The room of the city's key reeked of sweat, spilled wine, and victory. The air was thick with the aftermath of the battle. Celebration and indulgence twined together in a haze of noise and flickering torchlight.

Thorne sat stiffly in a high-backed chair near the heart of the revelry; an untouched goblet of wine balanced precariously between his fingers. The light from the glowing crystal danced off his pale skin, illuminating the faint bruises and healing cuts still scattered across his body. His wounds had mostly healed, the silver light of the moon working its quiet magic, but the ache lingered.

Uncle was loud, obnoxiously so, bellowing laughter with the other victors, lords and commanders who had flocked to the Thornfield banner. Flushed with wine and triumph, he clapped backs and exchanged exaggerated toasts, his voice echoing even above the music.

Thorne's eyes drifted past the crowd to the corners of the hall, where shadows lingered. More Lost Ones had arrived, slipping through the cracks of the building like the phantoms they were. They didn't celebrate. They watched. Silent. Waiting. Unnoticed.

He had tried to leave, twice now. The first time, he had edged towards the spiral staircase, calculating the best way to vanish unnoticed. But Uncle, despite his obvious drunkenness, had noticed the moment he moved.

"Thorne! Not so fast, boy!" Uncle had bellowed across the hall, halting him mid-step. "Come here and meet Lord Garren, he commands the southern trade routes. You should know him. Come, come!"

And so, he had stayed. Played his part.

The Mask of Deceit was as familiar as his own skin now. He had perfected it. He was polite but distant, offering clipped words and half-smiles while filing away every whispered exchange he heard. Promises of gold. Trade deals. Land rights.

But only one piece of information had truly mattered:

"The ravencourts escaped. Bastards slipped out the eastern gates before the city fully fell," Lord Thornfield had spat, his wine sloshing over the edge of his goblet in his anger.

Thorne kept his expression impassive, but inside, tension released like a coiled spring finally unbound. Selene was safe. Thank the dead gods. Her family could rot for all I care, but she made it out.

The night stretched on painfully. Lords grew redder with drink, and the room grew louder. More music, more clashing goblets. Thorne felt it pressing against his skull. He needed out. But Uncle still held him fast, his iron gaze keeping him shackled beside him, introducing him to every minor noble as "my son, Thorne Silverbane."

Son.

The word felt heavier with each passing hour, pressing like a stone against his ribs.

Finally, when Uncle's attention turned to exchanging crude jokes with some merchant lord, Thorne excused himself with a forced smile. His feet carried him across the room, searching for something, anything, to distract him from the bile rising in his throat.

And then he saw him.

Kellan Thornfield stood alone near the edge of the room, nursing a half-empty goblet and glaring at nothing in particular. His green cloak, trimmed with the sigil of his house, was pristine. Untouched.

Thorne's eyes narrowed. Of course, he hadn't seen Kellan raise a blade once in the fighting. The golden heir, shielded from the blood and filth of battle, allowed to reap the rewards of a victory he had not earned.

Something dark and ugly twisted inside him. He knew it wasn't fair. He didn't care.

"Enjoying yourself, Thornfield?" Thorne's voice cut through the noise, sharp and cold.

Kellan's head snapped up, his face twisting into a scowl the moment he registered who had spoken. His lip curled. "Oh. It's you."

"Charming as ever." Thorne sipped his wine, his glowing gaze half-lidded, bored. "You look so... refreshed. I would have thought you'd be more exhausted after all the fighting."

Kellan's eyes narrowed. "Don't start with me, Silverbane."

"Start what? I'm simply acknowledging your... impressive contribution tonight."

Kellan's fingers clenched around his goblet. His face was pale, but Thorne caught the flicker of anger behind his carefully controlled mask. "You think I've forgotten what you did?" His voice lowered. "You left me to die."

Thorne's smile was cold, his head tilting ever so slightly. "Did I? Or did you simply fail to handle a situation that you weren't prepared for? Remind me, was it my blade that nearly took your head off? Or was that Hadrian Ravencourt's doing?"

The jab hit home. Kellan's face flushed, his free hand trembling at his side. "You orchestrated that entire disaster. You wanted me dead."

Thorne leaned closer, voice soft, venomous. "I wanted you humbled. There's a difference. Though, perhaps it's too subtle for you to grasp."

Kellan's jaw tightened. "You're vile. And when this war is over..."

Thorne's smile widened, all teeth now. "You'll what? Challenge me? Duel me in some grand noble fashion? Tell me, Thornfield, who do you think Uncle will side with? His 'son' who just ensured your house's victory... or you? The inconvenient heir too afraid to dirty his hands?"

Kellan's face twisted, furious but beneath the anger, Thorne saw it. Doubt.

Good.

Kellan's face was flushed with anger, but it wasn't enough. Not for Thorne. He wanted to see that man crack completely, to drive the blade deeper and twist. He may not have been responsible for what had happened, but he still was part of the problem. His lips curled in a mockery of a smile as he lowered his voice, words laced with poison.

