Thorne's gaze settled on Arletta, her clipboard held loosely in her hand, a shadow of fatigue crossing her usually composed face.

"He's waiting for me?" Thorne asked, his voice sharper than he intended.

The woman nodded, her grip tightening on the clipboard in her hands. "Yes. He left earlier for the governing building. From there, he can oversee the battle and direct the fight more efficiently." Her gaze lingered on his battered form. "He instructed me to send you there as soon as you returned."

Thorne's jaw tightened, his teeth grinding together as frustration flared within him. "Of course," he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his disheveled hair.

Exhaustion pulled at him like a weight around his shoulders. All day, he had darted across the city, patching the chaos that Uncle's schemes had unleashed, leaving a trail of violence and destruction in his wake. Each step, each mission, felt like trying to hold back a flood with nothing but a sieve.

And for what? He wondered bitterly. What did it all mean in the end? Was he salvaging anything? Or causing more harm?

He swallowed hard, pushing back the thought of Lord Braddock and his wife dragged from their burning estate. He just ended a long noble line because they needed a few more soldiers for their little war and it just happened that their enemy had the force they needed.

A hollow laugh almost escaped him, but he swallowed it down.

"Of course," he said again, louder this time. His voice was laced with a bitter resignation.

Arletta's sharp eyes didn't miss the cracks in his usually composed demeanor. She studied him for a moment, her lips pressing into a thin line as if considering her next words carefully. But instead of saying anything, she simply inclined her head and stepped aside.

He scanned the room. Wounded Lost Ones and guards lay sprawled across the floor, their moans of pain creating a symphony of suffering. Blood pooled in places where hastily dressed wounds failed to staunch the flow. For a moment, Thorne's eyes glazed over. He saw the faces of people he had known, grizzled veterans, young recruits, and everyone in between.

"Why are there so many wounded?" he demanded, his voice low but sharp. "What about health potions?"

Her face tightened, and she shook her head. "You must know that because of the ongoing feud, there's a shortage of ingredients for the poisoners to brew health potions. What stock the guild had is being used as we speak. Our own... it's being kept for personal use." Her eyes flicked away, unable to meet his gaze.

Thorne didn't need more explanation. Uncle, as ever, had ensured his personal supply was untouched, reserved for himself and those closest to him. The rest were left to fend for themselves.

He thought of Ben. Jonah. They might have supplies, but finding them in the chaos was another matter entirely. And even if he did, how much could they possibly spare? Ben wasn't exactly known for his reliability, and Jonah would need persuasion. His frown deepened as another thought struck him.

An idea sparked in Thorne's mind. He thought of Lord Rook's compound, the stacks of health potions he had seen. The man had been hoarding them for trade or leverage, but those supplies could save lives now.

"I know where we can find the health potions we need," Thorne said abruptly.

Arletta's eyebrows rose in mild surprise. "Oh?"

"Rook," Thorne said. "Send someone to his compound at the docks. Tell him he owes me."

Arletta regarded him with a long, calculating look before shaking her head. "I'm afraid I can't do that. I don't have the authority for such an order... young master," she added, her tone dripping with faux deference.

The emphasis on the last words wasn't lost on him.

Thorne narrowed his glowing eyes.

Stepping forward, he surveyed the room. His gaze landed on three recruits, relatively unscathed compared to the others.

"You, you, and you," he barked, pointing at them in turn. A bandaged man, another pale but upright, and a young recruit he recognized, a girl famed for her stealth, her core brimming with skills that made her almost invisible in any situation.

The three recruits exchanged uneasy glances before looking to Thorne.

"You're going to the docks," Thorne said sharply. "Find Lord Rook and tell him you were sent by Thorne Silverbane. Inform him that his request has been fulfilled, and now I want his stock of health potions in return. If he resists... remind him that I can take on a request just like the one he gave earlier any time."

Their eyes widened, but they didn't move.

"What are you waiting for?" Thorne snapped. "Go!"

The three recruits shot to their feet, grimaces of determination replacing hesitation. Without another word, they bolted from the room.

"Don't come back without those health potions!" Thorne called after them, his voice echoing through the space.

When he turned back, Arletta was staring at him with an expression he couldn't quite place, somewhere between amusement and approval. A faint, smarmy smile tugged at her lips.

"What are you looking at?" he demanded, his irritation slipping through.

"Nothing, young master," she replied, her tone smooth as silk, the ghost of a smile still lingering.

Thorne grumbled under his breath, turning his back on her as he made his way toward the door.

Thorne left the estate in haste, his strides purposeful as he headed toward the governing building. But something gnawed at him, a peculiar sensation thrumming in his chest. It was faint, almost imperceptible, but the more he walked, the more it grew until it demanded his attention.

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What was it?

Satisfaction.

The realization stopped him in his tracks, his breath catching for a moment. Satisfaction for what?

It struck him like a jolt of lightning: it was the satisfaction of control, of being obeyed without hesitation. Riley's respect, the recruits' fear, all of it had filled him with a dangerous sense of fulfillment.

