The battle below was a storm of steel and blood, yet the tide had shifted irreversibly. Thorne could see it now. No, feel it in the chaotic pulse of the battlefield. The once-indomitable Lockridge line had fractured beyond repair. The northern gate was lost, its defenders scattering like leaves in a gale. What had begun as a disciplined defense had unraveled into a panicked rout.

The allied armies, Thornfield's battered remnants reinforced by the Viremont host, had become a vengeful force, sweeping through the streets of Alvar like a tide of steel and banners. But victory had not made them merciful. Thornfield soldiers in green, and Viremont troops in crimson, cut down their fleeing enemies without restraint. The Lockridge soldiers, famed for their discipline, now fled blindly, hounded by blades thirsty for blood.

The line broke too fast... too completely, Thorne thought, unease stirring beneath his mask of calm. He had seen defeat before, but this? This was collapse, sudden and unnatural. Something happened... but what?

Beside him, Uncle's laughter echoed, loud and raw. Not his usual sardonic chuckle or the smug, controlled satisfaction Thorne had come to expect but wild, broken. Uncle was bent forward, one hand clutching his ribs as he convulsed with each wheezing breath, his face flushed and damp with sweat.

"I can't believe it... I can't..." His voice cracked as he wheezed, struggling to catch his breath. "They're dead! Those worms are dead; they just don't know it yet! I won! I WON!"

The words spilled from him, manic and fevered, a man too long denied true victory finally tasting it. His entire frame shook, and for the first time in years, Thorne saw something deeply unsettling, vulnerability. Not the calculated rage or simmering wrath he'd learned to navigate, but something primal. The way Uncle clung to the pedestal, laughing like a man on the verge of breaking, was... wrong.

Thorne said nothing, suppressing the icy tendrils of doubt. Not yet. Stay calm. Stay silent.

Turning back to the window, he let his glowing eyes drift over the city once more. A ruined city, he thought bitterly. Fires choked the skyline, thick plumes of smoke rising from the noble quarter and beyond. The streets were painted red, the bodies of soldiers, citizens, and children strewn carelessly across cobbled roads. Ravencourt black and Lockridge silver lay mingled in death but there was no mercy in the green banners now flooding into the heart of Alvar.

The Thornfields and Viremont soldiers moved with ruthless efficiency, cutting down resistance, tearing through homes. They were supposed to be the city's saviors, yet there was little to distinguish them from the invading armies they fought mere minutes before.

Looting. Slaughter. Destruction.

Thorne's lips pressed into a thin, tight line, the only visible sign of his disgust. They're no better. None of them are better.

And then he noticed it.

The flow of soldiers below had shifted. No longer pushing solely outward from the northern gate, the tide had turned. The Thornfield and Viremont armies were moving inward, deeper into the city, toward them. Toward the heart of Alvar where the governing building stood tall, untouched.

They were coming for the key.

Uncle's laughter finally ebbed, though the man's face was still red, his chest rising and falling in ragged bursts as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His bloodshot eyes, wild with triumph, scanned the destruction below. Then, with a sudden grin, he turned and barked a command.

"Wine! Bring wine for everyone! We celebrate tonight!"

Thorne watched as the servants scrambled to obey, filling goblets in haste. The Thornfield representative, pale as a sheet, his eyes wide and hands trembling was practically force-fed a goblet, the golden liquid sloshing as it was pressed into his hand.

Uncle's grin stretched wider. His jowls flushed as he raised his cup high, his voice booming.

"To Alvar!"

The cry echoed around the chamber, loud but forced. The servants, the soldiers, the Lost Ones, they all echoed the words, some with genuine relief, others with the hollow reflex of those too afraid not to join in.

Thorne's fingers curled around his goblet, his face a perfect mask of calm thanks to his social skills as he stepped closer to Uncle. The same small, proud smile on his lips, the ever-dutiful heir. Let them see what they expect to see.

He raised his cup as well, voice calm but firm.

"To Alvar."

Yet as the wine touched his lips, the words echoed differently in his mind, sharp, bitter.

And to your downfall.

Uncle's voice filled the chamber, booming with laughter as he exchanged jokes with the Lost One leaders, sloshing his wine with careless abandon. His face was flushed, his grin wide with triumph, a man so drunk on victory that the chaos below had become mere entertainment.

Thorne stood apart, his fingers loosely circling the stem of his goblet, swirling the deep red liquid slowly. It mirrored his thoughts, dark and restless, churning beneath the surface of his carefully composed expression. He cast his gaze out the massive windows once more, his attention no longer on the slaughter below but drifting elsewhere, to them.

