The kitchen was a warm and bustling haven, filled with the scent of freshly baked bread and roasted meat. Copper pots and pans hung from hooks above a large wooden table laden with an array of dishes. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting a cozy glow around the room. The walls were lined with shelves holding jars of spices, dried herbs, and other cooking essentials. The sound of bubbling pots and the clatter of utensils created a symphony of culinary activity.

He sat at the large wooden table, the surface practically groaning under the weight of the feast before him. His stomach growled as he dug in, shoving pieces of bread and pie into his mouth with barely a pause to chew. He hadn't eaten this well in—well, ever.

A heavyset older woman bustled around him, her flour-dusted apron swaying as she moved. She had a kind, matronly air about her, and her name was Matilda. She had bombarded Thorne with questions the second he stepped into the kitchen, but his mouth was too full to give her proper answers.

"Are you enjoying the food, dear?" Matilda asked, her voice warm as she placed a fresh plate of pastries in front of him.

Thorne nodded vigorously, swallowing a mouthful of savory pie before managing to speak. "It's amazing. Best food I've ever had!"

Matilda chuckled, her round cheeks glowing in the heat of the kitchen. "Glad to hear it! Eat up, there’s plenty more where that came from." She patted his head with affection, a small smile on her face. "You remind me of my sister’s boys. Always hungry, always up to no good."

Thorne grinned between bites, feeling a strange warmth at her kindness. "Thank you, Matilda. Really."

As Matilda busied herself with more food preparations, Arletta, the head maid, stood by the door with her arms crossed, a permanent scowl etched on her face. She was watching him with a mix of suspicion and disapproval. Near her sat a reed-thin man at a small side table, his back hunched as he lazily shoveled food into his mouth. Next to him was a small cauldron, the lid barely holding back the steam rising from it. The setup looked strange—like he was cooking something right there at the table, but no one seemed bothered by it.

Matilda approached Arletta, wiping her hands on her apron. "Who's this boy, then?" she asked, sneaking a glance at Thorne. He quickly focused on his chicken thigh, pretending not to hear them, though his ears strained to catch every word.

Before Arletta could answer, the thin man spoke up, his voice dry. "Most likely one of the master’s orphans," he said with a smirk, as if Thorne were some curiosity.

Arletta gave a slight nod, and Matilda’s eyes softened with a frown. She turned toward the man with irritation. "And I've told you a thousand times not to bring your concoctions into my kitchen! They'll ruin the food!"

The man grinned, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "The master says I can eat here whenever I want."

Matilda’s eyes flashed with anger as she looked to Arletta for support. Arletta shrugged indifferently. "He’s right."

"Doesn't mean I have to like it," Matilda huffed, crossing her arms.

The man let out a low chuckle. "Relax, Matilda. My potions are perfectly safe."

Thorne kept eating, doing his best to look preoccupied with the food, but he was absorbing every word. The conversation had shifted back to him.

"What's this boy's story, then?" the man asked, eyes flicking back to Thorne, curiosity plain on his face.

Arletta gave a small sigh, tired of the discussion. "I don’t know," she said flatly. "Before tonight, I’d never even heard of him."

The words stung. Thorne had always known his uncle was secretive, but the realization that the staff knew nothing about him hurt in a way he hadn’t expected. Did his uncle care so little that he hadn't even mentioned him to those closest to him? Or maybe his uncle was just too private. They met almost every night—surely that meant something.

His thoughts were interrupted by the man’s voice, dry and cutting. "Strange for one of the master’s rats to come to the house."

Both Matilda and the man turned to Arletta, expecting more answers. Arletta shot them a warning look, her usual cold professionalism slipping for just a moment. "You should know better than to ask me such things."

Matilda, however, softened her tone, glancing back at Thorne. "Look at him," she said, her voice filled with an almost maternal warmth. "Such a beautiful boy. Well-mannered too."

Arletta’s voice dropped to an icy whisper. "That boy is a thief."

The accusation made both Matilda and the man look up, interest reigniting in their eyes. The man leaned in, intrigued. "Oh, do tell."

