“Uncle is waiting for you.”

  Thorne asked for a moment to get dressed and collect himself. Arletta nodded crisply, stepping out of the room with measured grace. Before following, Sid lingered in the doorway, his eyes locking onto Thorne’s with a mixture of caution and urgency. The silent exchange carried a warning, a plea: Don’t do anything reckless.

  Thorne’s lips pressed into a thin line, his nod reluctant and barely perceptible. Sid’s gaze lingered for a moment longer before he turned and shut the door with a soft but deliberate click.

  Alone once more, Thorne sagged forward, bracing his hands on the edge of the bed as he drew in deep, steadying breaths. His heart raced, his thoughts a storm of anger and dread. The aether brushed against him like a reassuring presence, an intangible force cradling his emotions, whispering promises of strength. A faint tug within his core urged him to flee, to run far and fast, as if the aether itself understood the peril of staying here any longer.

  But he couldn’t run. Not yet.

  Thorne straightened, willing his body to cooperate despite the lingering fatigue. He could feel the ambient aether in the room, resonating with his every breath, reacting to his emotions with alarming precision.

  The connection was… terrifying.

  It was deeper, more intimate than it had ever been before his transformation. It was as though the aether knew him, anticipated his thoughts, his desires, his fears. If he didn’t gain full control of it, and soon, his secret wouldn’t remain hidden for long.

  He clenched his jaw, forcing his emotions into a tight, controlled box. The last thing he needed was to lose control now.

  His fingers moved swiftly, donning fresh clothes, the mundane action grounding him as he prepared himself for the inevitable confrontation. As he adjusted his collar and straightened his cuffs, his mind wandered to the people who already knew his secret. Ben. Sid. Arletta. Even Jory. Each one had kept his secret so far, each for their own reasons. He needed to understand those reasons, especially Uncle’s.

  Had the man known all along? And if so, why keep it hidden?

  With a final deep breath, Thorne stepped out into the hall where Arletta stood waiting. Sid had already left. The two walked in silence, the tension between them heavy as they descended the staircase toward Uncle’s office.

  Thorne’s mind raced, but outwardly, his expression was serene. With a practiced effort, he activated Mask of Deceit, his features smoothing into an unreadable facade. His Acting skill followed suit, crafting the image of a young man composed and in control, unbothered by the weight of the world pressing down on him.

  They stopped outside the heavy oak door. Arletta rapped twice, her knuckles sharp against the wood. Before the echoes faded, she turned her gaze to Thorne, her eyes searching his face. He met her scrutiny without flinching.

  “Come in,” came Uncle’s commanding voice from within.

  Arletta stepped aside, pushing the door open for Thorne.

  Thorne hesitated for the briefest of moments, gathering his resolve. He took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders, and stepped into the lion’s den.

  Thorne walked into the office, the door shutting behind him with a soft click that felt far louder in the heavy silence. Uncle sat at his desk, a hulking figure shrouded in shadows cast by the dim flicker of the aether stones. Papers were strewn haphazardly before him, a goblet in his hand. His expression was unreadable, a dangerous stillness in the air that set Thorne’s instincts on edge.

  For a moment, neither spoke. Uncle’s eyes bore into Thorne, sharp and calculating, as if trying to strip him bare and peer into the secrets he carried. The silence stretched, the weight of it suffocating.

  “Sit,” Uncle finally commanded, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk. His tone was neutral, but there was an edge to it.

  Thorne’s legs moved before his mind could catch up, and he sat, his back straight, his face a mask of calm. Mask of Deceit hummed faintly in his core, bolstered by his iron control over his emotions.

  Uncle’s gaze lingered on him for a heartbeat longer before flicking away, settling on the papers spread before him. He started jotting down notes, his movements precise, deliberate. “You’ve been gone for too long,” he began, his voice clipped, carrying a note of disappointment that set Thorne’s teeth on edge. “In a time when your presence was needed.”

  Thorne’s jaw tightened. “I wasn’t gone,” he said, keeping his voice flat. “I was unconscious.”

  Uncle nodded absently, not looking up. The dismissal grated on Thorne, an old wound reopening. He felt a strange, burning urge to shout at him, to demand he look him in the eyes, to confront him directly.

  “True,” Uncle said, his pen scratching against the paper. “That doesn’t change the fact that you were indisposed while disastrous events took place. Events that we could have managed, perhaps even prevented, had you been available.”