"You know, now that you're the heir of Alvar, you might want to... man up," he said, voice calm but cutting. "It's not all titles and silk, Thornfield. Heirs have responsibilities. Cowards don't live long when the weight of a city rests on their shoulders. Maybe your father should finally teach you how to handle it."

Kellan flinched, his face twitching with suppressed anger. "I don't need advice from you."

"Don't you?" Thorne's smirk widened, his tone sharp as a blade. "You've spent your life hiding behind your father's shadow. If I were you, I'd be begging him to teach me how to survive. But then again..." His voice dipped into a conspiratorial whisper. "I doubt he thinks you're worth the effort."

The jab hit home. Kellan's eyes flickered with pain, and his shoulders stiffened. Thorne leaned in, his voice softer now but laced with cruelty. "I've seen the way he looks at you, dismissive. Disappointed. Like you're just another burden to bear."

Thorne saw it, the slight shift in the young man's stance, the way his gaze darted to the far corner of the room where his father stood, speaking with Uncle and Viremont. The older lord was laughing, boisterous, while Kellan shrank in his shadow, unnoticed, dismissed as usual.

Thorne's smirk sharpened, his voice dropping even lower. Crueler.

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"Ah. I see," he whispered, leaning just a bit closer. "Maybe he hasn't beaten you hard enough yet."

Kellan's head snapped back to him, eyes wide, mouth slightly parted in shock. His face paled, his hands trembling at his sides.

Thorne tilted his head, watching the reaction with clinical satisfaction.

"Would you like me to show you instead?" he whispered, his words like a blade sliding beneath the ribs. "I could ask Uncle to let me teach you a thing or two. Break you down. Teach you how to be useful for once. Maybe then you wouldn't be such a disappointment."

Kellan's breath hitched audibly.

He took an involuntary step back.

Thorne followed. One step closer, just enough to loom slightly, enough that Kellan had to tilt his head to meet his glowing gaze. The Thornfield heir flinched, shoulders curling inward like he expected a blow.

Thorne's smirk twisted into something almost ugly, the venom bleeding from his lips unchecked now.

"You disgust me," he hissed. "You're weak. Pathetic. I can see it, just look at you, cowering like a beaten dog."

Kellan's fists clenched, but he didn't raise them. His gaze fell to the floor, shame pooling in his expression.

Good.

Thorne's voice turned icy, deadly calm as he jerked his head toward the older men huddled together, Uncle gesturing grandly while Lord Thornfield preened like a man who had just conquered the world.

"If you don't change," Thorne whispered, "if you don't grow a spine, they will eat you alive, Kellan. And they'll be laughing while they do it."

He stepped back, his presence retreating as quickly as it had advanced. Kellan looked... small, diminished, not the proud heir but a child in the skin of a man.

Thorne felt no sympathy. No guilt.

He turned on his heel, leaving Kellan alone with his shame.

Thorne stood at the edge of the room as the first rays of the sun slipped through the windows, his hands clenched tightly behind his back, heart hammering in his chest. The need to leave, to act, pressed against his ribs with every passing second. He had stayed longer than necessary, forced to endure the endless toasts, the drunken boasting, the gloating over victory until it all blurred into a haze of meaningless noise. But now... now he was done.

Uncle snored loudly from a large armchair, his goblet overturned at his feet, dark wine pooling on the floor like blood. The other lords, save one, had long since succumbed to the effects of their overindulgence, slumped in seats or draped over tables in undignified heaps.

Lord Viremont, however, remained upright and keen-eyed, speaking in hushed tones to his personal attendants. His shrewd gaze flicked toward Thorne once, lingering for a heartbeat too long before returning to his conversation.

The Lost Ones, stationed in every corner, remained alert. Unmoving. Eyes sharp. Silent shadows against the walls, as if the revelry hadn't touched them in the slightest.

Thorne exhaled slowly, schooling his features behind a neutral mask, even as his pulse raced faster. Just a few more steps.

With measured calm, he crossed the room, nodding subtly to the two Lost Ones guarding the entrance. They acknowledged him with the slightest tilt of their heads but said nothing.

And then he was free.

The spiral staircase wound endlessly beneath his feet, the echo of his boots a steady rhythm as he descended. He wanted to run but he kept his pace steady.

Jonah. Ben. Darius. Eliza. Were they safe? Had they survived the slaughter? The thought gnawed at him like a wolf at his bones. He needed to see them. To know.

When he finally reached the ground floor, the remnants of the night's devastation greeted him with cruel clarity.

The grand hall, once pristine, had become a place of grim ruin. Blood stained the marble. The scent of death lingered, stale and oppressive. Soldiers, too wounded to move, or simply too broken by grief, lay slumped against walls and columns. Some stared blankly at nothing, while others whispered quietly to themselves or moaned in pain.

A pair of Thornfield soldiers staggered past him, supporting a comrade with his arm slung over their shoulders, his leg a mangled ruin.

