Thorne returned from the fish market grinning from ear to ear, savoring the crispy fried fish in his hands, his fingers and mouth drenched in oil. His pockets clinked with the weight of freshly earned coins. Jonah had finally managed to sell the magical ingredients to the alchemist, who, according to Jonah, had gone as mute as Ben when he laid eyes on the green stone. Twenty-five silvers—an absolute fortune! Even though Thorne had a nagging suspicion that they were played for fools and the stone was worth far more, the heavy jingle of his full pockets made it hard to care too much. For now, at least.

He'd given Jonah and Ben seven silvers, their eyes widening in disbelief as he handed them the money. The shock froze them for a moment, but then, predictably, Jonah's instincts kicked in, and he began haggling for more. Reluctantly, Thorne gave in, offering an extra silver just to shut him up. That minor concession had at least leveled up his Haggling skill to six, but since then, Jonah had been pestering him nonstop, nagging him to go back to the Elven Forest to fetch more ingredients. Thorne ground his teeth every time, as if finding and killing a magical cat capable of making the entire forest come alive was a simple errand. Jonah had no clue what he was asking.

Stepping into his attic, Thorne's smile faltered the instant he saw his uncle seated at the small table. The man looked absurd, his bulky frame nearly overwhelming the delicate chair, which seemed moments away from splintering under his weight. Uncle's head lifted from a ledger, and a wide smile spread across his face when his eyes landed on Thorne.

“Shortie! You’re finally home! I’ve been waiting for you!” Uncle’s voice was warm, almost cheerful, as if nothing had happened between them. As if he hadn’t yelled at Thorne, threatened him, or hurled objects at him just days ago.

Thorne froze in the doorway. His uncle’s smile dimmed slightly, the jagged scar on his face contorting as a frown began to form. “Shortie, what’s wrong?” Uncle asked, his voice genuinely puzzled, as though he had no idea why Thorne might be hesitant to approach.

For a moment, Thorne hesitated. Had he imagined everything? The anger, the violence, the ink bottle crashing against the wall? Maybe it was just the exhaustion, the aether strain clouding his memory. But no. He hadn’t imagined it. The rage had been real, as real as the fear that had gripped him when Uncle’s eyes had turned cold and unforgiving. Thorne forced down the instinct to soothe his uncle, to rush forward and make things right, to see that warm smile directed at him again. Instead, he nodded stiffly and muttered, “Uncle,” as he moved to sit on the edge of his bed.

His uncle’s frown deepened, and he pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing in frustration. “I hope you’re not still upset about the other day,” he said, his voice softening but edged with impatience. “I know things got… heated, but you have to understand, there’s a lot going on. The city’s in chaos, and I’ve got to manage everything. It’s not easy.”

Thorne stared at his uncle, a swirl of emotions churning inside him. Part of him wanted to believe, to think that the man’s outburst was just the result of stress, that the weight of his responsibilities had pushed him to the edge. But the other part—the part that remembered the cold, calculated gleam in Uncle’s eyes—couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that he was nothing more than a pawn in a much larger game.

“I know, Uncle,” Thorne said, his voice low. “But you scared me. You threw an ink bottle at me.”

His uncle’s expression softened, but there was a flicker of impatience beneath it. “I know, and I shouldn’t have done that. I was angry, and I took it out on you. But you have to understand, Shortie, this is a dangerous game we’re playing. One wrong move, and everything falls apart.”

Thorne nodded slowly, his fingers tracing absent patterns on the blanket beneath him. “I just wanted to help,” he whispered, more to himself than to his uncle.

“And you have,” Uncle replied, his voice growing warmer as he leaned forward. “You’ve done more than I ever expected. But you have to be careful. This isn’t a game. People are dying out there.”

Thorne’s stomach twisted at the reminder, the images of the burning city flashing through his mind—the bodies, the screams, the destruction. How many of those deaths were his fault? He hadn’t meant for any of this to happen. All he had wanted was to prove himself to Uncle, to earn his admiration. But at what cost?

“I know,” Thorne said, barely able to keep the guilt from his voice. “I just… I want to make sure I’m doing the right thing.”

Uncle’s gaze softened even further, and for a brief moment, Thorne saw something close to genuine warmth in his eyes. “You are, Thorne,” he assured him. “But you have to trust me. I know what I’m doing. We’re going to make things better, but we’ve got to be smart about it. Stick with me, and everything will be fine.”

Thorne nodded again, but the doubt still lingered like a shadow he couldn’t shake. He wanted to believe Uncle. He wanted to trust that there was a plan, that they were working toward something good. But deep down, a part of him—however small—couldn’t help but feel cheated.

