Thorne sat uncomfortably at the worn wooden chair, trying his best to suppress a grimace. His entire body ached from the beating Jonah and his gang had given him, and every shift sent jolts of pain through his muscles. But the pain wasn’t the only reason for his discomfort—sitting directly across from him was Uncle.

The older man’s sharp, intelligent eyes tracked Thorne’s every movement like a hawk watching its prey. Uncle shoveled a mouthful of melted cheese and bits of meat into his mouth, letting out a grunt of satisfaction. Thorne’s nose twitched as a glob of cheese clung to Uncle’s thick mustache, threatening to fall onto the table. He had to force himself not to grimace, both from the sight and the throbbing pain radiating across his body.

“Are we gonna talk about it?” Uncle asked casually, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder.

Thorne looked up, trying his best to appear innocent. He blinked his wide eyes, putting on his most convincing expression of ignorance. “Talk about what, Uncle?”

The man scoffed, giving him a withering look. “Cut the crap, shortie. Save that wide-eyed routine for some naive noble. It doesn’t work on me.”

Thorne dropped the act instantly, his expression hardening as he focused back on his plate. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he mumbled, pushing a particularly dry piece of meat around with his fork.

Uncle chuckled, but it wasn’t a warm sound. “Ah, so it was one of your cousins, wasn’t it? Thought so.” Thorne could feel Uncle’s eyes scanning his bruised face, reading the truth from every unspoken gesture. Uncle had a way of knowing things without being told—a skill that always made Thorne uneasy.

“Want me to talk to ‘em?” Uncle asked, his tone almost too casual. “Those buggers could use a reminder about how we treat family.”

Thorne’s heart skipped a beat, and he quickly shook his head. The last thing he needed was Uncle stepping in on his behalf. It would only make things worse. Jonah and the others already resented him for the special treatment he received. If Uncle showed any more favoritism, he might as well paint a target on his back.

“Have it your way,” Uncle said with a shrug, shoveling another bite into his mouth. Cheese dripped from the corner of his lips, and Thorne looked away, focusing instead on the muffled voices and drunken shouts drifting up from the tavern below. The lively conversation and clinking of mugs provided a strange sense of comfort.

Thorne knew better than to let his guard down, though. Sometimes Uncle let things drop, like now, but more often than not, he had a way of drawing out the truth without Thorne even realizing it. He suspected Uncle had some sort of skill that made people talk, pulling secrets from them before they knew they were even speaking. Thorne had learned to tread carefully in these conversations.

“So,” Uncle said after a long silence, his voice breaking through Thorne’s thoughts, “I heard you made your way to the noble quarter today. Find anything interesting?”

Thorne’s fork paused mid-air, momentarily surprised that Uncle already knew where he’d been. But he quickly remembered that the man had eyes and ears all over the city, orphans who passed along gossip in exchange for a warm bed or a few coins.

“Nah, not much,” Thorne replied, keeping his voice light. “All anyone was talking about was some noblewoman’s party and how good a hostess she was.”

Uncle’s expression tightened with disappointment, but he nodded. “Figured as much,” he muttered, more to himself than to Thorne.

Thorne knew why Uncle favored him—he had a knack for overhearing conversations from a mile away, a skill that made him valuable. Thankfully, his keen hearing wasn’t unique enough to raise suspicion. Elves were known for their sharp senses, and most of the other orphans assumed he was some kind of half-elf, a child of disgraced parents fleeing the crown. Thorne didn’t correct them. In fact, he encouraged the rumors, dropping hints here and there to steer people away from his true lineage.

Whether Uncle believed the lie or not, Thorne couldn’t say. But the man hadn’t pried too deeply into his past, seeming content to gather whatever bits of information Thorne picked up on his excursions through the city. And more than once, Thorne had provided tips that made Uncle sit up and take notice. Those days usually ended with Uncle grinning and presenting him with a gift—a new pair of boots, a silver coin, or something more extravagant.

“How do you feel about learning a thing or two about weapons?” Uncle’s question hung in the air, pulling Thorne from his thoughts. “It’d be good for ya. Once you form your core, you’ll be ready for a skill or two, eh?” Uncle added, his tone casual, but Thorne sensed something off in the way he asked.

Thorne froze for a split second, but his Acting skill kicked in, masking his surprise with a thoughtful expression. He chewed slowly, pretending to mull over the suggestion.

