A groan escaped his lips, low and strained. His head pounded, and for a fleeting moment, Thorne was blissfully lost, unaware of where he was or what had happened. He blinked groggily, the dull throb of his skull sharpening as reality forced itself back into focus.

  The dark room that greeted him felt suffocating, the curtains drawn shut, only a faint haze of light seeping through the edges, casting long shadows across the space. The air reeked of staleness, heavy with the scent of alcohol. Thorne shifted his gaze, catching sight of two empty bottles of wine lying haphazardly on his bedside table. Stains marred the once pristine sheets, and something darker, blood had soiled the pillow.

  Memories came flooding back, crashing over him like a relentless tide.

  Vance. Rhea. Rielle.

  The cold cage. The blood. Rhea’s blood.

  His heart pounded in his chest, each beat echoing in his ears as panic surged through him. His skin crawled, and suddenly, all he could feel was the sticky, drying blood covering his face, his hands. Her blood. With trembling fingers, he touched his cheeks, trying to wipe it away, but all he managed was to smear it, making the stain worse. The more he scrubbed at his skin, the more frantic his movements became, his breathing turning erratic.

  Images flashed through his mind, Vance’s face contorted with fury, Rhea’s wide eyes, filled with terror as he had plunged the dagger into her throat. Rielle’s look of betrayal.

  They had all been friends once. Friends who laughed, trained, consoled each other after brutal lessons. He remembered their secret meetings, the hidden room they used to hang out in, whispering dreams of escaping this place one day. Now those memories were poisoned. Replaced by the horrors of last night.

  “I... I killed her...” Thorne whispered, his voice breaking. His chest tightened, the air in the room suddenly too thick to breathe. He stumbled toward the door, his hands trembling uncontrollably as he fumbled with the handle. "Arletta!" he called out, his voice laved with panic.

  A servant, not Arletta but a young man Thorne vaguely recognized, appeared quickly at his side, eyes wide with concern. "Young master, what is it? What do you need?"

  Thorne turned to face him, the man recoiling slightly as he took in the sight before him, Thorne’s face still smeared with blood, his clothes stained with the dark evidence of his deeds. "I need... I need a bath," Thorne stammered. "Now."

  The servant’s eyes darted to the blood, fear flashing across his face, but he nodded quickly, keeping his voice steady. “Of course, young master. I’ll prepare it right away.”

  Thorne paced the room, his hands shaking uncontrollably as he clenched and unclenched his fists, trying to push away the images of Rhea's tear-streaked face, of Vance’s fury. His fingers scraped at his skin, as if the physical act could erase the memories, but nothing worked.

  It won’t go away... it won’t stop...

  A light knock came at the door, and the servant returned, guiding him to the washing room like a broken doll. Thorne barely registered the man’s words, his mind still lost in the haze of guilt and madness. He allowed himself to be steered into the lavish, steaming bathtub, the servant treating him delicately, helping him undress before steering him into the hot water.

  The water sloshed around him as the servant grabbed a sponge and began scrubbing away the dirt and blood. But no matter how hard the servant tried, Thorne could still feel it, Rhea’s blood, still clinging to his skin like a curse.

  "Harder," Thorne snapped, snatching the sponge from the servant’s hand. He scrubbed at himself fiercely, his movements erratic and harsh, his skin turning raw and red. The blood still wasn’t going away.

  “Go away...” Thorne muttered under his breath, scrubbing harder. “Go away!”

  The servant watched in silent horror, frozen as Thorne’s scrubbing grew more frantic, his breathing ragged. Finally, the young man spoke, his voice trembling with fear. "Young master, please stop!"

  Thorne’s furious eyes snapped toward him, the sponge falling from his hand. “What are you standing there for? Help me clean the blood!”

  The servant paled, backing up a step. His voice shook as he whispered, “Y-Young master, you’re clean... there’s no more blood... If you keep scrubbing, you’ll hurt yourself.”

  Thorne blinked, his hands pausing in mid-motion. The servant’s trembling bravery in the face of his anger made him pause. He glanced down at his hands, finally noticing the raw, reddened skin, clean, free of blood.

  Yet the feeling lingered.

  “You’re right...” Thorne whispered, his voice hoarse.

  The servant, now slightly more confident, approached him cautiously, his eyes softening with sympathy. “Why don’t you rest for a moment, young master? Let me clean your room. I’ll make sure everything is fresh and spotless for when you return. What do you say?”

  Thorne didn’t respond right away, his chest still heaving as the remnants of his panic slowly faded. The servant’s words, though gentle, felt like those meant for an ill-tempered child, but Thorne appreciated the effort. He nodded numbly.

  “Very well,” the servant murmured, offering a small, reassuring smile as he headed for the door.

  “Wait,” Thorne called after him, his voice barely above a whisper. “What’s your name?”

  The young man turned, surprised by the question. “It’s Jory, young master.”

