Thorne stared at the letter in Uncle’s outstretched hand, his confusion barely concealed behind a carefully neutral expression. “You want me to deliver this?” His voice was measured, but the unspoken question hung between them. Why him?

  Uncle leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking softly as he steepled his fingers under his chin. The candlelight played across his face, highlighting the faint amusement dancing in his eyes. “Yes, Thorne,” he replied, his tone almost indulgent. “You’re my heir, after all. It’s time Alvar sees that.”

  Thorne’s gaze shifted to the letter, his mind racing. “But why me?” he pressed, his voice low. “Surely there are others—”

  “Others,” Uncle cut in, a hint of exasperation threading through his words, “wouldn’t have the same impact.” He leaned forward, his eyes locking onto Thorne’s with an intensity that brooked no argument. “You need to be seen, Thorne. Last night’s events were your doing, your plan. You’re not just some southern lord playing at politics. You’re a force to be reckoned with.”

  All this praise left Thorne conflicted. A part of him, no matter how small, relished being acknowledged, being seen as someone of consequence. It was a dangerous temptation, this craving for validation that had always lingered, buried deep within him—the small boy who had once starved for any scrap of praise, any sign that he was more than just a tool to be used and discarded.

  But another part of him, the part that had been forged in the crucible of Uncle’s manipulations and betrayals, knew better. He had been under this man’s thumb for too long to trust the seemingly newfound confidence and trust Uncle was showing. This was, after all, the same man who had torn him from his life, twisted his path, and reshaped him into something deadly. Uncle was not to be trusted; Thorne was painfully aware that if it suited his plans, he would have Thorne sacrificed without a second thought, discarded like a broken pawn.

  He was caught between the child he had once been, desperate for recognition, and the man he had become, who knew that everyone lied, everyone deceived. His instincts screamed at him to be wary, to question everything, but the soft, insidious voice of that desperate child whispered that maybe, just maybe, this was real. That he was more than just a tool to Uncle now.

  The conflicting thoughts swirled in his mind, the two sides of him locked in an unending war. He pushed them down, burying them deep, where they couldn’t distract him. He had to stay focused, keep his wits about him, especially now. He couldn’t afford to be swayed by kind words and calculated smiles.

  “And the letter?” he asked finally, his voice carefully neutral.

  Uncle waved a hand dismissively, as if the contents were of little consequence. “It’s Lady Langston’s demands. If she’s to support Thornfield’s claim to power, she wants... incentives.”

  Thorne raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. “Incentives?”

  Uncle’s smile was thin, almost mocking. “Titles, lands that currently belong to the Ravencourts, a generous dowry for her granddaughter, and a guaranteed seat on the council once the dust settles. She wants her family’s glory restored, and she’s willing to back Thornfield to get it.”

  Thorne let out a low whistle, his lips curling into a wry smile. “Quite the wish list.”

  “She’s not one to settle for scraps,” Uncle agreed, his tone dry. “But she’s not wrong. She’s poor as a fisherman's wife, but she has the ear of every noblewoman in Alvar. Every noblewoman listens to her whispers and respect her opinions. If we secure her support, we secure the hearts and minds of those who might otherwise waver.”

  Thorne nodded slowly, the pieces falling into place. “And if Lord Thornfield refuses?”

  Uncle’s eyes gleamed, a dark, dangerous light flickering in their depths. “Then you remind him of last night’s events, of how you single-handedly turned a party into a political spectacle. Show him the power you wield, not just through force, but through manipulation. He knows who you really are, Thorne. He knows you’re not just a puppet on a string.”

  Thorne’s fingers tightened around the letter, feeling the weight of it, the potential it held. “And if he still resists?”

  Uncle’s smile turned razor-sharp. “Then you make him understand that refusing Lady Langston is a mistake he can’t afford. She may not have wealth or an army, but she’s a master of courtly intrigue. And if that’s not enough...” He leaned back, his eyes never leaving Thorne’s. “Remind him that you’re not just my heir. You’re the boy who bled Alvar dry last night. You’re the shadow that makes the powerful tremble.”

  Thorne felt a chill run down his spine at Uncle’s words, but there was a thrill there too, a dark satisfaction at the power he held, the role he was being given. He couldn’t trust Uncle—he knew that. But that didn’t stop the flicker of pride, the whisper of that needy child within him, still aching for approval.

  “I understand,” he said, his voice steady.

  “I knew you would,” Uncle said, his gaze softening ever so slightly. “You’ve grown, Thorne. You’re ready for this.”

  Thorne nodded, slipping the letter into his coat. This was more than just a message. It was a test, a chance to prove that he wasn’t just Uncle’s pawn. He was a player in this game, and he was ready to show Alvar—and Lord Thornfield—just how dangerous he could be.

  “I’ll take care of it,” he said quietly, a steely resolve in his tone.