Inwardly, his mind raced. How much does he know? Could he have figured out I’ve already formed my core?

After a moment, Thorne nodded emphatically, masking any suspicion. “I’ve been thinking about it myself. The Drowned Rats and Shadow Skulls have been getting more aggressive. Every time they see us, they try to knife someone in an alley or a crowded square.”

Uncle frowned at the news, though Thorne had a feeling he wasn’t all that surprised. “That’s partly my fault,” Uncle admitted with a heavy sigh. “Had a falling out with their leaders. Now they’re trying to get back at me by picking off my kin. But don’t worry—I’ll have that sorted out soon enough.”

Thorne nodded, grateful but still wary. Between his cousins and the other gangs, it felt like there was always someone gunning for him. Lately, it had been worse. There were more eyes on him, more whispers behind his back. It felt like a bigger target had been painted on him than ever before.

“So, what kind of weapon do you want to learn?” Uncle asked, leaning back in his chair, his eyes gleaming with interest.

Thorne looked at him, sizing him up. Uncle had the build of a man who had once been a warrior—broad shoulders, thick neck, and a scar that ran across his face, adding a sense of menace to his already imposing figure. Despite his age, there was still something dangerous about him, like a blade that hadn’t yet dulled.

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“What kind of weapon do you use?” Thorne asked, his curiosity piqued. Uncle gave him a slow smile.

“What kind of weapon do you think I use, shortie?” Uncle’s voice carried a note of amusement, like he was letting Thorne in on a game he’d played before. It was one of Uncle’s favorite pastimes, making Thorne guess at things, prodding him to think and observe. Thorne had always hated it, but he knew better than to show his frustration.

Thorne knew better than to argue outright, but his mind whirred as he carefully observed Uncle. The man had a habit of turning even simple questions into riddles, designed to make Thorne think deeper, past the obvious answers. Thorne could still remember when Uncle asked him why the bullheaded trout wasn’t in the market, even though it was in season. It had taken Thorne hours to piece together the fact that there had been storms up north, which had pushed the schools of trout farther south, beyond the local fishermen’s reach.

This was another one of those games.

Thorne studied Uncle’s large frame carefully. The man’s broad shoulders and thick neck indicated raw strength, but there was precision in how he moved—a deliberate control, like he never wasted a motion.

"Well," Thorne began, choosing his words with care, "you’ve definitely got the strength for a large weapon—maybe a sword or an axe. But swordsmen usually display their weapons openly, especially in this city. No one bats an eye when a guard walks by with one. Axes... well, they’re not exactly subtle."

Uncle’s lips curled into a half-smile, his eyes gleaming with amusement, but he stayed silent, waiting for Thorne to continue.

Thorne frowned, thinking harder. "Daggers and knives don’t seem right either. You’ve got the strength, but daggers rely more on agility and speed, and I can’t see you using something so... small." He glanced at Uncle’s large hands. More suited to crushing than slashing.

Uncle's smile remained unchanged, but the glint in his eyes told Thorne he was on the right track.

"A polearm?" Thorne mused aloud. "A weapon with reach and leverage. But no, you wouldn’t be able to conceal it easily."

Uncle’s smile widened ever so slightly, a small nod of approval in the way he shifted his shoulders.

Thorne’s brow furrowed in concentration. “A hidden weapon,” he muttered to himself. “Something you can carry without drawing attention... but still effective. Something that uses your strength, but also—”

Then it clicked. "A chain weapon." Thorne said suddenly, his voice filled with realization. "It combines strength and reach, and you can hide it easily. Coil it up, no one would suspect a thing until it’s too late."

Uncle’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “Very good, shortie,” he said, his voice carrying warmth beneath the rough exterior. “A chain weapon, yes. A flail to be exact. Gives me range, power, and keeps people guessing.” He leaned forward slightly, resting his arms on the table. “Not many people expect a man like me to carry something like that, but that’s exactly why it’s effective.”

Thorne felt a surge of pride swell in his chest. I solved it. Despite his dislike for Uncle’s riddles, there was always satisfaction in getting them right.

“So,” Uncle said, his voice shifting back to its usual casual tone, “what kind of weapon do you want to learn?”

The question hit Thorne harder than he expected. A weapon. His mind immediately flashed to the royal guards, their shining swords glinting in the sunlight, the red sun emblem emblazoned on their hilts. For a brief moment, he imagined himself with one—a sword at his side, powerful, untouchable.

