Thorne trudged through the wreckage of Alvar City, his thoughts as broken as the shattered buildings around him. The streets were lined with destruction—shops reduced to smoldering ruins, homes reduced to ash, and bodies being carted away in grim silence. The air was thick with the acrid stench of smoke, blood, and decay, turning his stomach with each breath. Several times, he had to stop, retching by the side of the road as tears stung his eyes. People had died because of him. People had lost their homes, their families, their lives—all because he had wanted to impress his uncle, to prove his worth.

Each step through the smoking ruins only deepened his guilt. He could see their faces in his mind—the men, women, and children who had been caught in the crossfire of a war he had helped set in motion. The destruction around him mirrored the devastation inside him. His hands shook with each realization. He had been so desperate to earn his uncle’s admiration, to gain his approval, that he hadn’t questioned the cost. And now, people had paid that price with their lives.

As Thorne wandered through the wreckage, the truth struck him like a dagger to the heart: His uncle wasn’t the man he had believed him to be. He wasn’t a savior. He wasn’t the caring figure who had taken him in when he had lost everything. No, he was something else entirely—a manipulator, a user. His uncle hadn’t saved him out of love or kindness. He had seen an opportunity—a desperate boy with nowhere to turn, someone who could be molded, controlled, and used for his own ends.

Thorne felt sick, the weight of the revelation pressing down on his chest like a boulder. The man he had once clung to, the man he had idolized, was nothing more than a puppet master, pulling strings while Thorne danced to his tune. Every kind word, every smile, every pat on the back—lies. All of it had been a calculated performance, designed to keep Thorne obedient and useful. How had he not seen it before? How had he been so blind?

His uncle’s praises, the pats on his back, the words of encouragement—they all replayed in his mind like a cruel joke. Thorne had basked in those moments, feeling pride swell in his chest when his uncle had smiled at him, told him he’d done well. But now, that pride felt like poison, curdling in his stomach. He had been nothing more than a tool, a pawn in his uncle’s schemes. The truth hollowed him out, leaving behind a cold, aching void where hope and trust had once been.

He thought back to the night he delivered the letter, the night everything changed. He had felt so proud, so eager for his uncle’s approval. But now he realized it had all been a lie. His uncle hadn’t cared about him. He had cared about what Thorne could do for him, about how he could use him to further his own plans. Thorne’s hands clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms as the weight of that betrayal settled over him. He had been so desperate for someone to care about him, so hungry for affection, that he had ignored all the signs. He had blinded himself to the truth because he didn’t want to see it.

But now, there was no denying it. He saw the bitter truth. That man was not his father. That man was not his family. He wasn’t someone who cared about Thorne’s well-being. He was a man who used him, who saw him as nothing more than a means to an end.

Thorne’s chest ached with the weight of that realization, the bitter sting of betrayal cutting deeper than any blade. He had wanted to believe that his uncle was different, that he was someone Thorne could rely on. But he had been wrong. And that mistake had cost innocent lives.

By the time he reached his attic, he was barely aware of his surroundings, lost in the storm of his thoughts. When he opened the door, the sight that greeted him yanked him back to the present. Jonah was sprawled across his bed, snoring loudly, his long legs hanging awkwardly over the edge. Ben was huddled in a corner, deeply engrossed in a small book, his face a picture of concentration.

Thorne blinked in surprise, momentarily thrown by the sight of the two boys. He hadn’t expected guests, let alone Jonah and Ben. They looked like they had been dragged through hell. Jonah’s clothes were torn and stained with dried blood, a nasty cut running down the side of his face. Ben, usually round-faced and clean, was caked in grime, his blond hair matted with dirt and grease, making it a revolting shade of brown.

Thorne frowned, a flicker of confusion cutting through the emotional haze that had been clouding his mind. He hadn’t known Ben could read, but there he was, turning the pages of the book with careful attention. The room felt different, as if the boys’ presence had pushed away the suffocating weight of his guilt and regret, if only for a moment.

"What are you two doing here?" Thorne demanded, his voice harsher than intended. After everything he had just endured, the last thing he wanted was company. Ben's head shot up in surprise, his mouth forming an 'O,' while Jonah jolted upright, his frantic eyes scanning the room for enemies. Thorne realized his Stealth skill must have been working without him even noticing. His movements had been completely silent, sneaking up on them unintentionally.

"We didn't know where else to go," Jonah muttered, rubbing his eyes wearily. "The city's gone mad, and we... we got caught in the middle of it."

Ben nodded vigorously, his wide eyes filled with worry. He pointed to the gash on Jonah's face and then to himself, making quick, frantic gestures that Thorne struggled to interpret.

"You're hurt," Thorne said, his tone softening as he took in their ragged appearance. His anger faded when he noticed the dirt and blood on Jonah's face, and Ben's filthy clothes. "What happened?"

