The room swirled in a hazy fog of smoke, seductive music, and the clink of expensive glassware. Thorne had been mingling for hours, moving through the crowd with practiced ease, though the faces and voices around him were little more than a blur of false smiles and probing eyes.

  As the night dragged on, the party had turned even more decadent. Dancers draped in sheer scarves twirled and moved to sultry tunes, their bodies moving with serpentine grace. The rich scent of cigars filled the air, mixing with the pungent smell of more dangerous substances being quietly shared between the more adventurous guests.

  Thorne had spoken with several men and women throughout the evening, all eager to test him, to take his measure. But his answers were clipped, his smile thin and contemptuous. Few in the room posed any real threat, at least none that would be able to touch him. He was confident that with his aetheric skills, he could wipe out most of them without breaking a sweat. Even Uncle, with his reputation and high level, no longer seemed all that dangerous in Thorne's eyes. Only Sid and Talon would give him pause.

  Every so often, Thorne’s gaze drifted toward his uncle. As the hours wore on, Uncle became more of a spectacle. His words slurred, his steps wobbled, and his once-commanding presence diminished with every drunken stumble and crude remark. The guests who had once hung on his every word now exchanged quiet glances, some smirking behind their glasses, others openly chuckling as Uncle knocked over a bottle of wine, sending it crashing to the floor.

  Thorne’s eyes found Arletta, who stood by the door, her face a mask of quiet disapproval. She met his gaze briefly, then glanced pointedly at Uncle before giving him the faintest nod of instruction. Thorne sighed internally, but he understood. It was time to intervene.

  Pushing past a group of fawning sycophants who surrounded his uncle, Thorne made his way to the stumbling man. Uncle was grasping the edge of a table, trying to stay upright, but in the process, he knocked over several glasses and bottles, sending them smashing to the floor with a loud crash. Laughter erupted from a few corners of the room, and Thorne gritted his teeth in frustration.

  Without hesitation, Thorne reached out and steadied Uncle with a firm hand, catching him before he could fall. Uncle’s bleary eyes looked up at him in confusion, but when he recognized Thorne, a wide, sloppy smile spread across his face.

  "My son," Uncle slurred, the words thick with alcohol.

  Thorne’s grip tightened slightly, his voice loud enough for the surrounding guests to hear. “Uncle, I need your assistance,” he said, his tone measured. “Would you come with me?”

  Uncle frowned, his intoxicated mind struggling to process the request. Before he could respond, a man Thorne had never seen before stepped forward, cutting in. "I need to speak with Uncle," the man said loudly, his voice brimming with authority. "About a deal."

  Thorne’s eyes flicked to the man, and their gazes locked. It was a challenge, a test. The man’s posture screamed defiance, and Thorne could already sense the eyes of the room shifting toward him, watching for his reaction.

  Letting go of Uncle, Thorne took a slow, deliberate step toward the man, his eyes cold. “Perhaps you should discuss this deal with me instead,” he said softly, his voice low and dangerous. “I might even show you what I learned in the guild... if you’re lucky.”

  The man’s smirk widened, and he met Thorne’s challenge head-on. The crowd around them had gone quiet, tension simmering in the air as everyone waited to see how things would unfold.

  “I’m not leaving until I speak with Uncle,” the man declared, his voice rising for all to hear. “He’s the only one I’ll deal with.”

  Thorne rolled his eyes at the man’s obvious bait. His Veil Sense skill told him all he needed to know, this fool was only level 24. No threat. Barely worth his time. But still, Thorne was tired of the games, tired of pretending. These people only respected strength, and he was about to show them exactly how strong he was.

  “I’ll give you one chance to walk away,” Thorne murmured, his tone bored.

  The man cupped his hand around his ear mockingly. “What was that, young master? I didn’t quite hear you.” He sneered, his voice loud enough to carry across the room. “Did they not teach you to speak properly in that guild of yours? Then again, what would you expect from a street rat?”

  Thorne’s patience snapped. His eyes flicked briefly to Arletta, who was watching the exchange with a polite, unreadable expression. She gave him the smallest shrug, as if to say, Do what you must.

  In an instant, Thorne’s dagger flashed from his hand, sailing through the air faster than anyone could react. The blade buried itself in the man’s right eye with a sickening squelch, but Thorne wasn’t done. The crowd gasped, some shrieking in shock. But Thorne wasn’t done. He activated his Burst of Speed skill, blurring forward. He ripped the dagger free from the man’s skull with a wet sound and plunged it into his other eye, twisting the blade viciously.

  The man’s body jerked, blood pouring from his ruined face as his legs gave out beneath him. Thorne withdrew the blade, letting the body crumple to the floor in a lifeless heap. The room fell into a stunned silence, save for the sound of blood dripping onto the polished floor.

  Thorne stood over the body, inspecting his bloodied dagger with a look of distaste. With a casual glance at the crowd, he pointed to a man standing nearby. “You,” Thorne said, his voice cutting through the quiet like a whip. “Come here.”