  “I have no doubt,” Uncle replied, his smile almost proud. “Now go. Lord Thornfield may be used to waiting, but he’ll be more pliable if you catch him off guard.”

  *

  Thorne tucked the letter securely inside his coat, adjusting it once more as he exited the mansion. The night air was crisp and biting, the kind of cold that seeped through even the thickest layers of clothing. A stiff wind swept through the courtyard, rustling the bare branches of the trees and sending a shiver down his spine.

  He pulled his coat tighter around him as he made his way toward the gate, his thoughts racing ahead to the coming confrontation. But as he approached, he spotted two familiar figures standing in the moonlit courtyard.

  Eliza gave him a cheeky grin. “What’s the matter, Thorne? Don’t you want a little company for a night stroll?” Her voice was teasing, but there was a glint of seriousness in her eyes.

  Thorne groaned audibly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Not again,” he muttered. The last thing he needed was another babysitting session. He had half a mind to send them away, but after last night’s events, and remembering how helpful Devon and Rielle had been, he hesitated. Eliza might be a pain, but she was competent. He glanced at the other assassin—a man in his mid-twenties whom he recognized from the guild but had never interacted with.

  With a resigned sigh, Thorne muttered, “Fine,” and motioned for them to follow. “But keep quiet.”

  Eliza’s grin widened, and she fell into step beside him. “This is Tom,” she said, nodding to the silent man beside her. “He’s been with the guild for years, but you probably haven’t seen much of him. He’s more of a... behind-the-scenes kind of guy.”

  Tom merely nodded, his eyes already scanning the streets around them with a practiced, wary gaze. Thorne could tell he was experienced, the way he moved with a quiet confidence, his attention sharp and focused.

  They walked in relative silence through the winding streets of Alvar. The wind picked up, gusting through the narrow alleys and tearing at their cloaks, carrying with it the promise of rain. Heavy clouds gathered overhead, blotting out the stars and casting the city in an oppressive darkness. It felt like the whole world was holding its breath, waiting for something to break.

  Thorne found himself oddly grateful for the quiet; it gave him time to collect his thoughts, to plan his approach. But, of course, Eliza couldn’t stay quiet for long. She began peppering him with questions, her curiosity seemingly endless. “So, how’s the guild been treating you? Haven’t seen you much since you became ‘Uncle’s Heir, the spider prince.’” She exaggerated the title with a mocking lilt.

  Thorne groaned internally, keeping his face impassive. “Busy,” he replied shortly, hoping she would take the hint.

  She didn’t. “What about Rielle? And Jonah? You’ve seen them, right? How are they doing?”

  Another sigh. “They’re fine, Eliza. Busy, like me.”

  But she continued, asking about everything and everyone—from the guild’s current affairs to the new recruits, to how many drinks Jonah could still down in one sitting. Thorne found himself answering more out of habit than anything else, his mind elsewhere. Tom, on the other hand, remained completely silent, his attention never wavering from their surroundings.

  As they made their way through the twisting streets, the first few raindrops began to fall, splattering against the cobblestones and dotting their cloaks with dark spots. The wind howled around them, the rain growing steadier, soaking through Thorne’s coat and chilling him to the bone. He pulled his hood up, grimacing as the rain intensified, a heavy, unrelenting downpour that turned the streets into a slick, treacherous maze.

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  When they finally reached the Thornfield estate, Thorne was almost relieved. The manor loomed before them, an imposing structure of dark stone and heavy shadows, designed to impress and intimidate. It hadn’t changed much since the last time he’d been here, the night he’d stolen that letter... He pushed the memory aside, forcing himself to focus.

  He frowned as he noticed the conspicuous absence of guards at the gate. His eyes flicked to Eliza, who mirrored his confusion, and then to Tom, who murmured under his breath, “I don’t like it.”

  Thorne shrugged, though his senses were on high alert. “Let’s see what’s going on.”

  He pushed the heavy, wrought-iron gate open, the hinges creaking loudly. They moved silently up the gravel path to the entrance, the grand manor looming above them like a dark sentinel. Thorne raised his hand and knocked sharply on the door.

  The rain poured down around them in a steady sheet, drumming against the stone walls and pooling in the cracks of the cobblestones. A few moments passed before the door swung open to reveal a maid, her face pale and drawn, her eyes wide with what looked like a mix of fear and uncertainty. She blinked rapidly as she took in Thorne’s presence, her gaze darting to the two figures standing slightly behind him.

  Thorne offered her a polite nod. “Thorne Silverbane, sent by Master Varyn. I’m here to see Lord Thornfield.”

  The woman’s eyes widened further, and she glanced nervously over her shoulder, as if expecting someone to appear behind her. “Oh... I... um, please, wait here. I’ll... I’ll inform Lord Thornfield.” Before Thorne could say another word, she slammed the door shut in his face, leaving him standing there, stunned.