  The words hung in the air, each one a calculated jab. Thorne wanted to retort, to demand clarification, but Uncle continued, not giving him the chance.

  Uncle leaned back in his chair, his goblet in hand, his eyes fixed on the ceiling as he sighed. “The feud between the Ravencourts and the Thornfields has escalated,” he began, his tone carrying a hint of weariness. “Both sides have called their forces into the city. Skirmishes erupt daily, in every corner of Alvar. The Ravencourts have blocked the western road, cutting off trade from Valewind and Sunspark. Meanwhile, the Thornfields refuse to supply the city with their crops.”

  Thorne’s brow furrowed. He could hear the words, but they felt distant, irrelevant. Uncle’s measured voice droned on, speaking of traders, blocked roads, and starving vendors.

  “The common people are growing restless,” Uncle continued, his voice sharpening. “Every day, food becomes scarcer. For now, this unrest suits our purposes, but only if it is controlled. I need you to…”

  Uncle’s words faded into the background as Thorne’s thoughts swirled. What is this? he thought, frustration bubbling beneath his calm exterior. Politics? Crops? Skirmishes?

  What about the fight? What about my eyes?

  Thorne’s pulse quickened, his hands clenching into fists as Uncle’s voice droned on.

  “…more involved with Lord Thornfield,” Uncle was saying. “He’s become… unmanageable.” His mouth twisted into a sneer. “Drunkenness I can tolerate. But arrogance? That’s a luxury he can no longer afford. I need you to…”

  Thorne’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the armrests of his chair. Uncle’s voice blurred into the background, the words losing their meaning. He’s avoiding it, Thorne realized. The thought was infuriating, almost laughable.

  The silence stretched unnaturally as Uncle took a long sip from his goblet. When he finally spoke again, his tone was sharp, almost impatient. “Thorne. Are you listening to me?”

  Thorne’s eyes snapped to him, his carefully constructed mask faltering for a moment before he forced his features back into an impassive expression. “Of course,” he said evenly, his voice a touch too calm.

  Uncle raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced, but he didn’t press. Instead, he set his goblet down with a heavy thud and leaned forward, folding his hands on the desk. For the first time, he looked directly at Thorne, his piercing gaze holding an unsettling intensity.

  “Good. Because I expect you to act with precision and purpose, now more than ever. This city is a chessboard, Thorne. Every piece matters. Every move is critical. And you...” His voice lowered, growing almost fatherly, though the edge remained. “...are my knight. My strongest piece. But even the strongest piece must follow the strategy of the player. Do you understand me?”

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  Thorne didn’t respond immediately, his mind torn between the fury bubbling under his skin and the cold, calculating part of him that knew better than to lash out.

  He forced himself to nod. “I understand.”

  Uncle’s gaze lingered, searching his face for any sign of rebellion. Then, with a satisfied grunt, he leaned back again, the momentary tension dissipating. “Good. Now, about Lord Thornfield…”

  But Thorne had stopped listening again. He couldn’t help it. Uncle’s words, his deliberate avoidance of the questions screaming in Thorne’s mind, were suffocating.

  Say something about the fight, he wanted to shout. Ask me about my eyes, about what I’ve become!

  Instead, Uncle’s focus remained fixed on city politics, on the feud between the Ravencourts and the Thornfields, on how to exploit the chaos to tighten his grip on Alvar.

  Finally, Thorne’s patience snapped.

  Thorne leaned back in his chair, forcing a casual air he didn’t feel. His fingers tapped rhythmically on the armrest, the steady movement grounding him as he struggled to rein in his rising anger. The tension coiled tighter with every carefully placed word that fell from Uncle’s lips, each calculated phrase ignoring the one thing Thorne desperately needed to address.

  “You’re awfully calm,” Thorne said finally, his voice light, almost bored. “Considering everything that’s been happening lately.”

  Uncle raised an eyebrow, pausing mid-sentence. “Am I? You’d prefer I panic, I assume?”

  Thorne shrugged, a faint smirk curling his lips. “Just seems… odd. An aether manifestation appears just outside the city, something that could have leveled half of Alvar, and you haven’t even mentioned it. Not even a passing concern.”

  Uncle’s expression didn’t shift, but his eyes sharpened. “I’m concerned about many things, Thorne. That particular incident, while noteworthy, has already been dealt with. Why dwell on it?”

