Thorne's faint smile evaporated the moment he stood before the gilded double doors. The heavy atmosphere of Uncle's manor pressed down on him, each step closer feeling like a descent into a well-practiced nightmare. The doors, with their gaudy gilding and intricate carvings, were a perfect symbol of Uncle's world: excessive, opulent, and suffocating.

Two servants, stiff in their pristine uniforms, stood at attention. At Arletta's nod, they pushed the doors open, revealing the dining room beyond. It was a display of wealth, as over-the-top as Thorne remembered.

The room was a testament to excess. The walls were draped in colorful tapestries, and the chandeliers above sparkled with a thousand crystals, casting a glittering light over the gaudy gold and silver decorations that littered every surface. The sheer opulence was overwhelming, a display of wealth and power that Uncle had cultivated to impress the nobles of Alvar. To Thorne, it was a mockery—a hollow attempt to mask the decay and rot that lay beneath the surface.

Arletta, ever the consummate professional, stood at attention beside him. "My lord," she announced, her voice carrying the cold formality of a soldier addressing her superior, "Thorne has arrived to be in your presence."

The room fell into an eerie silence, broken only by the ticking of a grand clock that stood in the corner, its pendulum swinging with ominous precision. Thorne watched as Uncle rose from his seat at the far end of the room, his movements slow and deliberate. The man who had once been a formidable presence was now a bloated figure, swollen with years of indulgence. His body had grown soft and heavy, but his eyes—sharp, calculating, and as cold as ever—betrayed none of the weakness his frame suggested.

"Ah, Thorne," Uncle's voice echoed through the room, warm and syrupy, a deceptive contrast to the icy gaze that locked onto him. He held a goblet of wine in one hand, nearly spilling its contents as he stumbled forward with a forced grin. "My dear boy, come closer. Let me see what the Family has made of you."

Thorne's instincts screamed at him to keep his distance, to flee from the venomous embrace of this man who had caused him so much pain. But he had learned to suppress those instincts, to bury his fear beneath layers of calm detachment.

His Acting skill, honed through years of necessity, served him well now. He stepped forward with measured steps, keeping his posture relaxed, even as every fiber of his being tensed in preparation for the subtle battle ahead.

As he approached, Thorne could see the flicker of something dangerous behind Uncle's smile—a predatory glint that sent a chill down his spine. Uncle was smiling, yes, but it was a smile devoid of warmth or affection. It was the smile of a man who saw others as tools to be used and discarded when no longer useful.

"Closer," Uncle urged, his voice thick with a false tenderness that Thorne knew all too well. He stopped just short of reaching out to touch Thorne, his hand hovering in the air as if savoring the moment.

Thorne obliged, stopping a mere foot away from Uncle. His face remained impassive, his eyes cool and unreadable. "Uncle," he said, his voice steady, "it's good to see you again."

Uncle's smile widened, though there was nothing genuine about it. "Is it?" he asked, a trace of amusement in his tone as if he were sharing a private joke. He set down his goblet with a deliberate clink, the sound reverberating through the room like the toll of a bell making him want to flinch.

"I wonder, Thorne, what it is you truly see when you look at me."

Phantom pain bloomed in his body. Remnant of his previous visits. He knew if his answer was wrong, Uncle would get angry, and when Uncle got angry... He had the urge to curl into a ball and protect himself, but he fought against the urge.

Then Thorne felt the familiar surge of anger rise within him, but he quickly quelled it. This was a game—a deadly one, but one he had been forced to master. "I see the man who has shaped me," he replied carefully, choosing his words with precision, "the man whose vision I strive to uphold."

Uncle's chuckle was a dark, mirthless sound that sent a shiver down Thorne's spine. "Oh, you've learned well, haven't you?" Uncle stepped closer, his breath hot and reeking of wine. "Tell me, my boy, how does it feel to finally be molded into something useful?"

Thorne's lips twitched, but he maintained his composure. "It feels... necessary," he said, his tone as cool as the chill that pervaded the room. "The Family has taught me much, but it is your guidance that has given me purpose."

