Thorne didn't ease into the meeting, he seized it.

He moved through the chamber like he already owned the place, each step deliberate, eyes roaming across the crates, the busy workers, the shifting lanternlight. It wasn't arrogance for its own sake; it was a test.

He wanted to see who flinched. Who watched. Who deferred.

When he reached the table, he didn't wait for permission. He looked around the room, as though expecting to find the service lacking. "If we're going to talk business," he said, his tone polite but dripping with condescension, "I'll need a chair. And something to drink. Wine, preferably. If I'm to sit through a negotiation, I'd rather not do it parched."

The effect was immediate. The room stiffened.

One of the guards shifted his weight, uncertain whether to throw Thorne out or run him through. Callun's quill froze mid-line, the tip of it splattering ink across the parchment. Velka straightened from her corner, the lamplight catching on her sharp canines as a low growl rose from her throat.

Humus's small, ring-heavy fingers tapped against the table once. The sound was sharp, metallic, and carried the unspoken command that stilled the room.

For a moment, the halfling just stared at Thorne, eyes glittering with faint amusement. Then his lips parted in a small, polished smile that did nothing to hide his anger. "Of course," he said softly, voice almost syrupy. "My guest should be comfortable."

Thorne smiled back as though they were sharing an inside joke. So, he thought, the man's temper isn't far from the surface. Noted.

A chair was produced at once, dragged across the floor by one of the smaller workers, followed by a goblet filled with dark wine.

Thorne sank into the chair with all the ease of a noble in his salon, crossing one leg over the other, swirling the glass idly. He caught Velka's reflection in the wine, a predator watching, measuring.

He took a sip, paused, and grimaced theatrically. "You're not a wine connoisseur, I take it, Mister Humus," he said, inspecting the liquid as though it had offended him personally. "Because this thing tastes like piss."

The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut.

For a moment, Humus's pleasant mask twitched. The smile remained, but his eyes narrowed, the fine skin around them tightening just enough to betray the effort of restraint. His stubby fingers clenched together, the gold rings biting faintly into flesh.

Thorne watched with the calm interest of a scholar observing a specimen in a jar. There it is, he thought. He doesn't have the skill to hide it. No real mask, no discipline, just a temper wrapped in manners.

The halfling chuckled then, brittle and hollow. "You have… refined tastes," he said. The laugh was short, mechanical, like someone who had practiced charm without understanding it. "I'm afraid the vintages around here are a little rough for noble palates."

Thorne smiled faintly. "I'm not picky. Only honest."

Humus's smile faltered for a fraction of a second before he smoothed it over again. "Let's speak of honesty, then," he said, tone sharpening as he leaned forward. "How does a man like you come into possession of materials like the ones you presented? You see, I have a friend pursuing the same goods. Wealthy, resourceful fellow. Yet he hasn't managed to secure a single reliable source."

Thorne let out a low laugh, genuine amusement coloring the sound. "You mean Brennak? Oh, I've seen how good friends you are."

Humus's expression froze.

Thorne swirled his wine lazily. "You even sent a few of your people to strengthen the friendship, didn't you? A kind gesture. Pity it ended badly."

Humus's brows knit faintly. "Badly?"

"Mm," Thorne said lightly, as if reminiscing about something trivial. "They attacked Brennak's shop. I killed them."

The words landed like a thunderclap.

All sound in the room died. The workers froze mid-motion, even the flickering lanternlight seemed to hesitate. Callun's quill snapped between his fingers.

Velka pushed off the wall in a single fluid movement, claws extending from her fingers, her pupils slitting into vertical lines of molten gold. "You..." she snarled, her voice half a roar. "You were the one who killed Rekk and Tharn?"

Thorne turned his head toward her, his expression unreadable but his eyes gleaming faintly with amusement. "To be fair, I didn't know they worked for your boss," he said coolly. "I was just defending myself."

Then he looked back at Humus, the faintest edge of mockery in his tone. "You might consider hiring better help, though. Those two were a joke."

That broke her.

Velka's growl deepened into a snarl, and she stepped forward, the air around her trembling with the scent of ozone and fury.