Jonah leaned back against the wall with a heavy sigh, exhaustion written all over his face. "Our house… it's gone, Thorne. Burned down. We barely made it out alive."

Thorne’s stomach twisted in guilt. Their home had been a hovel, sure, but it had been shelter. Now they had nothing, and he couldn't help but feel partly responsible for the chaos gripping the city.

"I thought the fighting was mostly in the rich districts," Thorne said, frowning. "The poor parts were supposed to stay out of it."

Jonah shook his head. "That’s what we thought too. But it wasn’t just the rich neighborhoods. It spread everywhere. Some nobles tried to flee through the docks, but the guards followed and… they torched everything. Killed anyone in the way."

Thorne's heart sank further. The guilt weighed heavier on his chest. All this destruction, all these lives lost… it was his fault. The letter he had delivered, the role he played—it had all led to this madness. "I… I didn’t know," he whispered, his voice barely audible.

Jonah met his eyes, a mixture of sadness and frustration clouding his features. "None of us did, Thorne. It's like the city’s tearing itself apart."

Thorne knelt beside Jonah, inspecting the cut on his face. "You need to clean this wound before it gets infected."

Jonah shrugged, forcing a weak grin. "I’ve had worse."

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Meanwhile, Ben clutched the small book he had been reading, his gaze pleading as he gestured toward the door and then back to himself and Jonah. It was a silent request, a desperate plea for permission to stay.

Thorne sighed, running a hand through his hair, the weight of everything pulling him down. "Alright, you can stay here for now. We’ll figure something out later."

Jonah nodded gratefully, his expression a mix of relief and exhaustion. "Thanks, Thorne. We didn’t know where else to go."

Thorne sat down, leaning back against the wall as he stared out the small window. The city outside was still shrouded in chaos, the distant sound of shouting and clashing steel carried on the wind. He couldn’t shake the guilt gnawing at his insides. This destruction… it was because of him. The burning buildings, the lost lives—he had played a part in it all.

His thoughts drifted back to his uncle—the coldness in the man’s eyes, the way he had dismissed Thorne’s concerns without a second thought. How could he have ever believed that his uncle cared for him? The man didn’t care about the lives lost, the destruction unfolding in the streets. He only cared about power. And Thorne had been nothing but a tool, used and discarded.

Thorne sighed, the weight of it all pressing down on him like a suffocating blanket. He had been so foolish, so desperate for approval, that he had ignored the signs. Now, the truth was impossible to deny. His uncle didn’t care about him, and he never had.

The room was silent except for the distant sounds of the city tearing itself apart. Thorne stared blankly out the window, feeling the heavy burden of betrayal, guilt, and loss settle deeper into his bones.

*

The three boys sat in the dimly lit attic, the silence between them thick with tension and the weight of the day's chaos. The air was heavy, a mixture of exhaustion, hunger, and the unspoken fear that clung to them like a shadow. Thorne was still lost in thought when the door creaked open, and Gilly appeared, her face etched with worry. She spotted Thorne and let out a relieved sigh.

"Thank the dead gods you’re safe," she muttered, placing a bowl of steaming stew in front of him.

Thorne gave her a nod, appreciating the concern but too drained to express it fully. His stomach churned, but not from hunger. Hesitating, he glanced at Jonah and Ben, their eyes following the bowl like wolves on the hunt. "Could you bring some for my friends too?" he asked quietly.

Gilly looked them over, her brow furrowing. She seemed to weigh something in her mind before finally nodding. A few moments later, she returned with two more bowls, the stew still steaming. Jonah and Ben didn’t wait for an invitation. They fell on the food, shoveling it into their mouths as if they hadn’t eaten in days. It dawned on Thorne that might actually be the case.

Jonah's cheeks bulged as he devoured his portion, while Ben ate quickly but more quietly, his small hands gripping the bowl as if it might be taken away at any moment. Thorne, on the other hand, picked at his food, barely able to eat more than a few bites. The events of the past night weighed heavily on him, killing any appetite he might’ve had. He watched as the other boys scraped their bowls clean, their hunger evident in every bite.

When Jonah and Ben glanced at his half-full bowl with longing, Thorne let out a quiet sigh, pushing it toward them. "Here, you can have it."

They didn't need to be told twice. Jonah grabbed the bowl first, and they quickly polished off the last of the stew, the tension in the room briefly replaced by the simple joy of eating. Jonah let out a loud burp, patting his now-full stomach. He turned to Thorne with a smirk, his eyes gleaming with mischief.

"You know," Jonah began, his tone mocking, "I was right all along. You really are a princeling. Got your own servant and everything."

Thorne bristled at the comment, his fists clenching in irritation. "It's Uncle’s servant, not mine," he snapped, his voice tight. He hated the implication. Hated how it stung.

