Thorne turned slowly, his bare feet scraping against the icy stone floor, the sound low and grating in the charged silence. He cracked his neck with deliberate nonchalance, letting out a soft sigh. Of course, it was him. He wasn't surprised in the slightest to see Rafe standing there, that damn smirk plastered across his face like a badge of superiority. How many times had that smirk set Thorne's blood boiling? How many times had it dared him to lash out, to rise to Rafe's taunts?

But now, here in this strange, suffocating place, Thorne found he didn't have the energy to muster anger. There was no fire, no immediate urge to retaliate. Instead, a quiet weariness settled over him as he studied the boy—no, the young man—he had once known so well.

Rafe, standing with the casual arrogance of someone who felt right at home in the chaos, looked unchanged and yet entirely different. His dark hair, disheveled but deliberate, framed sharp eyes that missed nothing. That self-assured tilt of his head, the cocky stance, the almost theatrical air of disdain—it was all so familiar. Yet there was an edge to him now, a hardness that had grown like armor, making him sharper, colder.

Rafe's smirk faltered, just for a moment, when Thorne failed to react the way he used to. There was a flicker of something—uncertainty, maybe—but it was buried quickly beneath a new smirk, more forced than the first.

"So," Rafe drawled, his voice oozing with mockery, "they finally decided you were worth something. About damn time."

The chuckle that followed was low and cutting, echoed dutifully by the two older recruits flanking him. The sound bounced off the stone walls, grating on Thorne's nerves like nails on glass.

But instead of rising to the bait, instead of letting Rafe get under his skin, Thorne sighed again and rolled his eyes, a gesture so dismissive it bordered on insulting.

The tension in the air thickened, pressing down on them like a suffocating fog. Thorne could feel it, the weight of unspoken words, the crackling anticipation of violence. He noticed Vance, hovering just behind him, taking a cautious step back. The boy's nervous energy was palpable, his gaze darting between Thorne and Rafe like he was preparing to dodge an incoming blow.

Thorne's eyes swept over Rafe, taking in the sight of his old friend—or enemy, depending on the day— cataloguing every detail. The standard uniform of the older recruits clung to him with an ease that suggested it had been earned. Twin short swords hung at his hips, their hilts polished and worn from use. The glint of steel caught Thorne's eye—dagger hilts tucked neatly into his boots, weapons hidden but not out of reach. This wasn't the Rafe Thorne had grown up with, the boy who had been an infuriating rival one day and a grudging ally the next.

No, this Rafe was something else entirely—honed, dangerous, and utterly unapologetic. Whatever he had been through since they last saw each other, it had carved him into a sharper blade.

Thorne met Rafe's eyes, his gaze steady and unyielding, and let a small, knowing smile tug at the corner of his mouth. "Still an ass, I see," he said, his voice carrying a deliberate mix of amusement and disdain, like the sting of a blade carefully wielded.

Rafe froze, his signature smirk slipping as if wiped clean. For a brief moment, a flicker of uncertainty flashed across his face before being quickly buried under a scowl. His eyes darted to the two older boys flanking him, seeking reassurance, but the damage had been done. The quiet insult had landed perfectly, and the tension crackling between them deepened.

The older boys, both towering and armed, bristled visibly. Their hands twitched towards their weapons, their eyes burning with barely concealed anger. Thorne barely spared them a glance. To him, they were nothing more than Rafe's hired muscle, loyal only so long as their own egos were fed. They didn't matter.

Rafe, however, was another story. Thorne could see the fury bubbling beneath the surface, could almost feel the heat of Rafe's embarrassment radiating off him. His face darkened to an angry shade of red, his lips curling into a snarl.

"You—how dare you—" Rafe began, his voice trembling with suppressed rage.

Thorne moved before Rafe could finish. His hand shot out with lightning speed, gripping Rafe's elbow with iron-like strength. The suddenness of the motion stunned Rafe, and he stumbled as Thorne yanked him forward. Gasps and murmurs rippled through the crowd of recruits watching from a distance. They leaned in, their curiosity piqued by the unexpected turn.

"What are you doing?" Rafe spat, his voice a mixture of indignation and alarm. He struggled against Thorne's grip, jerking his arm back in a futile attempt to free himself. But Thorne's hold only tightened, drawing a pained gasp from Rafe.