  The man he had pointed to blanched, his face going pale as he hesitated. “M-Me?” he stammered.

  Thorne wiggled his finger, beckoning him forward. “Yes, you.”

  The man stumbled forward, his legs shaky as he approached. Thorne grabbed the man’s coat and wiped the blood from his dagger with slow, deliberate strokes, making sure the crowd could see every movement.

  “Thank you,” Thorne said casually, releasing the man’s coat. “You can go now.”

  The man staggered back, his eyes wide with disbelief and terror, before quickly retreating into the crowd.

  Suddenly, Uncle’s booming laughter broke the tension. “That’s my son!” he roared, slapping his knee with delight. “My heir!”

  Thorne sheathed his dagger, turning his back on the corpse without another glance. His voice was calm, measured, as he addressed Uncle. “It’s time for us to go, Uncle.”

  Uncle nodded drunkenly, still chuckling as he leaned heavily on Thorne for support. The crowd parted before them like a wave, their eyes wide with fear and awe. A few guests whispered amongst themselves, but no one dared approach them.

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  As they walked past, Thorne caught a glimpse of Arletta, her eyes locked on him with a look of silent approval. She gave him a small, almost imperceptible nod before turning back to the room.

  The message had been sent. Thorne was no longer just Uncle’s heir, he was the weapon, the dagger in the shadows.

  As they exited the room, Arletta followed close behind. Thorne had one arm under Uncle, trying to keep him upright. When they were away from prying ears, Thorne turned to Arletta and asked, “How was that for being a smug, entitled lordling?”

  The woman’s mouth twisted into a ghost of a smile, her tone dry as ever. “A little too murderous for my liking, but good enough.”

  Thorne shrugged, the corner of his mouth twitching into a faint smirk. “I did my best.”

  Arletta looked at him for a moment, her sharp gaze assessing him before adding, “New rule, no blood on the floor from now on.”

  Thorne chuckled at the absurdity of it. “No promises,” he murmured.

  They walked down the familiar hallway, Uncle slurring incomprehensible words under his breath, his steps unsteady. His weight pressed against Thorne as they moved, making each step feel heavier than it should. Finally, Arletta opened the door to Uncle’s office and gestured for Thorne to bring him inside.

  “In here,” she instructed, holding the door open. Thorne dragged Uncle inside and lowered him onto a couch with little ceremony. Uncle groaned, his head lolling back, eyes half-closed as he mumbled incoherent praise at Thorne.

  Arletta stepped forward and began fussing over Uncle. Thorne crossed his arms, watching her with mild disinterest as she adjusted his position, making sure he wouldn’t roll off the couch.

  After a moment, she straightened and said, “I’m going to find some potion to clear the effects of alcohol. That damned poisoner must have some in stock.”

  Thorne nodded absentmindedly, leaning back against the wall. He felt exhausted. Mentally, emotionally. Every ounce of energy spent navigating the absurdity of this night, pretending, playing the part, was catching up to him.

  Arletta stopped at the door, her hand on the handle. “Stay with him until I call some guards to watch over him. Maybe some idiot will think to exploit the opportunity.”

  Thorne scoffed, the idea of anyone being bold enough to try something like that almost amusing. “Don’t worry,” he replied, pushing off the wall and stepping closer to Uncle, “I’ll make sure no one gets too close.”

  Arletta nodded once before slipping out of the room, leaving Thorne alone with the man who had saved him… and ruined him.

  The silence in the room was almost suffocating, broken only by the sound of Uncle's ragged breathing. Thorne stood there, staring down at him, a knot of tension forming in his chest. Uncle lay sprawled on the couch, his face slack, utterly vulnerable. He was a shadow of the powerful figure he had once been, a drunken, bloated old man who had long since lost his grip on reality.

  Thorne's hand drifted to the dagger at his belt, his fingers curling around the hilt. The thought of ending it right there, of ridding himself of Uncle’s hold forever, flickered through his mind like a spark waiting to ignite.

  It would be so easy. A quick thrust, and it would all be over.

  Without realizing it, Thorne took a step forward, then another. His heart pounded in his chest, his breathing quickening as he neared the couch. His hand trembled as it tightened around the dagger’s hilt. He could practically hear the blade sinking into Uncle’s chest, feel the life drain out of him as he gasped his last breath.

  But before Thorne could act, Uncle stirred.

  His eyes flickered open, bleary and unfocused, struggling to make sense of the room around him. When his gaze landed on Thorne, he smiled, a soft, drunken smile that Thorne had once longed for. Now, it made his stomach turn.

  “Thorne…” Uncle murmured, his voice thick and sluggish. He struggled to sit up, but his body was too heavy, too sluggish. He sank back into the cushions, his eyelids fluttering as if they were too heavy to keep open.

  Thorne didn’t respond, his knuckles white as he clutched the dagger, still debating whether or not to use it.