Arletta crossed her arms, glancing briefly at Thorne before continuing. "All I know is that the boy has sticky fingers. He managed to steal something important for the master. I haven't seen him this happy... ever."

All three turned their gaze to Thorne, who pretended to focus solely on a delicious tart. The kitchen was in constant chaos, with serving girls wearing immaculate uniforms, entering and exiting the room every so often. Cooks, that sneaked fearful glances at Matilda toiled above huge pots that could hold Thorne standing up.

Despite the kitchen's constant bustling, a sudden high-pitched whistle pierced the noise as the lid on Roderick's cauldron rattled violently. Matilda and Roderick both jumped, and Matilda, her face flushing with anger, wasted no time in yelling at him.

"How could they allow a poisoner inside a kitchen?" she fumed, pointing at the thrashing pot. "You’ll ruin everything with your foul concoctions!"

At the word "poisoner," Thorne’s ears perked up, and all pretense of being distracted vanished. His eyes widened with excitement as he blurted, "You’re a poisoner?"

Roderick, taken aback by Thorne's enthusiasm, blinked for a moment before a sly grin stretched across his face. "Aye, lad. That I am. Name's Roderick."

Thorne’s curiosity ignited. He leaned forward, his voice full of fascination. "What kind of poisons do you make?"

Roderick chuckled darkly. "Oh, all sorts. Some to kill quick, some to make a man sleep for days, and some to make you wish you were dead long before you actually are."

Matilda rolled her eyes in disgust, wiping her hands on her apron. "Don’t go filling the boy’s head with such nonsense, Roderick."

But Thorne wasn’t deterred. His gaze sharpened, his mind already racing with possibilities. "Why would Uncle need a poisoner in his house?" he asked.

Roderick’s smirk widened. "Not all poisons are made for harm, lad. Some folk pay good coin for a little taste of something... different." His voice dropped conspiratorially. "Some even enjoy drinking or breathing in things that... alter them."

Before he could elaborate, Arletta stepped forward with a stern glare. "That’s enough, Roderick," she interrupted sharply. "The boy doesn’t need to hear about your experiments."

Roderick shrugged, unconcerned, and went back to his food, but Thorne’s head buzzed with new thoughts. Poisoners, concoctions that could kill or incapacitate… What would Uncle need all those things?

Arletta then fixed her gaze on Thorne. "It’s time for you to go, boy," she said, her voice as cold as ever.

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Not yet, Thorne thought. He wasn’t ready to leave the warmth or the feast. He stuffed his cheeks with more food, like a squirrel preparing for winter, trying to buy himself more time. Just as he was about to rise reluctantly, Matilda intervened with a sharp tone, "Hold on! The boy hasn’t had dessert yet."

She turned to Thorne with a soft, motherly smile. "Do you have a favorite dessert, dear?"

Thorne hesitated for a moment, unsure if he should reveal what he truly wanted, but the thought of his favorite treat pushed him to speak. "Do you have blueberry pie?"

Matilda’s hearty laugh filled the kitchen. "Blueberry pie? Let me see what we’ve got." She turned to one of the younger cooks, her voice suddenly commanding. "Go fetch whatever pies we’ve got left."

The girl hurried off and returned moments later, her arms full of pies of all sorts. Thorne's eyes widened in disbelief as she set them down in front of him. He couldn't believe his luck. Tears of gratitude welled up as he stared at the array of pastries. He muttered something incoherent in thanks before diving into his favorite, the blueberry pie.

When he took his first bite, a deep moan of satisfaction escaped him. "You’ve just become my favorite person in the world," he mumbled through a mouthful, the sweet tang of blueberries exploding on his tongue.

Matilda laughed, delighted by his reaction. "Eat as much as you want, love. And don’t worry, you can take what’s left with you."

Thorne devoured the pie like it was the last meal he’d ever have, savoring every bite. His belly grew fuller with each piece, but he couldn’t stop. The warmth of the kitchen, the kindness of Matilda, and the sheer abundance of food made it feel like a dream—one he didn’t want to wake from. Roderick eventually slipped out of the room, clutching his cauldron protectively, while Arletta remained near the door, still watching him with her cold, calculating eyes.

