lord Thornfield's little tantrum earlier. Storming out like that, face red as a beet. What was it this time? Did someone deny him the right shade of velvet for his coat?"

Uncle snorted, but his grip on the goblet tightened. "Thornfield is... agitated," he muttered. "The fool lets his ambition cloud his judgment."

Thorne tilted his head, feigning agreement. "It must be exhausting, managing all these alliances. Thornfield, Viremont... even Lord Rook. I don't know how you keep them all in line."

Flatter him, but sow doubt, Thorne thought, watching Uncle's reaction closely. The older man grunted, his jaw tightening just enough to betray his irritation. He doesn't trust them entirely. That's good. Push a little more.

"You've done so much for them," Thorne continued, letting his tone turn almost wistful. "Pulled strings, made sacrifices. And yet, some of them still act as though they're the ones running the show."

Uncle's gaze sharpened. "What are you trying to say?"

Thorne met his eyes, letting his glowing gaze linger for a fraction too long before shifting his attention to the shelves as if bored. "Nothing at all," he said lightly. "It's just that Thornfield seemed... rattled earlier. I wonder what might've caused that."

Uncle growled low in his throat, the sound reverberating in the silence. "He's an idiot. Always questioning my decisions as if he could do better."

Thorne hid his satisfaction behind a sip of wine. Good. He's slipping. "Well, if it makes you feel any better," he said with a faint smile, "I told him as much earlier. Men like him don't understand the long game. They mistake patience for hesitation."

Uncle's glare softened, and he leaned back in his chair. "Exactly. He doesn't see the bigger picture. None of them do."

Thorne allowed a hint of surprise to touch his features. "Oh?" he murmured, his tone just curious enough to prompt Uncle to continue.

Uncle hesitated, and Thorne could practically see the war raging behind his eyes. He wants to tell me. To gloat. But he doesn't trust me fully, not even after everything. Time to push.

"You're the only one with the vision to see this through, Uncle," Thorne said, his voice low and conspiratorial. He leaned forward, resting an elbow on the table and fixing Uncle with a steady gaze. "I've always known that. Thornfield might bluster, but we both know who truly holds the strings."

Uncle's lips twitched into a wolfish grin, his ego stoked. "Damn right," he said, taking a long sip of wine. "Thornfield can complain all he wants, but he'll do as he's told. They all will."

"And that's why you'll win," Thorne said smoothly. "Because you act while others hesitate. Whatever you and Thornfield discussed earlier, I'm sure it's already handled."

Uncle stiffened, his grin fading. Too vague? No, he's on edge. Time to bait him with doubt.

"Unless..." Thorne let the word hang, his gaze dropping to the goblet in his hands as if he was hesitant to continue. "Unless Thornfield managed to change your mind about something."

Uncle's knuckles whitened around his goblet. "Change my mind?" he snapped. "Hardly. That spineless fool doesn't have the backbone to challenge me."

Thorne tilted his head, his glowing eyes narrowing slightly. "Then you must've been... persuading him. About what, exactly?"

Uncle slammed the goblet onto the table, the liquid sloshing over the rim. "Enough with the riddles, boy," he barked. "I don't need to explain myself to you."

Thorne raised his hands in mock surrender, his expression serene. "Of course not, Uncle. I just worry, that's all. You've taught me so much about strategy, about power. I hate to think anyone might jeopardize what you've built."

Uncle stared at him for a long moment, his breathing heavy. Then, finally, he smirked, his ego winning out over caution. "Jeopardize?" he sneered. "Not likely. Thornfield may whine, but he'll fall in line once he sees the results. I've already ensured it."

Thorne arched an eyebrow, leaning back against the table. "Results?"

Uncle's grin widened, his eyes gleaming with malice. "You don't need to concern yourself with that. Just know that by this time tomorrow, the Ravencourts will be finished. Thornfield can whine all he wants, but when their blood stains his enemies' lands, he'll know who truly holds the reins."

Thorne's glowing eyes flickered, though he kept his face impassive. "Oh?"

Uncle leaned forward, his grin wolfish. "The Lost Ones are handling it as we speak. Every last Ravencourt will be wiped from the map."

Thorne's glowing eyes flickered, though he kept his face composed. Satisfaction curled in his chest; Uncle had played right into his hands. Yet dread coiled in the pit of his stomach, sharp and unforgiving. Selene.

"Efficient," he said, his tone carefully measured. "And thorough."

Uncle leaned back, smirking as he swirled the wine in his goblet. "Of course. That's why I win, boy. Because I act when others hesitate."

Thorne tilted his head slightly, his hands clasped casually behind his back to disguise the tension crackling through him. His gaze stayed fixed on Uncle, every muscle in his body taut, though his voice remained cool. "Bold moves, as always. Let me know if there's anything I can do to ensure success. After all, we wouldn't want any loose ends."

Uncle snorted, waving a dismissive hand. "Hardly necessary. It's already as good as done."

As Uncle took another sip of his wine, Thorne's satisfaction soured, overtaken by the icy grip of reality. Every last Ravencourt, Uncle had said. Thorne could only picture Selene, her face pale and defiant as shadows closed in. The thought sent his heart pounding against his ribs.

Uncle chuckled to himself, too preoccupied to notice the storm brewing behind Thorne's glowing eyes. "Yes, boy," Uncle drawled, raising his goblet as though in triumph. "Victory is already ours."

Thorne dipped his head in acknowledgment, his voice steady even as his mind churned. "To victory," he murmured, though his tone held no warmth.

As Uncle basked in his self-satisfaction, Thorne turned to leave, his movements fluid but stiff with restraint. A tide of emotions crashed against his control, triumph for manipulating Uncle so deftly, yet dread for the consequences of what he'd learned. With every step he took away from the room, one thought loomed above the rest: Selene doesn't have much time.

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