  Thorne nodded slowly. “Thank you, Jory,” he said, his voice soft, unable to meet the other man’s eyes.

  Jory smiled warmly, a flicker of kindness lighting his face. “We all have our bad days, young master,” he replied gently before slipping out of the room.

  Thorne sank deeper into the water, staring at his hands, clean yet still trembling. The blood was gone, but the weight of his actions lingered, pressing down on him with unbearable force.

  *

  Thorne remained in his room for the rest of the day, unmoving. A servant had brought food at some point, but he barely acknowledged it, his eyes fixed blankly on the ceiling. The pale rays of sunlight that had pierced through the heavy curtains earlier had long since disappeared, plunging the room into complete darkness. Yet Thorne didn’t move, didn’t stir. The world felt distant, muffled like he was trapped inside a cocoon, separate from everything.

  The soft click of the door opening stirred him, but only slightly. "Young master, wake up," a voice said, gentle but firm. Thorne jolted upright, disoriented, the fog of his mind momentarily lifting as he blinked at the sudden light. Jory was moving around the room, lighting candles one by one, casting flickering shadows on the walls. Arletta stood nearby, her gaze fixed on Thorne, her expression as unreadable as ever.

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  Thorne rubbed his eyes, still groggy. "What’s wrong?" he asked, his voice thick with exhaustion.

  Arletta’s tone was measured, but there was an edge of impatience in it. "Master is expecting you downstairs for a celebratory dinner."

  Thorne frowned, confusion knitting his brow. "Celebratory?" he repeated.

  Arletta gave a slight nod, her voice laced with sarcasm. "Well of course, you passed the last test and became a full-fledged member of the Lost Ones. Quite the achievement."

  Thorne’s stomach churned at the thought. Celebrate? He wanted nothing more than to bury himself back into his bed, to disappear under the covers and shut out the world. But the idea of confronting his uncle... His jaw clenched.

  Jory was already at the wardrobe, pulling out clothes and laying them across the bed with practiced precision. "How about this, young master?" Jory asked, holding up an outfit for him to inspect.

  Thorne barely glanced at it, too weary to care. "Whatever," he muttered as he forced himself out of bed. In minutes, he was dressed and groomed, his hair combed back, his clothes immaculate. On the outside, he looked every bit the confident, powerful heir to his uncle’s empire. But inside, he felt hollow.

  Arletta accompanied him down the stairs, her presence more imposing than comforting. As they descended, Thorne could hear the faint murmur of voices, growing louder with each step until they reached the dining room.

  When Thorne stepped inside, he was momentarily taken aback. The room was full of people, faces both familiar and unfamiliar. Uncle’s most trusted henchmen were there, along with the men and women who led his various establishments. Sid stood in the corner, nursing a drink with a bemused smirk, while Talon, stone-faced as ever, stood by the far wall. Lord Thornfield, already deep in his cups, was laughing loudly and groping a serving girl without shame. But there were others, men and women Thorne had never seen before. Their gazes were sharp, calculating, the kind of people who weighed the value of everyone and everything in a room.

  "What is going on?" Thorne whispered to Arletta, who stood at his side.

  Her voice was barely audible, but the edge in it was clear. "Master wanted to celebrate you and show everyone what his heir is capable of. This is a spectacle for his business partners, his subordinates, anyone who might dare challenge his power."

  Thorne’s stomach twisted. It wasn’t a celebration for him. It was a show. A display of his uncle’s control, his influence. This was about them. The power-hungry men and women who would be reminded tonight that no one challenged his uncle or his chosen heir.

  "Discard that pitiful expression," Arletta said, her words cutting through his thoughts like a blade. "Go back to being that smug, entitled lordling you flaunt so well. It’s what they expect. What they want to see."

  Thorne shot her a glare, but she merely arched an eyebrow, unmoved by his frustration. The stare-down lasted only a moment before Thorne sighed, his shoulders slumping in defeat. She was right. As much as he hated it, she was right.

  "Fine," he muttered under his breath.

  Taking a deep breath, Thorne forced his emotions into a box, shoving them down where they couldn’t interfere. He pushed away the weight of Rhea’s death, the haunting memories of last night, the guilt and anger swirling inside him. All of it was locked away for now.

  His social skills flared to life as he called upon them. Acting, Sculpted Persona, Mask of Deceit, all weaving together to form the fa?ade he needed. The confident, untouchable young lord. The heir who had nothing to fear, nothing to lose.

  He rolled his shoulders back, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips as he stepped forward, walking into the room like he owned it. Power radiated off him in waves as he entered the fray of hungry eyes and whispered conversations.

  As he moved through the room, offering nods and polite smiles, he thought he heard Arletta murmur softly behind him, her voice barely audible over the din.

  "The dead gods have mercy on us for what we’ve created."

  But he didn’t turn back. He was too busy playing his part, pretending that everything was just as it should be.

  And he was frighteningly good at it.