  He turned to Eliza and Tom, who looked just as bewildered. “This is odd,” Eliza muttered, her brow furrowed.

  Tom’s gaze was still sweeping their surroundings, his stance tense. “I don’t like it,” he repeated, his voice low.

  Thorne nodded slowly, his unease growing. Something was off. The absence of guards, the maid’s nervousness... It all felt wrong. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to stay calm. He couldn’t let his guard down, not here. Not now. Whatever was happening, he needed to stay sharp, to be ready for anything.

  He glanced back at the door, rain streaming down his hood, his hand unconsciously resting on the hilt of his hidden dagger.

  The maid returned, her expression flustered as she glanced around the vast entrance hall. “Lord Thornfield will see you now,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Please, if you’ll wait a moment, I need to... gather a few things for him.” She looked nervously at the ground as if expecting him to refuse.

  Thorne frowned, watching her scurry away. It was unusual, and his instincts prickled with unease. The grand entrance hall felt strangely empty, devoid of the usual bustle of servants. It was almost eerie. He glanced around, taking in the dimly lit space, the echo of his boots on the polished floor almost too loud in the silence.

  Lightning flashed outside, casting long shadows across the marble floor, and a moment later, thunder rattled the windows in their frames. The storm outside only heightened the uneasy feeling gnawing at Thorne’s gut.

  Something was wrong.

  Leaving a guest waiting like this was a significant breach of etiquette. Arletta would have had a heart attack if she saw such a lapse in protocol.

  The maid finally returned, carrying a tray laden with bottles of liquor. Thorne raised an eyebrow, the oddity of it not lost on him. Who prepared for a meeting with such an array of drinks? And more importantly, why did she seem so nervous?

  With a hurried glance around and a quick tilt of her head, she whispered, “If you would follow me, my lord.”

  Thorne nodded, his unease growing with each step. He glanced back at the two Lost Ones stationed by the door. Eliza caught his eye and mouthed, “We’ll be waiting here.” Thorne turned and followed the maid up the grand staircase, his footsteps muffled by the thick red carpet. The bottles on the tray clinked with each step, and he found himself wondering how none of them had shattered yet.

  The climb seemed endless, the storm outside growing more violent. He could feel the vibrations of the thunder through the wooden banisters. As they reached the second floor, Thorne spotted another figure at the end of the hall. A maid was meticulously dusting the frames of a series of portraits, her movements precise and careful. The faces in the paintings stared down at him with eyes that seemed to follow his every move, long-deceased ancestors of the Thornfield family.

  The tray rattled louder as they approached the maid, and Thorne winced as the bottles teetered dangerously. The nervous maid stumbled on the edge of the carpet, her eyes widening in horror as she watched the tray tilt precariously. Before Thorne could react, the second maid moved with an almost supernatural speed, snatching the bottles from the air with practiced ease. The maid righted herself, her face burning with embarrassment as the other woman glared at her, placing the bottles back on the tray.

  “Will you be careful, woman?” the maid hissed, her voice a harsh whisper. “The lord will be furious if you destroy his favorite vintage.”

  The first maid nodded, her gaze fixed on the floor. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry.”

  Thorne coughed delicately, breaking the tension. “Shall we continue?”

  The embarrassed maid bobbed her head quickly and resumed her unsteady pace, leading Thorne down the hall. He could hear her muttering under her breath, cursing her own clumsiness. Thorne’s eyes narrowed as he followed, his senses on high alert. Something was definitely off. The whole house felt... wrong.

  They finally stopped in front of a large, intricately carved door. The maid knocked softly, but without waiting for an answer, she pushed it open and stepped inside. Thorne followed her into the room, only to be met with a scene that made him blink in surprise.

  Lord Thornfield was in the middle of putting his shirt back on, his chest still exposed as he fumbled with the buttons. Behind a modesty screen, a young woman ducked out of sight, clutching her bare breasts with a gasp. Thornfield’s head snapped up, his face flushed with anger as he saw Thorne standing in the doorway.

  “What the hell is this?” he roared, his voice echoing off the walls. “Can’t you knock?”

  The maid, looking as if she might burst into tears, hastily set the tray of bottles on a nearby table and fled the room, leaving Thorne alone with the fuming lord.

  Thorne watched as Lord Thornfield glared at him, his eyes bloodshot and unfocused. He was still fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, his movements clumsy and jerky, a far cry from the composed noble he tried to present to the world. Thorne remained silent, holding the letter aloft, waiting for the man to collect himself. Thornfield finally straightened, his gaze flicking to the letter with a mix of disdain and curiosity.