But then the image soured, an image from his past resurfacing. Besides, his hands weren’t made for swinging heavy blades.

His thoughts turned to archery. He already had a skill in archery, though it was at a meager level one. No, he thought, a familiar pang of sadness washing over him. He hadn’t touched a bow since his father... and somehow, letting someone else train him in archery felt like a betrayal of that memory.

Weapons of all kinds flickered through his mind—shields, hammers, even exotic ones like hook swords and tridents. The sailors from distant kingdoms often brought strange and wondrous weapons with them, and Thorne had always marveled at their unfamiliar designs.

But then his mind settled on one weapon in particular—the spear.

His memory flashed back to three-legged Tod, Uncle’s bodyguard, and how he had dispatched four of the Drowned Rats with nothing more than a spear. Tod had moved with such speed and precision, his spear a blur in the dim alleyway. The others had never stood a chance; each small flick of Tod’s wrist left them bleeding, crumpled on the ground. That’s what I need.

Excitement flooded Thorne’s chest. A spear would keep them at a distance. No one would be able to touch me. His eyes lit up, and before he could stop himself, he blurted, “A spear!”

Uncle’s expression darkened instantly. His lips tightened, and the smile vanished. “A fine choice, for sure,” he said slowly, his tone laced with disapproval. “But what about daggers? I believe those would be more appropriate for someone like you.” He leaned back in his chair, regarding Thorne carefully. “You’re more slippery than a snake, skulking around in the shadows until the time’s right to strike. Even the guards can’t spot you, and you’re just a child. Some sharp daggers would suit you perfectly.”

Thorne deflated. He felt his shoulders slump as his excitement drained away. Daggers?

But he wasn’t ready to give up. Not yet. “But why not a spear?” he argued, his voice growing louder than he intended. “Tod could teach me himself! I’ve seen him—he took down those Drowned Rats in seconds! No one could get close to him!”

His passion had gotten the better of him, and Thorne instantly regretted it. Uncle pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, "Dead gods help me... this is why I never wanted kids."

After a moment, Uncle fixed him with a fierce glare, the kind that silenced any further protests. “You’re too young for a spear. We’d have to craft a special one just for you, and at your size, it’d be nothing more than a toothpick.”

Thorne’s mouth dropped open in shock, his eyes wide with indignation. “I can carry a big spear!” he shouted, his face burning with embarrassment and anger.

“Sure you can, shortie.” Uncle’s chuckle only fueled Thorne’s frustration, the older man clearly enjoying the moment.

Thorne’s cheeks flushed red, but before he could argue further, Uncle raised a hand, offering a compromise. “Tell you what—tomorrow, you’ll start training with daggers. Learn the basics. Once you turn fourteen, we’ll revisit the idea of a spear.”

Thorne glared at him, his eyes narrowed with suspicion, but after a long moment, he sighed in defeat. “Fine,” he muttered, crossing his arms in frustration.

“Wonderful!” Uncle clapped his hands together, his jovial demeanor returning. “Tomorrow morning, Sid’ll be waiting for you at the warehouse.”

Thorne grimaced at the thought of Sid as his trainer. The man was a despicable drunkard, someone who always seemed to end up in the middle of a brawl—or worse, a knife fight. Sid had a reputation in the Fish District, and not the good kind.

Thorne had seen the man stumble out of taverns with blood on his hands, his face twisted into a sneer as he flicked his many knives into place, ready for the next fight. He was dangerous, unpredictable, and worst of all, Uncle’s favorite when it came to dealing with "special" tasks.

Thorne knew Sid’s skill with daggers was unmatched—rows upon rows of knives, each one sharper than the last. But the thought of suffering through hours of training with the mercurial man left a bitter taste in his mouth.

“Isn’t there someone else?” Thorne asked, desperation creeping into his voice.

But before he could finish the thought, Uncle cut him off, his tone firm. “No. Sid has the highest skill level in daggers in all the Fish District. He’s the best, shortie, and that’s who you’re training with. Now go to sleep.”

The finality in Uncle’s words made it clear there would be no further discussion. With a huff, Uncle rose from his chair, his large frame casting a long shadow over the small attic as he made his way to the door.

"Tomorrow, you start your training," he added without looking back.