  “Dealt with?” Thorne echoed, his smirk widening into something sharper. “Interesting choice of words.”

  Uncle leaned back in his chair, his posture deceptively relaxed. “Is it?”

  Thorne’s fingers stilled, his tapping halting as he leaned forward slightly, his gaze narrowing. “I’d think a man like you, who knows every whisper, every secret in this city, would be a bit more curious about something so… unusual.”

  Uncle chuckled, a low, humorless sound. “Curiosity is a dangerous indulgence. It’s for people who can afford to waste their time.”

  “So, you’re not curious?” Thorne pressed, his tone turning pointed. “Not even a little? About the kind of power it takes to fight something like that?”

  The goblet in Uncle’s hand tilted slightly, a bead of wine clinging to the rim before sliding back into the cup. He studied Thorne for a long moment, his gaze unreadable. “Power is relative,” he said finally, his voice as smooth as silk. “And it’s never as important as how you use it. I care about results, Thorne. Not theatrics.”

  The jab landed, but Thorne refused to let it show. Instead, he let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “Results. Right. Is that why you’ve been avoiding asking how I walked out of that fight alive?”

  Uncle’s smile didn’t falter, but there was a flicker in his eyes, brief, almost imperceptible, but enough to set Thorne’s pulse racing. “You walked out alive because you’re resourceful. Because I trained you to be.”

  “That’s all?” Thorne asked, his voice low, the challenge clear. “Nothing else crossed your mind?”

  Uncle’s hand stilled, his fingers tightening ever so slightly around the goblet. He set it down with deliberate care, the faint clink of metal against wood louder than it should have been in the heavy silence. “What exactly are you fishing for, boy?”

  The air in the room seemed to grow colder, heavier, but Thorne refused to back down. “I’m just saying,” he continued, his voice still light, but his words sharper now. “You’ve always had a way of knowing things you shouldn’t. I’d think you’d have more to say about this.”

  Uncle’s gaze darkened, the faintest edge creeping into his tone. “What I know, and what I choose to address, are my business. You’d do well to remember that.”

  Thorne’s smirk vanished, replaced by a hard line. He leaned forward, his voice dropping into a near growl. “You’ve always known, haven’t you?”

  For the first time, Uncle’s mask cracked, just slightly, just enough for Thorne to see the flicker of something beneath it. Amusement? Annoyance? Something darker? It was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by his usual cold composure.

  “I know many things,” Uncle said calmly. “The things I need to know. The things that matter.”

  Thorne’s fingers curled into fists, his knuckles whitening. The aether inside him stirred, whispering promises of power, of strength, urging him to break through the walls of this maddening conversation. But he forced it down, clamping it beneath an iron will.

  “You’re good at that,” Thorne said quietly, the anger in his voice barely concealed. “At saying a lot without saying anything at all.”

  Uncle smiled faintly, the kind of smile that made Thorne want to smash his fist through the desk. “And you’re good at asking questions when you already know the answers.”

  The words hit harder than Thorne wanted to admit, cutting through his thin veneer of control. He rose suddenly, his chair scraping against the floor as he stood. “Maybe you’re right,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “Maybe I do know the answers. But that doesn’t mean I’ll stop asking.”

  Uncle’s smile didn’t waver, but his eyes gleamed with something cold, something unyielding. “Then ask the right questions, Thorne. And when you do, be prepared for the answers.”

  The tension in the room was palpable, the silence stretching once more. For a brief moment, neither of them moved, neither willing to break the stalemate. Finally, Uncle leaned back in his chair, dismissing Thorne with a wave of his hand.

  “Now, if you’re done with your little tantrum, we have more pressing matters to discuss.”

  Uncle sipped from his goblet, the silence between them stretching taut. Then, without preamble, he spoke, his tone casual but deliberate. “I didn’t know you were that close with young Lady Ravencourt.”

  Thorne’s body tensed, surprise flickering in his chest, followed swiftly by dread. His expression remained neutral, but his mind raced. Why was she being brought up now?

  “She came to visit,” Uncle continued smoothly, swirling the dark liquid in his goblet. His sharp eyes flicked toward Thorne, studying him with detached amusement. “When you didn’t show up at any social gatherings, she seemed quite… concerned. Worried, even, when she was informed you were ill.”