"Now," Uncle said, his tone shifting to its usual briskness, “I hope you understand the gravity of the situation. Everything that's happened… it's not just the result of one thing, but your involvement—delivering that letter—set off a chain of events that couldn’t be stopped."

Thorne’s heart plummeted, and he felt a cold weight settle in his stomach. “So… it’s my fault?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Not entirely,” Uncle replied, his voice dripping with a calculated edge that sent a chill down Thorne’s spine. “But your actions had consequences. That’s something you need to learn, boy. Every decision you make ripples out, affecting things you can’t even begin to imagine. If you hadn't given me that letter, maybe things would have been different.”

Guilt crashed over Thorne like a tidal wave. His earlier confidence crumbled, and the weight of his uncle's words pressed down on him. He looked at the floor, his voice small and defeated. “I just wanted to help.”

“And you did,” Uncle said, standing up and placing a hand on Thorne’s shoulder. His grip was firm, almost too firm, but there was a warmth to his words. “But remember, Shortie, this world is dangerous. You need to be smarter, more careful. We can't afford mistakes."

Then, in a movement so fast it left Thorne reeling, Uncle drew a knife from his jacket, the metallic scrape of the blade making Thorne’s blood freeze. The knife gleamed menacingly in the dim light as Uncle pointed it directly at him, his eyes cold and sharp as steel, boring into Thorne as if he were weighing his life in his hands. For a split second, fear paralyzed him. Was Uncle going to kill him? The thought flashed through Thorne’s mind like lightning, and his heart thudded in his chest.

But just as quickly as the fear struck, Uncle’s face transformed. A deep, booming laugh erupted from him, filling the room with a twisted mirth that echoed off the walls. He tossed the knife casually onto the table in front of Thorne, the blade skidding across the wood.

"Take it. It's yours," Uncle said, his voice still light with laughter. "I never got the chance to give you your present. You deserve it."

Thorne’s hands shook as he reached for the blade, his fingers brushing the cold steel. For that brief moment, he had been certain Uncle would kill him—just like that, without a second thought. He lifted the knife, feeling its weight. It was unlike any weapon he had ever held before. Bigger. Heavier. The double-edged blade gleamed, and one side was serrated, designed to tear through flesh and bone. The handle was wrapped in black leather, smooth and expensive, and the sheath bore intricate silver patterns that made it clear this was no ordinary blade.

“Thank you, Uncle,” Thorne said, his voice uneven as he tried to steady his nerves.

Uncle chuckled, clearly amused by Thorne’s reaction. “You’ll need it,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Sid approached me, told me he wants to train you properly. Like he does with his other apprentices.”

Thorne’s heart skipped a beat. His stomach tightened in dread. “What… what did he say?” he stammered, trying to mask the fear creeping into his voice.

Uncle’s eyes narrowed, that familiar calculating gleam in them. “He said you showed potential. Enough to catch his eye. You must have done something extraordinary that night to impress him.”

The blood drained from Thorne’s face. Had Sid seen him use his aether manipulation? Did he know? "Did he… did he mention anything specific?" Thorne asked, struggling to keep his voice steady.

Uncle shook his head. “Just that you’ve got promise. He didn’t go into details, but the fact that Sid is interested should make you proud, Shortie.”

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Thorne forced a smile, feeling the flicker of his acting skill take over, smoothing his features and masking the whirlwind of fear inside. “I am, Uncle. Thank you.” His voice came out steady, but inside, his thoughts were in chaos.

Uncle leaned back further, his eyes never leaving Thorne. He closed the small ledger in front of him with a sharp snap, the sound slicing through the air like the knife had earlier. Thorne sat up straighter, his muscles tensing unconsciously. Uncle’s gaze was unreadable, as if he were analyzing Thorne, picking him apart piece by piece.

“Sid will be waiting for you at your usual spot after we’re done here,” Uncle said casually, as if sending Thorne off to be trained by the man wasn’t the most terrifying thought in the world.

Thorne nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. "I’ll be there," he said, though his mind was already racing, trying to figure out how he was going to handle this. What if Sid knew? What if this was all a trap?

Uncle’s eyes gleamed with something darker, more dangerous. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his face closer now, the jagged scar on his cheek casting shadows across his expression. “Now,” he said, his voice softer but no less commanding, “it’s time to play our game. Tell me what you think happened that night.”

Thorne hesitated, his gaze darting around the room, avoiding his uncle's eyes. He didn’t dare speak, fearing that even the wrong word would reignite the temper he'd seen before. Uncle’s anger was a force of nature—unpredictable and explosive.