Jonah. Ben. Darius. Eliza.

Where are you?

Had they survived the carnage that had consumed Alvar? Had they made it through the fires and steel? Or were their bodies among the countless strewn across the streets? The thought twisted his chest in a way he hadn't anticipated, a pang of guilt piercing through the mask he wore.

He couldn't afford distraction. Focus.

Suddenly, a disturbance in the square below yanked his attention back to the present. The clash of steel rang out sharper, and a new surge of movement rippled through the battlefield.

The stalemate that had lingered in the square, where the Thornfield forces, supported by the Lost Ones, had been locked in a brutal deadlock against the Ravencourts, had shifted.

A new host had arrived.

From the lower districts, a fresh force spilled into view, flanking the outer lines of the Ravencourt soldiers. Their colors weren't Thornfield green nor Viremont crimson but a mix of dark leathers and worn steel, the Lost Ones led by Sid and Talon, bolstered by Rook's mercenaries.

Their numbers weren't overwhelming, but their impact was undeniable. The mercenaries struck with brutal efficiency, nipping at the exposed sides of the Ravencourt formation like wolves tearing into a wounded beast. Daggers flashed in the failing light, short blades finding gaps in armor, sabers slicing through legs and throats with vicious precision.

The Ravencourt ranks faltered, their rigid shield wall breaking as soldiers turned to fend off the unexpected attack. The pressure eased on the Thornfield soldiers, giving the exhausted troops a much-needed reprieve.

A breathless messenger stumbled into the chamber, eyes wide with awe at the unfolding spectacle.

"My lord," he gasped, struggling to catch his breath, "Talon, Sid, they've flanked the Ravencourts! The mercenaries..."

Uncle let loose another peel of laughter, slapping the messenger hard on the shoulder, nearly knocking the man off balance.

"Of course they did! I knew they would. Exactly as planned. Beautiful, isn't it?" His voice was thick with self-congratulation, practically vibrating with smug satisfaction.

He turned back to the window, grinning at the slaughter below as if he were watching a stage play written for his amusement.

"I love it," Uncle exclaimed between gulps of wine, his grin manic. "When a plan comes together perfectly."

And despite himself, despite the ache in his chest for the lives being torn apart below, Thorne couldn't help but silently agree.

Because Uncle was right.

Before his eyes, the tide had turned completely. The combined force of the Thornfield, Viremont, and Lost One armies pressed forward in perfect sync, the Ravencourt host faltering, splintering. Soldiers who had fought like titans mere hours earlier now stumbled, their formations unraveling under the relentless assault.

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The allied army surged forward like a storm given flesh, cutting through the heart of the square.

Thorne could feel the tremor of it beneath his feet, the reverberation of steel on steel, the sound of hundreds of bodies colliding with bone-jarring force. From his vantage point, he saw the moment the Ravencourts broke.

Pinned from three sides, they crumbled. Those still standing abandoned formation, their discipline shattered. They fled in scattered fragments, some running blindly for the residential district, others cut down where they stood. Banners fell, armor split, and the bodies piled higher as the Thornfield forces pressed their advantage without mercy.

The once-proud black banners of House Ravencourt were trampled into the bloodstained mud.

For a long time, Thorne simply watched. The battlefield felt... distant. Unreal.

The screams of dying men barely reached the top of the tower.

They're retreating... but there's no retreat.

The last vestiges of the Ravencourt host were hunted like animals, scattered and leaderless. The streets of Alvar were painted red with their failure.

And yet...

A creeping sensation curled at the edge of Thorne's mind as the chaos ebbed.

Something about this victory didn't feel right.

The brutality. The scale. The excess.

Uncle hadn't won with strategy alone. He had overwhelmed with sheer violence. And the cost, Alvar itself lay in ruins, its streets burning, its people displaced or dead.

But the city was his now.

And yet... at what price?

The soft murmur of feet announced the new arrivals, and all conversation in the chamber ceased. Thorne turned his gaze away from the now bloodied city below as the imposing figures of Lord Thornfield and Lord Viremont crossed the threshold, flanked on all sides by a contingent of Lost Ones. Black-clad figures melted out of the shadows, silent as death, their masked faces revealing nothing. Not a single Thornfield soldier in sight. Nor Viremont's, for that matter. Just Uncle's assassins, a silent reminder of who truly held the power in the aftermath of this bloody conquest.