"How the hell are you so strong?" Rafe blurted out, genuine shock flashing across his face.

Thorne allowed himself a faint smirk. It was satisfying to see Rafe thrown off balance—literally and figuratively. For a moment, he had wondered if the year Rafe had spent with a core would have tipped the scales. But this struggle confirmed what he had hoped: Rafe hadn't caught up to him yet.

Without a word, Thorne dragged Rafe away, his steps purposeful as he headed for a shadowy alcove along the edge of the training area. The older boys hesitated, caught between their loyalty to Rafe and their instinct to avoid unnecessary confrontation.

When they reached the alcove, Thorne shoved Rafe away with a force that sent him stumbling. Rafe barely managed to stay on his feet, his hand shooting out to steady himself against the wall. He straightened quickly, his glare sharp and full of venom.

"Is this what you've been doing all these years?" Thorne asked, his voice low and edged with barely contained anger. His emotions, carefully bottled for so long, threatened to spill over. He wanted to hit Rafe, to wipe that sneer off his face once and for all. But he clenched his fists, reigning himself in. Acting on impulse would only feed into Rafe's games, and he couldn't afford that—not here.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

Rafe stepped forward, his posture aggressive, his body radiating challenge. But Thorne stood his ground, unmoving and unimpressed. His eyes met Rafe's without flinching, a silent declaration that he wasn't afraid. He had faced worse than Rafe, and he wasn't about to be intimidated now.

"You do not get to talk to me that way here," Rafe hissed, his voice low and dangerous, each word a sharp blade meant to cut. "You are to show respect!"

"Respect?" Thorne scoffed, spitting the word out like poison. "Respect for you?" He laughed, a harsh, biting sound that echoed through the narrow alcove, hollow and cold. "I think not."

Rafe's hands twitched toward his swords, the movement as much instinct as intent. "I am your elder here," he growled, his voice trembling with barely contained rage. "You will conduct yourself as is customary for the younger cousins!"

Thorne's gaze slid to the two older recruits standing behind Rafe, their postures stiff, their eyes glinting with unspoken threats. They had taken a step forward at Rafe's outburst, but Thorne noted the subtle flicker of hesitation in their eyes. They were waiting, unsure if they were meant to act or merely observe. He didn't miss the almost imperceptible shake of Rafe's head that stopped them in their tracks. Followers.

Thorne's lip curled in faint disdain. "So, you have lackeys now," he said, tilting his head toward the boys. "I guess that's why you disappeared and stopped hanging out with us. Too busy playing king of the hill?"

For the briefest moment, something like guilt flickered across Rafe's face—a crack in the mask he wore so tightly. But it vanished as quickly as it came, replaced by his trademark scowl. "You know damn well why I stopped coming!" Rafe snapped, his voice rising. "I'm sure your trainers have already informed you—you are not to leave the den until the first part of your training is complete."

"That was three years ago, Rafe!" Thorne's voice trembled with anger, sharp and cutting. "You had three years to tell us what was going on with you!"

Rafe's posture shifted, some of the bravado draining out of him. His shoulders slumped slightly, but his tone remained defensive. "I couldn't tell you! Are you dense? We're spies; we can't go around spilling secrets!"

Thorne shook his head, his disappointment palpable. "Not even to your friends?"

Rafe's eyes narrowed, his lips curling into a bitter sneer. "Yeah, right. Like your little group of misfits was heartbroken without me. I'm sure you all just carried on as if I never existed."

Thorne held Rafe's gaze, letting the weight of his next words settle. For the first time in a long while, he activated his skill, Echoes of Truth, weaving genuine emotion into his voice. "You may never have been my favorite person in the world, but I always considered you a friend. We've been through too much together for me to think otherwise."

He paused, letting the statement sink in, his Acting skill lending an air of sincerity to his expression. "But Darius? He was the most affected by your absence. Every time he sees you hanging out with these guys, his eyes take on this wounded look, like you kicked his favorite puppy. You know he was always protective of you, like a big brother. Now he thinks he failed you somehow, that it's his fault you turned away."