But his uncle picked up on his unease. "You are free to say whatever you please," he said in a tone almost too calm. "In fact, I want you to speak your mind."

Thorne’s eyes flicked upward, searching his uncle’s face. He saw only encouragement, and beneath that, something more. Curiosity? It didn’t make sense. Why would his uncle care what he thought? Still, the memory of that night weighed heavy on him, like chains wrapped around his thoughts. He needed to untangle this web his uncle had woven. Taking a deep breath, he began, his voice trembling.

"In the letter I found in Lady Elara's chamber," Thorne started, choosing his words carefully, "it said that the Thornfields were planning to ally with the Ravencourts to prevent House Durnell from rising to power." He kept his eyes on Uncle, hoping for any kind of reaction. The man’s eyes narrowed, but he remained silent.

"You didn’t want that," Thorne continued, his voice growing steadier as he pieced it together. "You wanted Lord Durnell's deal with the capital to go through. So you had Lady Elara killed."

His uncle's expression remained eerily calm, but there was a flicker in his eyes—approval, perhaps? Encouragement? It unsettled Thorne, but he pressed on.

"Without her," Thorne added, "her younger brother would take over the Thornfields, and he’s more likely to ally with the Durnells. That’s why the Ravencourts attacked the Thornfields—to stop the alliance. And that’s how it escalated into a full-out war between the houses."

Uncle nodded, his face betraying nothing, though his eyes held that same calculating gleam. "Your conclusion is good, Shortie," he said slowly. "But you're missing something. And it’s not your fault—you don’t yet have all the facts."

Thorne swallowed, his curiosity outweighing his fear. "What am I missing?"

Uncle leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful look crossing his face. “First of all, I wasn’t the one who killed Lady Elara.”

Thorne blinked in confusion. “I didn’t mean you did it personally, but you sent one of your people—didn’t you?”

His uncle shook his head, a sly smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You should never leave a trail that leads back to you. If I had sent one of my people, it would have been a matter of time before someone figured it out."

Thorne frowned, feeling more confused than ever. "Then how did you do it?"

"The letter," Uncle said simply, his smile widening.

Thorne's brow furrowed. "The letter?"

"Lord Thornfield found his sister’s letter after all," Uncle explained. "It just wasn’t the one she wrote. He found my letter—a letter that detailed how Lady Elara had supposedly contracted a local gang to have her brother killed, fearing he was gaining too much power within their house."

Thorne’s eyes widened, a cold shiver running down his spine. "You… you forged it?"

Uncle’s grin was one of pure satisfaction. "Exactly. The letter was enough to push her brother over the edge, to make him believe his own sister was plotting against him."

Thorne sat back, stunned. "But why involve the Gravediggers? Why frame them?"

Uncle’s eyes gleamed with a sharp cunning. "The Gravediggers are pests—a nuisance I’ve been wanting to deal with for a long time. By implicating them, I not only removed Lady Elara, a stabilizing force in the city, but I also weakened another enemy. Two birds, one stone. It was a calculated move."

Thorne's head spun. The sheer complexity of his uncle’s plan, the manipulation, the coldness with which he executed it—it was staggering. "And the fighting?" Thorne asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "The chaos in the streets... was that part of your plan too?"

Uncle waved his hand dismissively. "Collateral damage. A necessary evil. The chaos ensured that the Ravencourts and Thornfields would be too focused on each other to interfere with Durnell’s dealings. It also provided cover for our own operations."

Thorne's stomach churned. He thought of the families he had seen torn apart, the bodies in the streets, the homes reduced to ashes. "But... innocent people died."

Uncle’s expression darkened, his voice growing colder. "Innocence is a luxury we cannot afford, Thorne. This world is unforgiving. Those who survive do so by being stronger, smarter, and willing to make sacrifices. You need to understand that, or you won’t last long."

Thorne’s throat tightened. The weight of guilt pressed down on him, heavy and suffocating. "But... Uncle, the destruction, the deaths... was it all really necessary?"

Uncle leaned forward, his fingers steepled together, his gaze piercing. "Necessary? Maybe not. But effective? Absolutely. In this world, boy, the ends often justify the means. Those who understand that rise to power. Those who don’t? Well, they’re swept away in the tide, like the dead you’ve seen in the streets."

Thorne stared at his uncle, struggling to process everything. This man, the one who had taken him in, who had given him a home when he had nothing—this man was a monster. And yet, a part of Thorne still longed for his approval, still craved his affection.