Velka moved faster than most men could blink, a blur of tawny fur and gold eyes streaking from the shadows. Her claws flashed like knives, each strike aimed to disembowel.

Thorne didn't flinch.

Still seated, one hand resting lazily on the arm of his chair, the other lifting his wand just slightly, he whispered a thought and the air bent.

A faint ripple shimmered around him like distorted glass, the sigils of his Arcane Shield flaring into life with a crystalline hum. Velka's claws struck home, hard, but met invisible resistance. Sparks of raw force burst outward, blue light scattering like shattered starlight.

Velka snarled, muscles straining, her claws scraping against invisible glass. "You little..."

The impact rang through the chamber, a sound of claw on barrier that made the workers duck and the mages turn sharply. Velka's face twisted with rage as she pressed harder, snarling, her muscles straining.

Thorne's eyes narrowed. Enough.

He took a calculated risk. The mages would feel it, he knew they would, but that only made the test sharper. He reached, not into himself, but into the world around him.

He called the ambient aether.

It stirred instantly, rushing to him like dust drawn into a storm. He molded it with will alone, weaving it into form. Invisible threads, pure, formless power, slithered through the air like phantom vines. They coiled around Velka's limbs mid-lunge, unseen and silent, constricting her in an instant.

No one saw what happened. One moment she was springing toward him, the next her body froze midair, then slammed into the stone floor with a force that cracked it, the breath knocked from her lungs.

A stunned silence swept the room.

Thorne exhaled slowly, his expression indifferent. The wand still rested loosely in his hand. He looked down at the fallen beastkin as though mildly inconvenienced by her noise.

Then he felt the flare of another presence.

A burst of violet light flashed to his right. One of the mages, his face sharp, pale with fury, thrust a hand forward, muttering an incantation under his breath. A lance of pure, condensed aether streaked toward Thorne's flank, the one place his shield didn't reach.

The mage was fast, but Thorne was faster.

He didn't lift his wand this time. He didn't need to.

He reached out with his mind, using for the first time his new ability, Arcane Harvest, feeling the structure of the incoming spell, the lattice of intent and element, the pulse of refined aether. His will lashed out, hooking into it, commanding the ambient energy to unravel it piece by piece.

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The bolt flew for a few seconds but instead of detonating, it withered. Its color dulled, unraveling midair into threads of light that spiraled toward Thorne, streaming into him like rivers returning to the sea, countless motes of a soft blue glow that only he could see.

The stolen aether flowed into him, a quiet rush of power sinking into his core.

The mage's eyes went wide. "What... what did you..."

Thorne met his eyes, one brow arching in mock apology. "Nice spell," he said. "I'll take it."

The mage froze, mouth half open, as Thorne's gaze slid past him to another guard charging in from the periphery. Without breaking his seated composure, he turned Ashthorn just slightly. A ripple of pale light gathered at its tip, then erupted.

The blast struck the guard center mass, throwing him backward into a crate. The wood splintered; the man didn't get up, chest blackened by the blast, the smell of scorched flesh curling through the air.

Velka thrashed, snarling, but the invisible bindings only tightened, unseen and merciless. Her claws gouged furrows into the stone, her breath ragged, muscles trembling under invisible strain.

All around, Humus's people froze in horrified disbelief.

And still, Thorne didn't move. He sat like a man idly watching a play, one leg crossed over the other, wand resting against his knee, eyes glimmering with faint blue light.

A bead of sweat rolled down Callun's temple. The scribes stopped writing. Even the ley line beneath the building seemed to hold its breath.

Then...

"ENOUGH!"

The word detonated like a bomb.

It wasn't loud, it was sharp, carrying the weight of command, of fury barely kept in check. The lanterns guttered, the sound of coins spilling stopped mid-clink, and even Velka froze mid-snarl.

Humus stood now, tiny frame trembling with rage, his rings flashing in the flickering light. His eyes were pits of black fury, his jaw clenched so tight his teeth creaked.

The silence that followed was absolute.

Thorne, unruffled, let the faint hum of aether fade around him. The threads unwound quietly, dissipating into the stale air as if they had never existed.