  “I made a mistake…” Uncle mumbled, his words slurring together.

  Thorne froze. His breath caught in his throat, and for a moment, his entire body went still.

  “I grew to care for you,” Uncle continued, his eyes closing again as he spoke. “I know I shouldn’t have… Love, friendship… family… they’re all weaknesses, you see. Weaknesses that people exploit. But you, Thorne…” Uncle let out a low sigh, a drunken, nostalgic sound. “You were always so eager to please me… So smart… So… obedient…”

  Thorne’s heart began to race, his chest tightening. His grip on the dagger faltered.

  “I never wanted children,” Uncle went on, his voice barely above a whisper. “I hated them. Always loud, always needy… But you… You were different. You are different.” He smiled to himself, a lazy, contented smile. “You… I love.”

  Thorne felt his stomach twist, bile rising in his throat. The words—words he had craved for so long—now felt like poison.

  “You are the son I never dared to dream of,” Uncle murmured, his speech growing softer, more fragmented. “You’re just like me, Thorne… So much like me… Sometimes it frightens me.”

  Thorne took another step closer, his hands trembling with barely contained rage. He wanted to scream, to shout that he was nothing like him, that he could never be like him. But his throat felt tight, constricted by the weight of Uncle’s words.

  “But you belong to me…” Uncle continued, oblivious to the turmoil raging inside Thorne. “To me… and only me…”

  Thorne’s breath hitched, his pulse roaring in his ears. He could feel his control slipping, feel the weight of the dagger in his hand like a leaden promise.

  “You don’t belong to those little friends of yours… or that red-haired girl…” Uncle’s eyes remained closed, his face slack with intoxication. “I made sure of that.”

  Thorne’s heart stopped.

  “What do you mean?” His voice was barely a whisper, but it cut through the air like a knife.

  Uncle let out a soft chuckle, almost as if he were amused. “You were getting too attached… I couldn’t have that,” he slurred, his words slow and heavy. “You belong to me… I couldn’t let them have you.”

  Thorne’s blood ran cold. His body felt like it had been submerged in ice. “What… did you do?”

  Uncle sighed again, as if the answer were obvious. “I schemed, of course… That bullheaded girl, Rhea… She was the easiest target. So easy to manipulate…” He chuckled again, the sound low and sinister. “I paid a woman to pretend to be her mother… Rhea was so predictable… so desperate for a family. Then I had someone offer her money to kill you. She took the bait like the little fool she is. Pathetic.”

  Thorne’s head spun, his vision narrowing until all he could see was Uncle’s face, his smug, satisfied expression. His blood pounded in his ears, and his hands shook violently.

  “And you…” Uncle mumbled, his voice growing softer, as if he were drifting off to sleep.

  “I knew you’d figure it out and kill her eventually. You’re predictable too, Thorne… But you’re mine. They can’t have you. Once you killed her, the rest would hate you, and you’d return to me, where you belong.”

  The dagger slipped free from its sheath in one swift motion. Thorne’s breath came in shallow, ragged bursts as he raised the blade, his hand trembling. He could feel the cool metal under his fingers, feel the weight of the choice he was about to make.

  He wanted to kill him. He needed to kill him.

  Uncle had ruined everything. He had manipulated Rhea, pushed her to betray him, orchestrated the events that had shattered Thorne’s life.

  Thorne’s grip tightened on the dagger, his knuckles turning white. He could end it. Right here, right now. One quick thrust, and it would be over.

  But just as he leaned forward, ready to strike, the door banged open.

  Thorne jolted, dropping the dagger back into his coat as Arletta barged in, followed by two Lost Ones. The room froze, the tension thick in the air.

  “You are my son…” Uncle murmured, his voice barely a whisper, breaking the silence.

  Thorne forced a small, indulgent smile, slipping the dagger fully into his coat. His Acting skill flared, mask of deceit kicking in as he plastered on a calm expression. The storm that had been raging inside him was locked away, hidden behind the facade he wore so well.

  Arletta’s sharp eyes flicked between them, suspicion dancing in her gaze. “Everything alright?” she asked, her voice low.

  Thorne nodded smoothly. “Just fine. He’s been muttering nonsense,” he replied, stepping away from the couch. “He really needs to cut down on the drinks. He can’t hold his alcohol at his age.”

  A notification popped up in the corner of his vision.

  Skill level up: Acting!

  He pushed it away, focusing on keeping his expression neutral. Arletta watched him for a moment longer before approaching Uncle, pouring a small vial of potion into his mouth.

  Thorne took a step back, exhaling shakily as the anger, the rage, the need to kill simmered just beneath the surface.

  “I’m heading out,” he muttered, already walking toward the door. He couldn’t stay there. Not anymore.

  “Wait!” Arletta called after him, but Thorne didn’t stop. He didn’t look back.

  He had to leave. To go as far as he could from that place.

  From that man.

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