Jonah scoffed, shaking his head. "Same thing."

Thorne felt a knot tighten in his chest. Jonah’s envy was painfully clear, and even Ben seemed to view the cramped attic as some kind of palace compared to the streets they were used to. They didn’t understand—how could they? They thought his uncle’s attention was a blessing. They were so, so wrong. Not wanting to dwell on the thoughts, Thorne changed the subject. "Jonah, did you find a buyer for the boar horns?"

Jonah's face brightened immediately, excitement replacing the bitterness. "Yeah, I did! Found a shopkeeper, an alchemist who’s interested. I hope his shop’s still standing after last night’s chaos," he added with a frown, but his expression quickly shifted back to one of pride. "At first, he offered ten coppers, but I saw the way his eyes lit up when he saw the horns. Got him to offer two silvers."

"Two silvers?" Thorne echoed, a spark of hope lighting up his otherwise weary mind.

Jonah nodded, more serious now. "Yep. He said the horns were magical, just like you thought. But I kinda screwed up… told him you were planning to go back to the Elven Forest to hunt for more ingredients."

Thorne frowned. "And?"

Jonah scratched his head. "And the alchemist said if we bring him more ingredients, he’ll buy everything we bring him—and even raise the price for the horns."

Thorne mulled over the information. It wasn’t a bad deal, all things considered. "Did you bring anything back from the forest?" Jonah asked, hope flickering in his eyes.

Thorne reached into his pocket and pulled out the green rock, tossing it to Jonah. He caught it, inspecting the rough surface with a puzzled expression. "This is it?"

Thorne smirked, leaning back. "Trust me, Jonah. That rock is worth more than the horns. The aether inside… it’s valuable." He thought about the sheer amount of aether the rock contained, more than enough to fetch a high price if they found the right buyer.

Ben's eyes widened in awe, and he scooted closer to get a better look. His small hands fidgeted, itching to touch the rock but too shy to ask.

They talked for a while longer, the tension in the room easing as they discussed plans and possibilities. Thorne found some solace in the conversation, though a part of him remained detached, his thoughts still spiraling around the events of the night before. Jonah’s hands moved wildly as he recounted his bargaining with the alchemist, while Ben nodded along silently, his expressive eyes saying more than words could. The usual banter between them returned, a small reprieve from the chaos outside.

Eventually, Thorne stood up, his mind made up. "I have to go," he said, brushing the dust from his pants.

Jonah looked up, raising an eyebrow. "Where are you off to?"

Thorne shrugged, trying to keep it vague. "Just… some things I need to take care of."

Jonah eyed him suspiciously but didn’t press. "Alright, just be careful out there."

Thorne nodded, patting Ben on the shoulder. Ben gave him a worried look, his hands moving in a gesture that Thorne had come to understand meant "be careful."

"I’ll be fine," Thorne reassured him, forcing a smile he didn’t feel. "Stay safe, both of you."

As Thorne slipped out of the attic, his thoughts spiraled into a whirlwind of confusion and fear. Sid's intense gaze lingered in his mind, unsettling him in ways he couldn’t fully understand. The man’s eyes had bored into him, sharp and probing, as though he was searching for something hidden deep within. Thorne could still feel the weight of that stare, the way it had sent a chill crawling down his spine. Had Sid seen him use his skills? Had he figured out that Thorne was using aether?

The thought filled him with dread. If Sid—or anyone else—discovered the truth about him, it would mean disaster. Thorne’s heart raced at the mere possibility. The blood of the elder races ran through his veins, a secret he had guarded for as long as he could remember. His mother had always warned him: "Never let anyone know. Never show them what you truly are." She had died because of that secret, hunted down by those who craved the power she possessed. That memory, the sight of her final, desperate moments, haunted him still. It was the reason he hid, the reason he ran.

His core pulsed with energy, a beacon of aether that would draw enemies like moths to a flame if they knew. If anyone ever found out, they’d come for him too, just like they had come for her. Thorne couldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t risk exposure—not now, not ever.

But Sid’s piercing gaze had made him feel exposed, vulnerable in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time. There was something in the way the man had looked at him—like he had seen through Thorne's defenses, like he knew something Thorne wasn’t ready to reveal. Had Sid figured it out? Was that why his eyes had been so intense? Did he know Thorne was different?

His heart pounded in his chest as he moved through the twisting alleyways, the narrow streets closing in on him like the walls of a cage. The question gnawed at him—did Sid suspect something? If he did, it could change everything. Thorne couldn’t risk it. He had to find Sid, confront him, and figure out what he knew. He needed answers, and fast.

But the city, still reeling from the chaos, offered him no clues. Sid never showed up that night. Or the night after. Or the one after that.