Lord Thornfield was as pristine as if he had just stepped out of a gala. His green and gold velvet doublet bore no trace of battle, his boots shined to perfection, his silver-threaded cloak sweeping behind him in perfect condition. Not a single crease, not a single stain. His gray-streaked hair combed back, his face flushed but not with exertion, anticipation.

His son followed behind him, a timid shadow, head slightly bowed, the Thornfield heir was still the pale boy he remembered, who clearly wished he were anywhere else but there.

And then there was Lord Viremont.

The man was shorter than Thorne had expected, dressed so garishly in crimson velvet and fur-lined coats that he resembled more a parody of nobility than the true thing. Rings studded nearly every finger, gaudy jewels catching the glow from the key's golden light as he adjusted his coat. The hat perched on his balding head was another level of absurdity, a wide, brimmed thing with a ruffled feather that swayed slightly with every step.

But there was nothing amusing in his eyes. Cold. Calculating. His lips curled just enough in a thin, humorless smile that screamed victory.

Thorne remained near the edge of the room, swirling his wine lazily, the rim of his goblet masking his lips as he watched the exchange unfold.

The power dynamic was clear as day. The Thornfields had provided the numbers, Viremont the financial backing. But it was Uncle who dictated the terms. The presence of the Lost Ones, not a single soldier loyal to either lord present, spoke volumes. Their power was an illusion, borrowed, fragile.

Thorne's gaze shifted to the Thornfield heir. The boy looked utterly out of place, his pale fingers twisting the hem of his pristine sleeves, gaze flicking repeatedly toward the looming, suspended key as though it might burn him if he got too close.

Fool, Thorne thought. If he was meant to lead, he had a long way to go.

Uncle's face split into a wolfish grin, the kind Thorne had come to associate with victory, dominance, and something far more dangerous, satisfaction... He spread his arms wide in a grand gesture of triumph, his voice booming across the chamber as he strode forward to meet the two lords.

"Ah, my dear Lord Thornfield!" Uncle's voice echoed, thick with exaggerated warmth, every word dripping with the smugness of a man who believed himself untouchable. "The hero of Alvar at last! And Lord Viremont, as splendid as ever!" His eyes narrowed just slightly as they trailed over Viremont's lavish attire, lingering on the gaudy rings and the absurd feathered hat with unspoken disdain.

Lord Thornfield, ever the politician, returned the grin in full. His hand, despite the polite facade, clenched a fraction tighter at his side before extending to clasp Uncle's forearm in a calculated show of camaraderie.

"You've done well, my friend," Thornfield said, voice warm but controlled, as though he were addressing a dangerous predator. "A victory for all of us."

His words were measured, carefully chosen. Thorne could see it, the strain in his jaw, the barely concealed tension behind his polished mask. Thornfield had always despised Uncle's methods, the endless string-pulling, the use of the Lost Ones as both sword and shadow, the seemingly insane and expensive decisions. But now, with the key within his reach, all those reservations seemed to vanish like mist. The lure of power was too strong.

Uncle held the grip just a fraction longer than necessary, his fingers digging in slightly, asserting control. His grin widened as he leaned closer, voice lowering just enough that only Thornfield could hear.

"For all of us indeed," he echoed, his smile sharp enough to cut glass.

And then there was Lord Viremont.

The man had not moved from his position near the entrance, watching the exchange with a predator's patience. Where Thornfield radiated barely concealed eagerness, Viremont oozed cold calculation. His hands remained firmly behind his back, the crimson of his velvet coat stark against the pale stone of the chamber. When Uncle addressed him, Viremont merely inclined his head, a tight-lipped smile curling his lips.

"This was…efficiently handled," he said, voice high-pitched and clipped. "I trust the city's wealth remains intact despite the... collateral damage?"

There it was. No mention of the blood spilled. No acknowledgment of the lives lost. Just wealth. Just assets.

Thorne's stomach twisted as he watched the exchange, the casual way the fate of a city was reduced to property lines and silver counts. The bodies piled in the streets below meant nothing to men like these.

Uncle's grin sharpened. "Of course," he said, spreading his arms wide in mock sincerity. "Rest assured, every resource has been... preserved where possible. And now, gentlemen, you both reap the rewards of your courage and vision." His voice dropped on the last word, thick with sarcasm that none dared to call out.