Thorne’s gaze drifted down to the knife his uncle had given him, the blade gleaming in the dim light. It was finely crafted, a clear symbol of his uncle’s power and the influence he wielded with such ease. As he turned the weapon over in his hands, a storm of emotions churned inside him—admiration for his uncle’s ruthless brilliance, but also a deep, unsettling unease. What kind of man was capable of such cold manipulation? The thought sent a shiver down his spine.

“The letter...” Thorne muttered, his fingers tightening around the knife's handle as he wrung his hands.

Uncle leaned forward, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “You see, Thorne, Lord Thornfield loathes one person above all others, even more than his rivals, the Ravencourts,” he said, a cruel smirk tugging at his lips. “His own sister. He’s always hated her. He just needed a small nudge, a little pretense to finally act on what he’d always dreamed of—killing her and taking her place.”

Thorne’s mind raced. A forged letter. A man manipulated into killing his own sister, triggering a war between noble houses, all while implicating the Gravediggers, his uncle's greatest enemies. It was a dark, twisted game his uncle was playing, and the more Thorne understood, the more he felt a wave of revulsion rise in him. Yet there was no denying the brilliance behind it. It was a stroke of genius—vile, but genius.

His uncle watched him intently, waiting for Thorne to process the magnitude of his manipulation. When Thorne remained silent, Uncle urged him, his voice calm, "Go on, Shortie. Speak your mind."

Wetting his lips, Thorne hesitated before asking, "But then why did the two houses fight? If Lord Thornfield was the one who killed his sister, why did he attack the Ravencourts?"

A low chuckle escaped Uncle's throat, his eyes glinting with amusement. “He couldn’t very well admit to murdering his own sister, could he? No, he needed a scapegoat, someone to pin the crime on. The Ravencourts were perfect—convenient and threatening enough to serve as the ideal enemy. Blaming them allowed him to consolidate his power within House Thornfield while eliminating a rival."

Thorne’s head spun as the pieces fell into place. His uncle had orchestrated everything, using each move like a master chess player. It was terrifying in its precision, the way he had manipulated so many people and events to serve his own ends. The weight of it all pressed down on Thorne’s chest, and his head began to ache from the effort of trying to keep up with the complex web of schemes.

"But why pit them against each other?" Thorne asked, his voice barely above a whisper. The scope of his uncle's plan was still too vast for him to fully comprehend.

His uncle shrugged, as though the answer were obvious. "It’s simple. Both houses posed a threat to Lord Durnell’s rise. I needed them weakened, both politically and militarily. The fighting drained their resources, decimated their forces. And when they were sufficiently crippled, Lord Durnell, following my advice, wiped out what remained of their armies.” He paused, his smirk widening. “Now both houses are in shambles, their power broken. House Durnell will reign over the city unopposed. That is, assuming the Duke remains occupied with more... pressing matters. But I’ve already taken steps to ensure that he will be.”

Thorne's head throbbed as he struggled to keep up. The level of manipulation, the sheer scope of his uncle’s machinations—it was staggering. The city had been plunged into chaos, its people slaughtered in the streets, and for what? So two noble houses could tear each other apart, leaving Durnell to claim victory in the aftermath. And his uncle had orchestrated it all from the shadows.

Uncle leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with a kind of dark satisfaction that made Thorne's skin crawl. “This is the reality of our world, Thorne,” he said, his voice low and intense. “Power isn’t something that’s given. It’s taken. Those who hesitate, those who wait for opportunities to come to them—they're the ones who fall. Remember that.”

Thorne nodded slowly, letting the weight of his uncle’s words sink in. He realized then that he could never truly trust the man sitting across from him. His uncle was a master manipulator, a man who would stop at nothing to achieve his goals, even if it meant sacrificing innocent lives. Thorne would have to tread carefully from now on, keeping his own secrets close while navigating the dangerous world his uncle had drawn him into.

Rubbing his aching temples, Thorne found himself speaking out loud without realizing it. “That... that was brilliant.” Inside his head, though, another word echoed—diabolical.

His uncle’s eyes gleamed with pride, clearly relishing Thorne’s recognition. The man looked as though he had been waiting for this conversation, desperate to boast about his accomplishments, even if his audience was a boy. Thorne could almost see the satisfaction swelling within him as he leaned back, enjoying the moment.

Uncle smiled widely, his scarred face twisting into something unsettlingly close to warmth. “I knew you’d understand, Shortie. You’re sharper than most, and I knew you’d see the brilliance in it. One day, you’ll be ready to play your part in this game too.”

Thorne forced a smile, hiding the revulsion rising within him.