  Thorne clenched his jaw, caught off guard by the sudden shift in topic. He fought to maintain his composure, but the abruptness of it felt too calculated. There was no way this was a coincidence. Uncle’s words hung in the air like bait, and Thorne felt the weight of the trap closing in.

  Uncle leaned back, reaching for a letter from the clutter on his desk. “You are invited to the Ravencourts. This arrived two days after her visit.” He tossed the letter toward Thorne, the paper landing on the desk between them. “I have no doubt she orchestrated the party herself, just so she could see you. The Ravencourts aren’t exactly known for their frivolous gatherings.”

  Thorne forced himself to reach for the letter, his fingers steady despite the turmoil boiling beneath his skin. His eyes skimmed over the elegant script, the date and details of the party neatly laid out. It was a formal invitation, yet every word felt like a summons.

  “You will attend,” Uncle commanded, his tone brooking no argument. “This is a rare opportunity we cannot afford to pass up. I need to know which houses Lord Ravencourt has drawn to his side.”

  Thorne nodded absently, his focus elsewhere. He just wanted to leave, to escape the suffocating presence of the man before him. The flickering oil lamp painted shadows across Uncle’s face, deepening the lines of authority and menace that seemed carved into his very being.

  “May I be excused?” Thorne asked abruptly, standing before Uncle could respond.

  Uncle frowned, the disapproval clear in his voice. “I am not finished.”

  Thorne met his gaze for a fleeting moment, his mask slipping just enough to let a flicker of his weariness show. “I’m tired,” he said, the words clipped. “I need to rest. We have two days until the party. You can brief me before then.”

  Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked toward the door.

  “Thorne,” Uncle called after him, his voice sharp, but Thorne didn’t stop. He stepped out into the corridor, the tension in his chest releasing slightly as the door clicked shut behind him. For a moment, he stood there, unmoving, before his feet began to carry him away.

  The air felt heavier the further he walked, his thoughts clouded by the echoes of Uncle’s voice. The aether around him buzzed faintly, urging him to keep moving, to leave. He passed by Dalen and the older guard at the gate, their greetings barely registering as he strode past them and out into the streets of Alvar.

  The cobbled streets stretched before him, bustling with life, but Thorne paid no attention to the startled gazes of passersby as they caught sight of his strange, glowing eyes. Whispers followed in his wake, but he tuned them out, his focus narrowing to the pull of the aether guiding him forward.

  He walked with purpose, though he didn’t know where he was going. The city blurred around him as his feet carried him eastward, toward the outskirts. Before long, the eastern gate loomed ahead, and he stepped beyond the walls, the noise of Alvar fading into the background.

  The path led him toward the place where he had fought the aether beast. The ground was still scarred, the earth scorched black, and jagged rocks jutted out like broken teeth. Thorne passed by the destruction without a second glance, his attention drawn to the cliffs ahead.

  The descent down the steep cliffside was treacherous, but Thorne moved with purpose, his hands gripping the salt-crusted rocks as he made his way to the narrow beach below. The spray of seawater drenched him as waves crashed violently against the shore, the roar of the ocean a constant backdrop.

  Scattered puddles of water glistened in the dim light, but one in particular caught his eye. The aether pulsed faintly, drawing him closer. Entranced, Thorne knelt beside the small pool of water nestled close to the cliffside, his reflection distorted by the rippling surface.

  Drops of seawater fell into the puddle, each one sending tiny waves outward, but it wasn’t the ripples that held Thorne’s attention. His aether vision activated instinctively, and his breath caught in his throat.

  Intricate threads of aether wove through the water, forming a tapestry of breathtaking complexity. It shimmered with a beauty that felt almost sacred, the patterns shifting and pulsing as if alive.

  Before he could fully comprehend it, the tapestry transformed. The flat threads began to twist and rise, shaping themselves into something tangible, something living. Thorne stumbled back, his heart pounding as the figure grew larger, coalescing into the rough shape of a short human.

  Droplets of water fell from its form, the intricate vortex of power struggling to maintain its cohesion. The rough approximation of a head turned toward him, a jagged slash forming where a mouth might have been.

  The construct tilted its head, its movements deliberate, almost human. Then, from deep within its watery form, a voice echoed, carried on the winds like a distant whisper.

  “Thorne… Thorne Silverbane…” The words sent shivers down his spine.

  “You have been summoned.”

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