  Thorne stood amidst the crowd, a casual smile on his face as he chatted with a man who was supposedly the owner of several establishments in the dock district. In truth, the man was one of Uncle’s employees, a glorified informant who ran those businesses while also delivering useful information about the goings-on of the vessels and the ever-present gossip of sailors. Thorne nodded amiably, offering a half-hearted laugh at some dry comment the man made.

  "Well, perhaps next time, you can share a bit more of the dock's treasure with the rest of us," Thorne quipped, his voice light, easy. The man chuckled, not noticing the flicker of disinterest in Thorne's eyes. It was all a game, a well-practiced performance that Thorne had long since mastered.

  Just as the conversation lulled, a servant approached, bowing low. "Young master, Uncle wishes to speak with you."

  Thorne’s smile didn’t waver as he turned to the servant, nodding in acknowledgment. “Of course,” he replied smoothly. He offered a quick, polite nod to the dock manager before excusing himself. "Duty calls, my friend. Keep the ships sailing smoothly for me."

  As he made his way across the room, weaving through the throng of guests, Thorne felt the weight of dozens of eyes on him. Some curious, some calculating, but most watching with a wary respect. He knew what this gathering was about. Uncle wasn’t celebrating Thorne's success, he was showcasing him, parading him as his heir, his weapon. Thorne was the living proof of Uncle's control and power, and tonight, he was expected to play the part of the dutiful protégé.

  When he reached Uncle, the older man greeted him warmly, pulling Thorne into a tight embrace. Thorne stiffened for a fraction of a second before relaxing into the hug, his mask of indifference slipping into place. Uncle’s hands came up to cup Thorne’s cheeks, his gaze filled with something that might have passed for pride, if Thorne still believed in that sort of thing.

  “I knew you’d make it,” Uncle said, his voice brimming with confidence. “I knew it from the moment you joined the guild. No, even before that.” He smiled, his hands squeezing gently as he gazed at Thorne, his eyes gleaming with self-assurance. “You’re everything I expected you to be, everything I knew you would become.”

  Thorne’s expression remained impassive, his eyes distant. Uncle’s touch sent a wave of revulsion through him, but he buried it deep, keeping his face a stone mask of calm. The praise meant nothing anymore. The words, once so carefully chosen to manipulate and shape him, now fell flat. He had outgrown this game, outgrown Uncle’s control. But he couldn’t show that, not yet.

  Uncle, still smiling, turned to address the room. His voice, booming and authoritative, carried over the low murmur of conversation. "Ladies and gentlemen," he began, drawing everyone’s attention. The room quieted, all eyes now focused on him. "Tonight, we celebrate. Not just the accomplishments of my heir, my son, but the power and influence that we, as a family, hold over this city."

  He spread his arms wide, as if embracing the entire room. "Thorne is my legacy. From the moment he arrived in Alvar, he has proven himself worthy, time and again. From the streets to the guild, he has risen above every challenge, every obstacle. And now, here he stands, a full-fledged member of the Lost Ones, an accomplishment few can claim."

  Thorne stood beside him, his face carefully composed, betraying nothing. Inside, the words rolled off him like water, meaningless and hollow. He had no interest in Uncle's grandstanding, no pride in the title he had earned. But he knew the role he had to play. His mask stayed firmly in place, projecting the image of a proud, competent heir.

  Uncle’s voice deepened, taking on a more serious tone. "But let us not forget that power does not come without sacrifice. Influence is not gained without effort. Thorne, like all of us, has bled for this family. He has fought, he has killed, and he has survived. And now, he stands ready to take his rightful place at my side."

  He paused, his gaze sweeping the room, locking onto several of the more prominent guests, men and women of power, those whose allegiances were valuable and dangerous in equal measure. "But know this," Uncle continued, his tone shifting, growing colder, darker. "My heir is not just a figurehead. He is my dagger in the shadows, my weapon of justice and punishment. If any of you should doubt my power... my control..." His eyes gleamed dangerously as he spoke. "Remember that it is my son who will deliver the consequences of your betrayal."

  A shiver seemed to pass through the room as Uncle’s words sank in, the unspoken threat hanging heavy in the air. Thorne felt the weight of it, felt the way every gaze in the room shifted back to him. They weren’t just looking at a young man, they were looking at a weapon, a tool of destruction at Uncle’s command.

  Thorne’s smirk widened ever so slightly, playing the part perfectly. Inside, he felt nothing. He was hollow, detached. But his act was flawless, and the room believed it.

  Uncle finished with a final flourish, lifting his glass. "To my heir. To our future."

  The room echoed with a chorus of toasts, glasses raised high. Thorne, his mask firmly in place, raised his own glass in response, though the wine tasted bitter on his lips. He was no longer the boy who craved Uncle’s approval, no longer the boy desperate to prove himself.

  Now, he was something else entirely.

  And soon, Uncle would realize just how much he had miscalculated.

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