As the minutes ticked by, exhaustion crept up on Thorne. He was fighting to keep his eyes open, his mind still buzzing from the night’s events. He forced down half a slice of strawberry pie before finally giving in, his head drooping forward, dangerously close to the table.

Arletta noticed immediately and sighed in exasperation. "Come on, boy," she said, pulling him up to his feet. She bundled up the leftover pies in cloth and handed them to him. "You can’t sleep here."

Thorne, still dazed and full, allowed her to guide him toward the door. His eyelids felt like they were made of lead, and his steps were unsteady as they left the warmth of the kitchen behind.

Thorne began his journey back to his small attic, yawning with every step. But halfway there, something gnawed at him—a strange, unsettling feeling that made his skin crawl. He paused, looking around, but nothing seemed out of place. Still, a deep-rooted unease settled in his gut, and the idea of going back to his attic now felt wrong. He didn’t know why, but he suddenly couldn’t bear the thought of returning to that tiny, suffocating space.

His feet started moving again, but he wasn’t consciously guiding them. They led him down unfamiliar streets until the familiar scent of salt filled the air. He stopped, looking ahead, realizing where he was—the lighthouse. The dilapidated structure stood tall and lonely against the star-speckled sky. The building was a ghost of its former self, a forgotten relic crumbling by the sea, and yet, something about its isolation called to him.

Thorne moved toward it, trepidation mingling with a quiet sense of relief. He needed space, needed to think, needed to escape. The lighthouse, abandoned and distant from the world, seemed like the perfect refuge.

The stairs groaned under his weight as he ascended them. When he finally reached the top, he paused to take in the breathtaking view. The sea stretched out before him, an endless black expanse, and in the distance, the twinkling lights of Alvar City flickered faintly like stars. Thorne found a corner and slumped against the cold stone wall, the salty breeze brushing against his face. The rhythmic crashing of the waves below had a calming effect.

Sitting there, he tried to shut out everything—the Gravediggers, the new skills he’d earned, the letter, even the unsettling events of the night. But his thoughts kept circling back to Uncle. The way his uncle had dismissed him so abruptly, as though Thorne were nothing more than a tool, stung more than he wanted to admit. His uncle had barely acknowledged him after he had risked everything to get the letter, treating him as if he were an afterthought, insignificant.

Is that all I am to him? Thorne wondered, his heart tightening at the thought. After losing his family, Uncle had been the only constant in his life, someone Thorne had looked up to, maybe even seen as a father figure. But now, the coldness in his uncle’s words and actions left him doubting everything. Was he just a pawn in some larger game, nothing more than a useful asset to be discarded when convenient?

Thorne’s hand instinctively reached for his mother’s pendant, hidden beneath his filthy shirt. The small stone embedded in the pendant glowed faintly with aether, casting a soft light against the darkness. He stared at it for a moment, but the memories it conjured were too much. His chest tightened, and his vision blurred as he fought back the tears threatening to spill. With trembling hands, he shoved the pendant back under his shirt, squeezing his eyes shut, trying to hold the emotions at bay.

His thoughts returned to his uncle. The man who had been so important to him, the man he had thought of as family, now felt like a stranger. Does he care about me at all? Or am I just another piece on his chessboard, easily sacrificed?

Thorne hugged his knees to his chest, burying his face in his arms. The weight of everything pressed down on him, suffocating him. He wanted to scream, to cry out in frustration and pain, but all he could do was sit in the cold.

Thorne made a silent vow to himself: I won’t let anyone use me again. I’ll get stronger, smarter. One day, I’ll be the one pulling the strings. The cold, sharp edges of this new determination cut through the fog of his emotions, grounding him.

As these thoughts swirled in his mind, exhaustion finally caught up with him. Thorne drifted into a fitful sleep, the sound of the waves crashing against the shore below his only lullaby.