Rafe's hard exterior began to waver, cracks forming in the wall of arrogance he had built around himself. The guilt that had flickered earlier returned, this time staying longer. For a moment, his face was raw, vulnerable—a glimpse of the boy Thorne used to know before ambition and bitterness had taken hold.

Thorne pressed on, a gentle laugh escaping his lips to ease the tension. "And you know what's worse? Without you to look after, Darius has doubled down on us. Poor Ben can't even sneeze without Darius showing up with his guard buddies, ready to beat up anyone who looks at him funny. I swear, if someone accidentally bumps into him, they'll be lucky to leave with all their teeth."

A faint smile tugged at the corners of Rafe's mouth—a fleeting moment of shared memory breaking through the wall. A notification appeared in Thorne's vision:

Skill level up: Echoes of Truth.

Thorne dismissed it without hesitation, his focus entirely on the boy in front of him.

When Rafe spoke again, his voice was softer, the anger draining away and leaving behind something closer to regret. "I'm the big dog around here, Thorne," he muttered, his tone almost apologetic. "I'm the best of my year, and my year has seven squads—the biggest class since the organization was founded. I've earned respect here. People treat me like I'm somebody. I can't risk being associated with... the orphans. With a guard... or a mute."

The sincerity in Rafe's voice took Thorne by surprise, and that only made it more tragic. Rafe truly believed what he was saying—that his status here justified the bridges he had burned. As Thorne listened, a dull roar filled his ears, drowning out the words. It wasn't anger, not exactly. It was something colder, heavier—a realization.

Rafe hadn't been taken. He hadn't been forced. He had chosen this. The boy who had once fought beside them in the streets, who had laughed and bled with them, had abandoned them willingly. Not out of necessity, but ambition. And for Thorne, that was a far greater betrayal.

Thorne felt something cold and heavy settle in his chest, a dark knot of anger, betrayal, and sadness that defied easy explanation. It wasn't a fiery rage or a sharp stab of hurt—it was deeper, heavier, like an anchor dragging him down. For once, his carefully honed acting skill, the one that had gotten him out of so many dangerous situations, abandoned him.

The polite mask he usually wore cracked, his smile twisting into something jagged and razor-sharp. Rafe's cocky smirk faltered, his bravado dimming as fear flickered in his eyes.

The aether motes that always lingered on the edge of Thorne's awareness seemed to respond to the maelstrom within him, vibrating and swirling faster as if mirroring his turmoil. He drew them closer unconsciously, the faint glow of their presence pulsing faintly in the shadows around him. They coiled protectively, a silent testament to the storm he was barely containing. His instincts screamed at him to lash out, to strike and make Rafe feel even a fraction of the pain his words had caused.

But he didn't.

Rafe, perceptive in his own way, seemed to sense the shift in Thorne's energy. His jaw tightened, and whatever cutting remark he had prepared died on his lips. Thorne cracked his neck, the sound echoing in the narrow alcove like a whip crack, an effort to channel the tension coiled in his muscles into something else, anything else.

"I see," Thorne muttered finally, his voice flat, devoid of the warmth or wit it usually carried. The words weren't an acknowledgment so much as a dismissal, a judgment passed. When his eyes met Rafe's again, the older boy had gone pale, his confident facade crumbling.

For now, that was enough.

Thorne took a deliberate step back, his movements precise and controlled, the image of calm masking the tempest beneath. "I'll see you around, I guess," he said, his tone as indifferent as if he were commenting on the weather.

The deliberate coldness in his words seemed to cut deeper than any blade. He turned away without waiting for a response, his footsteps steady as he moved to leave.

"Wait! Thorne!" Rafe's voice cracked, desperation lacing his words, but Thorne didn't pause. He didn't so much as glance back.

He was done listening. Done hoping. Done with Rafe.

The sound of his footsteps echoed in the hallway, the only reminder of his presence as he disappeared into the shadows. The weight of the conversation hung heavy on his shoulders, like chains he couldn't shake off. The rift between them, once a small crack, had split wide open into a chasm neither of them could cross.

And yet, as Thorne walked away, leaving Rafe and whatever they'd once had behind, he couldn't shake the feeling that he'd lost something important—something he hadn't fully realized he needed until it was gone. A friend.

Maybe it was for the best. Maybe it wasn't. All Thorne knew was that whatever bond they'd shared was over.

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