This was victory.

The streets of the noble quarter told the same story but written in broader, crueler strokes.

Proud mansions that once towered with elegance were now defiled. Doors hanging off their hinges, windows shattered. Some had been stripped bare, plundered of wealth by opportunistic looters. Others still smoked, black tendrils rising from charred beams where fire had raged the night before.

A pale, gaunt figure caught his eye, a noblewoman, her dress torn and smeared with ash, clutching a child to her chest as she stumbled through the wreckage of her home. When her gaze met Thorne's glowing eyes, she flinched and turned away, shielding her child as if from some unseen threat.

He didn't stop.

As Thorne left the noble quarter behind, the atmosphere shifted. The merchant district had not escaped the violence, but the damage here felt... restrained. Calculated.

The devastation clung to the main street. Shops looted, windows shattered, a few buildings reduced to skeletal remains where fire had been deliberately set. But the destruction had not spread deeper. It felt almost surgical, targeted.

Still, his breath quickened.

Jonah's shop.

It lay at the far end of the street, too far to see clearly yet.

The first cautious signs of life began to return. Hesitant figures peeked from doorways and behind broken shutters, pale faces streaked with soot and wary exhaustion. A baker swept shattered glass from his threshold, eyes darting to every sound. A woman knelt beside a cart, picking through scorched fruit.

It was quiet, too quiet. The kind of silence that came after bloodshed.

But Thorne barely registered it.

His feet moved faster. Jonah. Ben. Darius. Eliza.

He had to know.

Thorne's steps quickened, his heart slamming harder with each passing moment. The merchant district blurred at the edges as his focus narrowed on that single spot, the end of the street where Jonah's shop should have been.

But it wasn't there.

His breath caught violently.

The building was reduced to a hollowed ruin, its walls shattered inward as if torn apart from some devastating blast. Ash coated the once-vibrant sign that had proudly displayed "Jonah's Curios & Concoctions." Glass crunched underfoot, remnants of colorful potion bottles littering the ground like shards of broken dreams.

No. No, please.

Thorne's pulse thundered in his ears as his glowing gaze scanned the wreckage, seeking, praying. Then he saw them.

Amidst the debris, Jonah knelt in the dirt, his body slumped, his trembling hands clutching fistfuls of his hair. His face was pale, streaked with soot, but otherwise fine. Next to him, Ben stood silent, one hand resting gently on Jonah's shoulder. His face was void of expression, his eyes glassy, hollow as they stared vacantly at the devastation around them.

They were alive.

Relief washed over Thorne, so fierce it nearly buckled his knees. But his feet moved forward before his mind could catch up.

He approached cautiously, the crunch of debris underfoot the only sound as he closed the distance. They didn't react. Jonah didn't even glance up.

Thorne hesitated for a heartbeat longer before speaking, his voice soft, measured.

"Jonah... Ben... you're alright."

Jonah exhaled a ragged breath but didn't respond. His fingers clenched tighter into his hair.

Thorne tried again, a thread of worry creeping into his voice. "Jonah. You're alive. That's all that matters."

Jonah finally shifted, his bloodshot eyes lifting to meet Thorne's. They were full of anguish. Raw.

"Alive?" he repeated in a hoarse whisper, his voice cracking. "Look around, Thorne. Everything... everything I worked for... gone. Do you have any idea what that means?"

Ben's grip on his shoulder tightened, his other hand hovering as if unsure how to comfort his friend.

Thorne clenched his jaw, suppressing the frustration building in his chest.

"I do understand," Thorne said, voice sharper. "You can rebuild. I have coin. As much as you need..."

Jonah cut him off with a bitter laugh, hollow and lifeless.

"Coin? You don't understand. This isn't about coin! Do you know how long it took me to get that shop? To build a name? I had contracts. Supplies. Everything gone!" His voice cracked again, and he shook his head, shoulders trembling.

Ben's lips pressed into a thin line, nodding slightly, his face ashen.

The ache in Thorne's chest twisted painfully. He didn't know what else to say, how to offer comfort to this.

From the far side of the street, a figure limped toward them.

Eliza.

Thorne's breath caught again, but this time in alarm. Her clothes were torn, blood staining one side of her tunic, dark patches marring the fabric along her ribs. Her hair, usually neat, was matted with sweat and blood at her temple.

Ben noticed her at the same time, his head snapping up. His hands started moving in frantic motions.

"What happened? Are you hurt? Did you..."

Eliza raised a hand, halting his signing. But her expression... it was all wrong.

Grim. Haunted.

Her lips pressed together, and Thorne saw the flicker of something dark in her gaze.

"Eliza..." Thorne stepped closer, his voice cautious.

She didn't meet his eyes.

Instead, her gaze shifted toward Jonah and Ben then back to the ruined shop.

Her voice trembled.

"Guys... Darius..."

She choked on the words, her face pale as the blood on her temple continued to trickle.

And everything stopped.

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