Thorne walked through the narrow, blood-stained streets of the Butcher Quarter, the sun dipping low on the horizon, casting long shadows that crept across the cobblestones. The air was thick with the familiar smell of blood and raw meat, but today it didn't bother him as much. His steps were lighter, the single day of freedom with his friends having lifted a burden from his shoulders, if only temporarily.

A smile tugged at his lips as he recalled the day's events. Jonah had eagerly shown him the shop he wanted to buy—a small, unremarkable hole-in-the-wall wedged between the fish market and the merchant district. The place was cramped and smelled faintly of salt and old wood, but Jonah's excitement had been infectious.

Of course, their exploration had been cut short when the owner caught them snooping around and chased them off with a broom, but that only made the moment all the more memorable. They had run through the streets, laughing like children, the thrill of being together again making everything seem lighter.

Darius had been in unusually high spirits, his earlier suspicions seemingly forgotten. His jovial smile had been a constant throughout the day, but Thorne hadn't missed the way Darius stuck close to his side, as if afraid Thorne might disappear again at any moment.

Ben, as always, had been a source of endless entertainment. The image of him flailing madly as they swam near the docks, almost drowning several times to their hysterical laughter, was still fresh in Thorne's mind. Ben's fear of water had been as intense as ever, but his willingness to join in their fun had been endearing.

Thorne had even managed to unlock a new skill, swimming. He didn't know if it would ever come in handy, but having more skills was always good.

Later, back at the tavern, Thorne had volunteered to test a few of the potions Ben had created. One had caused a sudden sprouting of hair on his face—much to the delight of the others—while another had made his palms emit a faint, eerie glow. Whether that had been the intended effect or not, Thorne couldn't say, but Ben's wide-eyed surprise suggested it hadn't been. Now all his friends had formed their cores, and in a couple of months, when he would have his birthday, he could finally be free to use his skills without the fear of being recognized as an elder race. A few less lies were always good in his book.

The goodbyes at the end of the day had been bittersweet. They all knew Thorne was hiding something, but they also understood that, for whatever reason, he couldn't share the truth. They hadn't pressed him, hadn't asked the questions that lingered just beneath the surface. There had been an unspoken agreement—a trust that, despite the secrets, they were still the same group they had always been.

But as Thorne walked the familiar streets, a sense of unease began to creep back in, the weight of his reality slowly returning.

He stopped in front of an inconspicuous panel set into the wall of a butcher's shop, hidden in the shadows where few would notice. He glanced around, ensuring he wasn't being watched, and then tapped the panel with his knuckles. A muffled voice from behind the wall asked for the password, and Thorne recited the code he had found the other day, his voice steady despite the growing tension in his chest.

The panel slid open with a soft click, revealing only darkness beyond. Thorne hesitated for a moment, his eyes straining to adjust to the pitch black. Something felt off, but before he could react, he felt a rough hand grab him from behind. Panic surged through him, but it was too late—a thick, suffocating bag was thrown over his head, plunging him into total darkness.

He struggled, instinctively reaching for his daggers, but his movements were sluggish, disoriented. The world tilted, his head spinning as if the ground had been ripped out from under him. The last thing he felt was a sharp pain at the base of his skull, and then, everything went black.

*

Thorne awoke to the sensation of cold stone beneath him, his body aching with a pain so deep it felt like it had settled into his bones. His head throbbed with a dull, pulsing ache, and when he tried to move, he realized with growing dread that his wrists and ankles were tightly bound. Panic gripped him, his breathing quickening as he struggled against the restraints, but the rough ropes only cut deeper into his skin, sending sharp, searing pain through his limbs.

The room was small and dimly lit, the walls made of cold, unforgiving stone slick with moisture. The only light came from a single, flickering torch mounted on the wall, casting eerie shadows that danced across the rough surfaces. The air was thick with the smell of mold and something else—something metallic and sharp that set Thorne's nerves on edge. His mind was a jumbled mess, tangled with fear and confusion. How had he gotten here? His last memory was of entering the Butcher Quarter, and then—nothing.

Two figures loomed over him, their faces hidden beneath the hoods of long, dark cloaks. They were unnervingly silent, their presence suffocating in the small room. Thorne's heart pounded in his chest as he tried to make sense of the situation. He didn't know who these men were, where he was, or what they wanted from him.

One of the men crouched down beside him, the torchlight casting eerie shadows across his hooded face. "You've been hiding something, Thorne," the man said, his voice low and cold, sending a shiver down Thorne's spine. "And we're going to find out what it is."

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Thorne swallowed hard, his throat dry and raw. "I don't know what you're talking about," he rasped, his voice barely above a whisper. The words felt hollow, empty—he knew they wouldn't believe him, knew that whatever was coming next would be far worse than anything he had faced before.

The second man, taller and more imposing, stepped forward, a cruel smile playing on his lips as he pulled a long, thin knife from his cloak. The blade gleamed in the dim light, and Thorne's blood ran cold as he realized with sickening clarity what they intended to do.

"Let's start with something simple," the taller man said, his voice deceptively calm. "Who runs the Cousins? Where is their leader?"

Thorne clenched his jaw, refusing to answer. He knew the rules—never betray the guild, no matter what. But the resolve he had clung to in the past was already fraying at the edges, and he could feel the fear gnawing at his insides, threatening to unravel him completely.