He set Ashthorn down on the table beside his half-finished glass of wine, looking at the halfling with calm curiosity.

The faintest smile ghosted across his lips.

Humus's knuckles had gone white around the edge of the table, but the smile he wore was all polish and mockery, too practiced to be genuine. "I think you've given us our measure," he said, voice smooth as varnish. "If you'd be so kind as to stop the theatrics. We are all friends here."

Thorne let the mask slip. It was subtle, a tightening at the mouth, the humor draining from his eyes until they were nothing but cold flint. The change landed like a physical thing across the room; heads turned, a dozen small animal noises of surprise rising and then dying. For a beat everyone held their breath waiting to see if the performance would snap back into place. Humus, however, did not flinch. If anything, the halfling's smile sharpened as if he'd expected the reveal all along.

"We are not friends, Humus," Thorne said, voice low and precise, each word carved from ice. "But we could be."

The halfling's rings clicked softly as he folded his hands. "Do go on."

Thorne's stare did not waver. "I apologize your test failed so spectacularly." He allowed a slow, almost indulgent shrug. "If you had managed to kill me, every last harvested part would have been yours." He let the sentence relieve tension like air from a heavy bellows. "If you had simply frightened me, left me rattled and bargaining from the edge of panic, you would have had the price and the advantage. You expected fear. You expected a plea. You expected to drive a hard bargain."

Humus's smile was a thin thing now. "And?"

Thorne leaned forward a fraction, the motion small but sharp. "Truly, I'm sorry it didn't play out that way." He tapped a finger once against the wood, a quiet punctuation. "But, here's the thing, we could still be friends. I will even accept a lower price for these goods." His voice was deceptively casual. "Why? Because I want us to work together."

There it was, a measure of caution, and beneath it, the faint gleam of interest in the halfling's slanted eyes. Curiosity is a dangerous thing to show in a place like this, but Humus let it show. "Why come to me, Mister Thorne, and not sell to the highest bidder?" he asked, tone curious, already tasting possibilities.

Thorne's answer was flat and quick. "We have a common enemy."

Humus' lips formed the shape of the word before he heard it; the name hovered in the air between them like a spice. "Brennak?" he mouthed, slow. Understanding rippled through his features, but it was tangled with further questions, suspicion and calculation.

"I don't suffer slights well," Thorne said, fingers tightening on the rim of his glass until the faint ring of aether traced his skin. "When someone wrongs me, I take it personally. So personally that I could, if I chose, destroy an underground market..." He let his words hang in the air for a moment.

Velka's head snapped up. "You!" she began, surprise coloring her voice.

Humus held up a hand to silence her, his gaze locked on Thorne with intense, measuring focus. He didn't look surprised at the claim; if anything, he looked amused. "You say you were the one to have destroyed Brennak's market." The halfling's interest folded into a thin, hungry smile.

"And from what I heard you've benefited from my little… revenge." His glance slid to Velka, then back. "New products flooding the city, new stores opening left and right, now that Brennak's business is going under... I think a thank you is in order."

Humus didn't react, but he could see the tightening of his lips. The man hated being told what to do...

Thorne inclined his chin, the motion casual as a bow and twice as dangerous. "I removed two of your men in the course of defending myself. I didn't know whose hands they answered. I only knew they were dangerous, and I responded accordingly." He watched the halfling's face for the flicker of recognition. "News travels. Word reached my ears that you had taken a small sting out of Brennak. I thought, why not align with the one who hurts the man I hate?"

Humus's fingers tapped the table again, slow and deliberate. Around them, the chamber hummed under the weight of the unspoken calculus. Traders shifted their feet. The two mages at the crate exchanged a look that mixed fascination with thin dread. Velka's muscles strained; she still looked ready to erupt, but her master's hold, measured, absolute, kept the beast in check.

"So," Humus said at last, voice soft and dangerous, "what is it exactly you are after?"

Thorne let the question hang. He toyed with the rim of his glass, eyes drifting over the scattered coins and the faint, inner glow of the reagents. For a breath he played the part of a man weighing desire against price, slow, deliberate. Then he answered, as if the notion had only just occurred to him. "Partners."