  “You have a lot of nerve, boy,” Thornfield sneered, snatching the letter from Thorne’s grasp. “Barging in here like you own the place.” He tore open the seal with a quick, angry motion, his eyes scanning the contents. Thorne watched him closely, his ears pricked as he caught the soft rustle of clothing from behind the screen. He focused his hearing, and to his surprise, he detected a second set of breathing. Another woman, hidden somewhere else in the room. How many mistresses did this man have?

  “Lady Langston’s terms,” he muttered, his voice dripping with contempt. “I’m not some common merchant she can barter with.”

  Thorne remained still, his expression carefully neutral. “Lady Langston is offering a partnership, my lord. It would be unwise to dismiss her so quickly.”

  Thornfield’s eyes snapped up, narrowing at Thorne’s calm tone. “Partnership? Is that what she calls it? Demanding land and titles, as if I owe her something.” He scoffed, his fingers curling around the edges of the letter, crumpling it slightly.

  Thorne could see the tension in the lord’s posture, the way his hands trembled as he held the letter. He was putting on a brave face, but the cracks were beginning to show. Thorne’s gaze flicked to the tray of bottles the maid had brought in. It wasn’t just anger fueling Thornfield’s tirade; the man was deep in his cups. The smell of alcohol was heavy in the room, mingling with the faint scent of perfume that clung to the young woman hiding behind the screen.

  “My lord,” Thorne said, his voice smooth, almost gentle, as if he were speaking to a skittish animal. “Lady Langston is willing to support your claim. That is no small thing. She may lack wealth, but her influence is considerable.”

  Thornfield’s lips curled into a sneer. “Influence? What good is that when I need soldiers, not gossiping old hens?”

  “Soldiers follow those who have the support of the people,” Thorne countered evenly. “And Lady Langston has the ear of every noblewoman in Alvar. She can sway opinions, turn the tide of favor. It’s a rare opportunity.”

  Thornfield’s sneer faltered, his gaze shifting back to the letter. He muttered under his breath, his eyes darting over the lines of text as if searching for a hidden message. Thorne took a slow step closer, keeping his movements deliberate, non-threatening.

  “I understand your frustration, my lord,” he said softly. “It seems as though everyone is demanding something from you. But Lady Langston’s offer isn’t just a demand—it’s a lifeline.”

  “A lifeline?” Thornfield barked out a bitter laugh. “You think I need a lifeline from that withered old crone?”

  Thorne’s lips curved into a subtle smile. “I think, my lord, that you’re a man who knows how to play the game. You see the bigger picture. And the bigger picture here is that Lady Langston’s support could tip the scales in your favor.”

  Thornfield’s eyes flicked up to meet Thorne’s, suspicion mingling with curiosity. “And why should I trust you, of all people? You’re Varyn’s little errand boy. Why should I believe a word you say?”

  Thornfield glared at him, his mouth opening, ready for another insult but Thorne cut him off, his voice low and calm. “Need I remind you, my lord, that last night’s events were quite... tumultuous? It’s amazing what a few whispers can do to set the world on fire.”

  Thornfield’s eyes widened, his face paling slightly. He tried to muster a sneer, but Thorne could see the fear lurking behind his eyes. “You... you dare insinuate that you had something to do with that? With that debacle?”

  Thorne’s lips curled into a subtle, knowing smile. “I’m saying that those who understand how to use the tools at their disposal can turn any situation to their advantage.”

  Thornfield flinched, his eyes flicking back to the letter. He seemed to be weighing his options, his mind racing as he considered Lady Langston’s terms. “And what if I say no? What if I refuse her ridiculous demands?”

  Thorne tilted his head, his gaze never leaving Thornfield’s. “Then you’ll find yourself very alone, my lord. And I don’t think that’s a position you want to be in right now.”

  Thornfield's face twisted with indecision, his eyes flicking back and forth as if searching for an escape. He finally let out a harsh breath, his shoulders slumping slightly. “Damn her. Damn all of you,” he muttered, more to himself than to Thorne.

  Thorne took a step back, his demeanor shifting back to one of calm professionalism. “It’s a difficult decision, my lord, but I believe you’ll make the right one. You have too much to lose otherwise.”

  Thornfield glared at him, but there was a flicker of fear in his eyes, a realization that he was being backed into a corner. “You think you’re very clever, don’t you?”

  Thorne’s smile was cold, calculated. “I think, my lord, that I understand what’s at stake. And I think you do too.”

  There was a long moment of silence, the air between them crackling with tension. And then, with a weary sigh, Thornfield picked up the letter again, his eyes scanning the demands with a newfound seriousness.

  “She wants too much,” he muttered, more to himself than to Thorne. “Damn her, she always knows how to twist the knife.”

  Thorne’s attention shifted to the far corner of the room as he heard another rustle, the sound too loud to be just the women moving around. His instincts screamed at him to move, but before he could react, something glinted in the dim light, a flash of metal cutting through the air.

  A dagger, flying straight toward Thornfield’s head.

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