The man didn't wait for a response. With a quick, precise motion, he brought the knife down, the blade slicing through Thorne's shirt and into the flesh of his abdomen. Thorne gasped, the sudden, searing pain radiating through his body, his muscles tensing involuntarily as blood welled up from the wound.

"I'll ask again," the man said, his voice a cold, emotionless whisper. "Who runs the Cousins?"

Thorne's breath came in ragged gasps as he tried to will himself to stay silent, to endure the pain. But the knife cut deeper, twisting in his flesh, and a scream tore from his throat, echoing off the stone walls.

The man smiled, his eyes glinting with sadistic pleasure. "You'll talk eventually, Thorne," he said, his voice dripping with cruelty. "They all do."

The next few hours were a blur of agony. The men took turns with the knife, each cut more precise and excruciating than the last. They worked methodically, asking questions in calm, measured tones, as if they were discussing the weather rather than torturing a man to the brink of madness.

They asked about the guild—who the spies were, where they were stationed, how many there were. They demanded to know if the entrance to the base was trapped, how the defenses were laid out, who was responsible for security. Each question was punctuated with another slash of the knife, another wave of blinding pain that left Thorne gasping for breath.

But Thorne knew he couldn't give them what they wanted. Even as his vision blurred, even as he felt his resolve crumbling under the relentless onslaught of pain, he clung to the one thing he knew for certain: he couldn't betray the guild. He couldn't betray Uncle. He would die before he did that.

They didn't stop at cutting. When Thorne refused to answer, they produced a thin metal rod, heated until it glowed red-hot in the torchlight. They pressed it against his skin, the smell of burning flesh filling the room as Thorne screamed, the pain unlike anything he had ever experienced. His vision blurred, the world tilting around him as his mind struggled to hold onto consciousness.

But the torture didn't end there. They used pliers to crush his fingers, the bones snapping with sickening cracks that sent fresh waves of agony through his body. They shattered his kneecap with a hammer, the force of the blow sending white-hot pain lancing up his leg, his scream hoarse and broken.

The men seemed to take pleasure in his suffering, their voices calm and almost clinical as they continued their interrogation, as if this was just another day's work for them. They fed his healing potions, when they thought he was close to dying. They only gave him a couple of drops each time, just enough to heal the most grievous wounds, but not enough to feel relief.

They deprived him of food and water, letting him grow weaker with each passing hour, until even the smallest movement sent sharp, stabbing pain through his battered body. Sleep was a distant memory, each attempt to slip into unconsciousness met with a fresh wave of agony that jolted him back to the harsh reality of his situation.

Thorne's world became a twisted nightmare of blood and pain, his body broken, his mind shattered. He couldn't tell how much time had passed—days, maybe? Each hour bled into the next, the pain never-ending, the questions ceaseless. The men demanded answers, and when Thorne couldn't give them what they wanted, they punished him, their methods growing more brutal with each passing hour.

At some point—Thorne didn't know when—he began to talk. The words spilled from his lips in a broken, slurred stream, a desperate attempt to make the pain stop. But he didn't tell them the truth. His Echoes of Truth skill whispered possible lies into his mind, and in his desperation, he clung to those lies, infusing his words with just enough truth to make them sound convincing.

"The entrance isn't trapped," he rasped, his voice barely more than a whisper. "It's safe... you can walk right in..."

But the men seemed to know. They exchanged glances, and the taller one shook his head, a cruel smile curving his lips. "He's lying," he said, almost amused. "He thinks he can fool us."

The smaller man leaned in close, his breath hot against Thorne's ear. "We know what you're trying to do," he whispered, his voice cold and menacing. "But it won't work. We can tell when someone's lying."

Thorne's heart sank, the flicker of hope that had been keeping him alive snuffed out in an instant. They knew. They knew he was lying, and nothing he said would make them stop. The realization hit him like a physical blow, sending a fresh wave of despair crashing over him.

But he couldn't stop. Even as they pressed the red-hot rod against his flesh again, even as they shattered more bones and cut deeper into his skin, he couldn't stop. He kept lying, kept trying to twist the truth into something that might save him, even as he knew it was futile.

The men didn't stop. They continued their twisted work, their voices cold and detached as they questioned him, as if he were nothing more than an object, a tool to be used and discarded when no longer useful.

At some point, Thorne lost all sense of self. He was no longer a person—just a broken, bloodied husk, a vessel for the pain that ravaged his body. His mind retreated into itself, a desperate attempt to escape the horrors that surrounded him. But there was no escape, no end to the torment. He was trapped in a never-ending cycle of agony and despair, with no hope of release.

When the men finally stopped, Thorne was barely aware of it. His body was numb, his mind shattered beyond repair. The room was quiet, the only sound the ragged, uneven breaths that tore from his throat. He was alive, but barely—a shadow of the person he had once been.

The taller man crouched down beside him, his voice a low, mocking whisper. "Do you really think you're special, Thorne? That you mean anything to the guild? To Uncle? You're just another tool, another pawn to be used and discarded. No one's coming for you. No one cares."

The words cut through the haze of pain, striking deep into Thorne's broken heart. He wanted to fight back, to scream at them, but he had no strength left. All he could do was lie there, tears slipping silently down his cheeks.

"That is enough!" A familiar voice cut through his sobs.

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