Humus's face tightened in a way that nearly betrayed him; the halfling's mouth froze for a heartbeat before smoothing back into that practiced smile. Thorne let that small victory live inside him a second longer, then leaned forward and added with a cool, casual amusement, "In crime."

The words landed like a blade. Silence condensed in the room; even Velka's muscles eased a fraction, her posture a coiled spring. Thorne kept his voice light, conversational, as if talking of weather. "I will work for you. I'll expand your reach in the city, supply you with goods like these". He nodded to the marrowstone and membrane, "for a fair price, of course. I'll help you remove competition. I'm very skilled, if you haven't noticed." He let the sentence settle, and then he dropped the condition, simple, brutal. "In exchange, bring down Brennak."

Humus sat back, eyes unfocused as if some private ledger were being scrawled across his mind. For a long minute he weighed the danger, an unknown variable that could pay off handsomely or blow his operations to ruin. The chamber held its breath. Scribes stopped their pens; crates were left half-open; even the flicker of the colored lanterns seemed to pause.

"Is that really all you want?" Humus asked finally, as though hoping for strings.

"Yes," Thorne replied, steady. "Bring down Brennak."

"Callun!" Humus snapped without looking up. The scribe, as if waking from a stupor, jumped and hurried forward. The aetheric chain linking him to Humus pulsed as he approached, eyes glazed with the habituation of his task.

The scribe bent and, with thin, trembling voice, confirmed, "He speaks the truth, Master."

Thorne watched Callun with a flicker of interest. The man's hands were ink-stained; his shoulders bowed with fatigue. In the corner of Thorne's mind he catalogued the detail, why was such a truth-sayer bound here? A social skill, or a utility? How had Humus captured such a thing and bent it to his books? Questions skittered at the edges of his attention, then were pushed down; there was business to be done.

Humus blinked, a small, puzzled crease forming between his brows. "Why not simply kill Brennak, then?" he asked, genuine confusion furrowing his face. "Cut the head off the market and take your revenge."

Thorne let out a half-scoff, the motion deliberate. The room hung on it. He felt the pull of the moment, Callun's thin testimony, the watchful eyes of Velka and the mages. He needed to shape perception. Quietly, he reached for the skill he had saved him countless times, Echoes of Truth. He wrapped the phrase around his next words, lending their tone a gravity that made them land heavier, edged with a sincerity tuned to unsettle the scribe and harden the halfling's curiosity.

"I don't want him dead," he said, every syllable steady and resonant. "I want him ruined. Humiliated. Penniless. Stripped of every contact and conduit he uses to breathe life into that market. I want him to stand in the ruins of everything he built and know, down to the last coin, that he lost it because he misjudged who he trampled."

A dozen reactions flickered across the room: curiosity, horror, the slow, greedy calculation in Humus's eyes. Velka's lips pulled back in a snarl of disbelief but also a strange kind of respect. Callun's thin face tightened; whatever truth-skill bound him made the certainty of Thorne's words land like a hammer.

Humus threw his hands up in exasperation, the sound small and absurd in his polished voice. "What has that brain-rotted dwarf done to make an enemy of someone like you?" he demanded, incredulous and a little thrilled at the same time.

Thorne's smile was cold and small. He watched the halfling closely, letting the implication settle. "He underestimated me," he said simply. The phrase was a challenge and a promise both; it left Humus with a small, involuntary flicker of respect buried beneath the warning glare.

For a long, tense moment the two men simply looked at one another, measuring, calculating. Around them the chamber hummed again, the ley-line underneath reminding them that the world outside their deals still had teeth. Then Humus nodded very slowly, the motion almost imperceptible but absolute.

"Very well," he said at last, voice measured. "We will speak terms."

Velka's stance tightened a fraction, her golden eyes never leaving Thorne. Callun backed away, the tethering chain between scribe and master flaring like a compass needle realigning. As the men around the table stepped forward to draw up ledgers and discuss percentages, Thorne allowed himself one last glance around the room, then turned that small attention back to the table of coin and paper and possibilities.

He had his foothold. The game had begun.

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