*

Thorne woke up to the midday sun blazing overhead, its harsh light streaming through the crumbling walls of the abandoned lighthouse. He stretched, wincing as the stiffness from the previous night settled into his muscles, a reminder of everything he had been through. His stomach growled, snapping him out of his thoughts and reminding him of the pies Matilda had packed for him.

Unwrapping the bundle, he grabbed a blueberry pie, still warm from being wrapped tightly. The sweet, tangy flavor filled his mouth as he took a bite, but it didn’t bring the comfort it usually did. As he ate, his mind wandered, replaying the events of the previous day—the heist, the letter, his uncle’s cold dismissal. The thought of it made the pie taste less sweet.

Finishing his breakfast, Thorne leaned back, staring at the dilapidated structure. The magical orb and the gems tucked safely in his pocket weighed on his mind. He couldn’t just carry them around; they were too valuable and too dangerous to keep on him. He needed a safe place to stash his loot.

After searching the lighthouse, he found what he was looking for—a loose brick in the wall, worn and hidden in a shadowed corner. He carefully pried it loose, revealing a small hollow space behind it, just big enough for his treasures. With a quiet sense of satisfaction, he stashed the orb and gems inside, replacing the brick and making sure it looked undisturbed. For now, they were safe.

But the reality of what he held gnawed at him. Those gems could make him rich, but who would buy them from an orphan? If he took them to a merchant, they'd likely steal them outright, or worse, report him. He clenched his fists. No one took him seriously—not the guards, not the merchants, not even his uncle. He needed power. Real power. The kind that would make people listen, make them respect him.

With that in mind, Thorne made his decision. He needed to go back to the forest, to test himself, to grow stronger. But before that, he had to check in with Jonah and Ben about the boar bones.

He made his way to the fish market, the familiar stench of saltwater and fresh catch hitting him the moment he arrived. As expected, Jonah and Ben were in their usual spot, Jonah animatedly haggling with a merchant over the price of fish. When he saw Thorne, he broke off mid-sentence and came over.

"Still no luck finding a decent buyer," Jonah said, frustration clear in his voice. "The merchants I’ve talked to are offering pennies, but I’ve got a few more leads."

Thorne’s expression remained unreadable, his mood dark. "Keep looking," he said, his voice cold and clipped.

Ben, as usual, stayed silent but watched him closely. His gaze lingered on Thorne’s face, as if he could sense the turmoil beneath the surface. Just as Thorne was about to leave, Ben gently grabbed his arm, his eyes full of concern. Jonah, catching on, translated Ben’s question. "What's going on with you? You look... off. Something happen?"

Thorne's first instinct was to push them away. "I’m fine. Just tired," he muttered, keeping his voice flat and emotionless.

Jonah, ever the sharp one, wasn’t convinced. He remembered that Thorne had mentioned having something important to do yesterday. "Did everything go alright with your task?" he asked, trying to probe without pushing too hard.

Thorne’s irritation flared. He didn’t want to talk about it, especially not with them. "I said I’m fine," he snapped, sharper than he intended. "It's done, and now I need to go back to the forest."

Jonah raised an eyebrow. "The forest? Again? Why?"

Thorne shot him a glare. "None of your business. Just find a buyer for those bones." His tone was cutting, harsher than Jonah deserved, but he couldn’t help it. His emotions were too raw, too tangled up with the mess of feelings left over from his uncle’s rejection.

Jonah exchanged a worried glance with Ben, clearly sensing that something deeper was bothering Thorne. "You know, if you need to talk, we’re here," Jonah offered, his voice softening. "We could help."

Thorne's cold facade cracked for just a moment, but he quickly rebuilt it, shaking off the concern. "I don’t need your help," he said, turning away abruptly. "Just do your job and find a buyer."

Without waiting for a response, Thorne turned on his heel and walked off, heading toward the edge of the city, toward the forest. He felt a pang of guilt for snapping at Jonah and Ben, but the hurt and confusion from his uncle’s behavior still clung to him, twisting his emotions. He buried it, forcing it deep down, where it couldn’t distract him. He needed to focus on one thing now: getting stronger.