Viremont's eyes narrowed slightly, sensing the jab but holding his tongue. Thornfield, however, was practically vibrating with impatience, barely listening. His gaze kept trailing back to the massive, suspended key as if drawn by an invisible thread, his breath quickening with every passing second. The taste of victory was right there, almost within his grasp.

And Uncle saw it, of course he did.

He shifted, clapping Thornfield hard on the back with enough force to stagger the older man forward a step. "Ah, but why delay further?" Uncle's grin widened, triumphant. "Our time has come, old friend. Go on. Claim your prize."

The words were spoken like a coronation. A declaration.

And Thornfield responded exactly as Uncle wanted, without thought, only hunger.

As the older lord stepped forward, practically drawn by the radiant glow of the key, Thorne remained silent at the edge of the room, watching it all unfold. Watching the way power twisted men. Watching how Uncle maneuvered them all, always one step ahead.

Lord Thornfield stepped forward, his fine emerald cloak dragging along the marble floor, the weight of the moment pressing on his shoulders with every step. The faint crackling sound of aether stirred the air around the pedestal, almost imperceptible, as if the ancient artifact could sense its would-be master approaching.

Thorne watched closely from the shadows, wine forgotten in his hand, his glowing gaze locked on the spectacle unfolding before him. His breath slowed, his pulse steady, every sense attuned not to the visible, but to the invisible currents of aether weaving and twisting through the room.

Thornfield's trembling fingers brushed the golden ring encircling the massive crystal. The inscriptions, delicate and ancient, seemed to pulse softly in reaction to his touch. His signet ring, a symbol of his noble lineage, shimmered faintly with a pale green light. For a moment, there was only silence. The kind that stretched, heavy and expectant.

Then, he released his hold.

Aether flared.

The pedestal ignited with a pale, golden brilliance, sending ripples across its surface like liquid fire. The markings across the ring responded, glowing brighter, the light climbing Thornfield's arm in shimmering pulses, drawn directly into the signet ring.

To the rest of the room, it was a dazzling display, bright and impressive but simple. A surge of power claiming a tool of kings.

But to Thorne's eyes, it was so much more.

Everything changed.

Rings of aether expanded outward from the pedestal, blooming in concentric circles of radiant energy. Blue, silver, violet, and hues he couldn't name, as if the spectrum itself had shattered and spilled into the air. They rippled like the surface of a disturbed pond, vast and endless, moving in perfect synchrony, spinning faster as the key responded to the infusion of Thornfield's aether.

There… Thorne felt it. A resistance.

A different aether signature clashed against Thornfield's. The mark of the key's previous master. Lord Durnell, no doubt. The foreign energy flared, defensive, but Thornfield pressed harder, his expression twisting in concentration, teeth clenched as he forced his will upon the artifact.

The foreign presence wavered. Flickered. And then...

Shattered.

The last remnants of the old master's hold broke like glass, fragments of golden aether bursting outward before vanishing into nothing.

Thorne could feel the shift.

The pedestal no longer resisted. The artifact yielded.

Yet Thornfield did not release his grip. His body was trembling, his face pale and drenched in sweat. His aether reserves were draining faster than he could control. Veins of light traced up his neck, his hands quaking as the crystal continued to pulse, demanding more and more from its new master.

He doesn't know when to stop, Thorne realized grimly.

The swirling rings of aether had reached a breaking point, spinning faster, faster, until they collapsed inward. With a soundless pulse, the energy shattered outward, expanding in all directions.

The city's heartbeat shifted.

Thorne felt it as the waves passed through him. A surge of energy rippling outward, not in anger or violence but... acknowledgment. The key was no longer just a source of power, it was an extension of Thornfield himself, a connection forged deeper than blood.

The wave of aether passed through everyone in the chamber. Uncle, Viremont, the Lost Ones, but it didn't stop there. Thorne's gaze followed the threads of energy as they streamed outward beyond the walls of the tower, cascading over Alvar like an invisible tide. He felt the pulse reach the lower districts, the merchant quarter, even the ravaged barracks and the far-distant docks where the last vestiges of battle still echoed.

It was as if the city itself had drawn a breath, an ancient magic stirring awake.

And when the waves finally dissipated, silence fell.

The pedestal dimmed. The crystal's radiant light softened, stable. Claimed.

A new presence had taken root.

Lord Thornfield gasped. His knees buckled, his hand slipping from the pedestal as the aether withdrew, leaving him pale and hollow. He staggered, his legs giving out beneath him, and slumped heavily to the floor.

But it was done.

Alvar had a new ruler.

House Thornfield.

And Uncle.

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