For a brief moment, Uncle's gaze softened, a flicker of something almost like pride in his eyes. But it was quickly replaced by the calculating look Thorne had come to know so well. "You've always been clever, Shortie," Uncle said, his voice almost admiring. "But cleverness can be a double-edged sword. Tell me, how is your training faring? Are you thriving among the other recruits? Or do you find yourself... stifled?"

Thorne knew this was more than a casual inquiry. Uncle was probing, searching for weaknesses, testing the limits of Thorne's loyalty. "The training is rigorous," Thorne admitted, knowing that honesty, tempered with caution, was his best defense. "But I've adapted. The others are... adequate."

Uncle's smirk deepened, his eyes glinting with a mix of amusement and indulgence. "Adequate? A polite way of saying beneath you, I'm sure. And what of the bonds you're forming? Are these... friendships... proving useful?"

Thorne's response was measured, controlled. "Everyone has their part to play," he said smoothly. "It's all about finding the right balance."

Uncle's laugh was harsh, tinged with contempt. "Balance? Balance is for those who don't have the stomach to rise above the filth. Those nobodies—those orphans—they're good enough for what they are, Thorne. Tools. Hired help. They will never be more than that."

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Thorne felt his anger flare, white-hot and toxic, ready to erupt. How dare he? Those "filthy orphans" were the foundation of Uncle's power, the very people who kept his empire running. Thorne himself had been one of those orphans, plucked from the streets and thrust into this world of blood and betrayal. The fury surged within him, threatening to consume his carefully crafted facade.

He fought to keep his true emotions hidden, feeling the pressure mounting as Uncle continued to speak, his words dripping with disdain. "When the evaluation from your trainers came, saying you exceed every expectation, outperforming every challenge, I considered moving you to another group, a more advanced one. those wretched orphans would only drag you down. You deserve better than to be held back by their incompetence."

Thorne's rage threatened to break free, his composure slipping for a brief moment. His Acting skill failed at the barrage of emotions, and he could feel it—the raw, seething anger clawing at the edges of his control. He was on the verge of being exposed, vulnerable before the man who would pounce on any sign of weakness. But just as he felt the cracks forming, a new notification appeared in his vision.

New skill unlocked: Mask of Deceit!

An unnatural calm washed over him, smoothing his features, relaxing his body in a way that felt disturbingly natural. Whatever turmoil he truly felt was now buried deep beneath a layer of perfect deceit. The mask slipped into place so effortlessly that it was as if it had always been there, waiting to be used.

Thorne's voice was smooth, betraying none of the turmoil within. "Placing me in a more advanced group might help in the short term, but it would be counterproductive in the long run. I need to understand how to work with others, even those who aren't as strong. It's a lesson in leadership, in patience. One I'm still learning."

Uncle narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing Thorne with a gaze that felt like it could pierce through steel. But after a long, tense moment, he nodded, seemingly satisfied. "That's what your trainers pointed out," he muttered. "Still, if you ever feel that anyone is getting in your way—anyone—you come to me. I'll have them removed. Permanently."

Uncle spoke with such casual ease, as if ordering the death of a fellow human being was no more significant than asking for a cup of tea. Thorne felt a cold shiver run down his spine, but his new skill allowed him to appear as indifferent as Uncle.

"There's no need," Thorne said, his tone light, almost careless. He knew that accepting even the smallest favor from Uncle would come with strings attached, strings that would tighten around his throat the moment he showed any sign of independence. "I can handle myself."

Uncle's gaze softened slightly, a complex mix of emotions flickering in his eyes—calculation, pride, weariness, and something that almost resembled affection. It was a strange, disconcerting sight, one that left Thorne feeling more unsettled than anything else. "I know you can, Shortie," Uncle said, a twisted smile forming on his lips. "I'm well aware. Leaving bodies in your wake is a trait you got from me. You are my son in every way that matters."

Shock shot through Thorne's system, the words hitting him like a punch to the gut. For a moment, he was overwhelmed by a whirlwind of conflicting emotions—disgust, horror, and an unwelcome, deep-seated yearning. It was a feeling he had fought against for so long, the desire to be recognized, to be acknowledged, to be seen as something more than just another pawn. And here it was, twisted and corrupted, coming from the very man who had shaped him into the person he had become.

Uncle was a cunning and powerful man, but he was also cruel and vicious. To be turning into him was...

But Thorne's face betrayed none of these emotions.

Skill level up: Mask of Deceit!

Skill level up: Mask of Deceit!

The notification flashed before his eyes as he offered Uncle a look of humble gratitude, his features arranged into a mask of supplication. "Thank you, Uncle," he murmured, his voice filled with the perfect mix of respect and deference.

"Let us eat, son," Uncle said, the word rolling off his tongue as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He shuffled to the extravagantly set dining table, where a servant immediately moved to help him sit.

Thorne followed, his mind still reeling from Uncle's words. The room seemed to blur around him as he moved to take his seat beside the man who claimed him as his own. The man who had shaped him, molded him, turned him into the weapon he was today.

As Thorne settled into his chair, he barely registered Uncle's voice droning on about some new recipe the cook had learned, the words slipping past him as he tried to anchor himself in the present. The sudden appearance of six footmen entering the dining room, each carrying plates laden with food, snapped his attention back to the room.

It was an extravagant feast, the likes of which Thorne had never seen before. Platters of roasted game, exotic fruits, delicately arranged pastries—every dish looked as if it had been crafted by an artist, each more opulent than the last. The footmen, clad in immaculate black and white uniforms, moved with a precision that bordered on unnatural, circling the table with military-like discipline as they began to serve the meal.

Thorne's gaze narrowed as he observed their movements. There was something off about the way they handled the plates, the way they balanced the trays with an effortless grace. It wasn't just the poise of well-trained servants; it was something more, something calculated and deadly.

His suspicions solidified into certainty as he glanced at Uncle, who was already licking his lips in anticipation of the feast. Thorne leaned slightly toward him, his voice low and calm. "I wasn't aware you were hiring cousins as servants now."

Uncle paused mid-reach for a leg of pheasant, his eyes flicking to Thorne with an unreadable expression. For a moment, Thorne couldn't tell if Uncle was annoyed or pleased by the observation. But then, a devious smile crept across the older man's face.

"Always so perceptive, Shortie," Uncle chuckled, a sound of genuine amusement that seemed almost out of place coming from him. "That's what made me take you under my wing, you know?" He then resumed eating with gusto, the noises he made as he tore into the food loud and uncouth. "Always so perceptive and sharp."

Thorne tracked the movements of the servants—no, the assassins—as they continued to serve the meal. Now that he knew their true nature, he felt a distinct unease creeping into his gut. These were no mere footmen; they were trained killers, each of them a weapon in Uncle's arsenal, and they were all standing just a few feet away from him.

Uncle, ever the master of perception despite his bluster, noticed Thorne's focused attention on the men. He waved a hand dismissively, as if shooing away an inconsequential concern. "Don't fret, Thorne. They're just the hired help. What good is it to breed assassins if you can't use them for your own personal gain?"

Uncle stuffed his mouth with more food, chewing loudly, completely oblivious—or perhaps indifferent—to the irritated glances exchanged by the assassins. Thorne caught those looks, subtle as they were, and couldn't help but think that perhaps, if fortune ever favored him, Uncle might meet his end at the hands of those he had so carelessly dismissed.

The meal continued in silence for a few moments, the only sounds the clinking of silverware and the soft footsteps of the assassins as they moved about the room. Thorne ate mechanically, his mind whirling with thoughts and strategies. He knew he had to play the long game, to bide his time and wait for the right moment.

He almost jumped when Uncle's voice cut through the silence.

"Leave us!"

Thorne froze, not knowing what would come next, one of Uncle's games or punishment?

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