He resumed his pace, but the thought lingered, taking root.

Ever since he had left the Lost Ones' fold, he had been apart from them, removed from the web of camaraderie and hierarchy that Uncle had built. Yet today, he had returned to that world, and instead of feeling like a cog in Uncle's machine, he had felt... powerful.

The recruits had looked at him like he was superior. They had followed his orders without question. And it had felt good, tantalizing even.

What if...?

The thought came unbidden, but it was relentless. What if he were the one in charge of the Lost Ones? Not Uncle. Not the man who had built this guild only to squander its potential in a misguided bid for dominance.

Thorne's lips pressed into a thin line as his thoughts spiraled.

He could do it. He could lead them better than Uncle ever had. He would turn the lost ones into something more than a collection of assassins and spies; he would make them into a force to be reckoned with.

And then...

His thoughts scattered like ash in the wind as the noise of the battle reached him.

The clash of steel against steel and the gut-wrenching cries of pain seemed to vibrate through his very bones as he neared the noble quarter's central square. The din was deafening, a cacophony of violence that swallowed the night.

This far from the square, only the stragglers fought, but even here, bursts of aether lit the darkened streets like fireworks. Soldiers clashed in isolated skirmishes, blades flashing, aether flaring.

Thorne stuck to the shadows, his glowing eyes dimming with his Veil of Light and Shadow. He needed to get to the governing building, but it was situated at the very heart of the square, where the fighting was at its fiercest.

How was he going to cross the battlefield?

He cursed under his breath and glanced upward. The rooftops had served him well before. They would again.

He scaled a building with practiced ease, his hands and feet finding purchase in the chipped stonework. When he reached the top, he pulled himself over the ledge and crouched low, his eyes scanning the chaos below.

From this vantage point, the battle unfolded like a deadly chessboard. Black-caped Ravencourt soldiers clashed with green-cloaked Thornfield forces, bursts of warrior skills lighting the square as combatants unleashed their power. Arrows rained down sporadically, cutting through the air with lethal precision.

Thorne moved carefully along the rooftops, his gaze sweeping the edges of the square.

That's when he saw them, Lost Ones perched at the edges of the rooftops, their bows drawn and aimed at the fray below. From their vantage points, they unleashed a steady barrage of arrows, each strike precise and devastating.

Thorne approached the nearest lost one with cautious steps. When he was close enough, he called out softly, "Hey."

The man spun around, his arrow nocked and aimed directly at Thorne's head in an instant.

Thorne raised his hands in surrender, his glowing eyes narrowing. "Easy there," he muttered.

The man's eyes remained sharp, scanning him with an intensity that Thorne could feel. But then his gaze fell on Thorne's glowing eyes, and recognition dawned. His own eyes widened in surprise.

"Thorne?"

Thorne didn't recognize the man who had identified him, but the Lost One seemed certain. There was no hesitation, only the weight of an unspoken mission in his eyes.

"I..." Thorne began, unsure of how to address the situation.

"We have orders to get you to Uncle," the man interrupted, his voice firm and unyielding. "No matter what."

Thorne turned his gaze to the battle below, his stomach sinking at the sight. It was utter chaos. Hundreds of men and women clashed in a deadly tide of steel and aether. The battlefield was a writhing sea of violence, where death waited with every swing of a sword or flash of a skill.

Thorne gestured to the chaos below. "How are we supposed to cross that?" he demanded, aghast.

The Lost One didn't answer immediately. Instead, he reached into his cloak and retrieved a small whistle. The sharp, piercing sound it emitted made Thorne's sensitive ears ring painfully.

Moments later, black-clad figures began emerging from the shadows, one by one, until nine stood before Thorne.

He turned in a slow circle, taking in the grim faces and hidden expressions of the Lost Ones who had arrived. Most had their faces obscured by hoods or masks, but what little Thorne could see was enough. These were veterans, men and women hardened by countless missions. Their movements were precise, their postures steady, but their expressions betrayed them.

Resignation.

"What's going on?" Thorne demanded, his frown deepening as he searched their faces for answers.

The first man spoke again. "We are to get you to the governing building, unscathed. No matter what."

Thorne's heart sank. His glowing eyes swept across the square, the relentless tide of battle that consumed everyone who dared enter it.

"And how exactly do you plan on doing that?" he asked, his voice rising with frustration.

"We cut through the battlefield," the man replied simply, as if that was the only logical solution.

Thorne turned on him, his breath catching. "You're insane! We'll never make it!"

He gestured wildly at the chaos below. The battlefield was too crowded, too violent. Every inch of ground was contested, every movement a dance with death. How could anyone think they'd survive crossing it?

"It doesn't matter," the man replied coldly, his tone devoid of doubt. "Uncle's orders."

The other Lost Ones nodded in grim unison, their resolve unshaken.

"There has to be another way!" Thorne insisted, his voice tinged with desperation. His mind raced, searching for an alternative, a route that wouldn't lead them to certain death.

"The sewers!" he exclaimed suddenly. "There has to be a way underground!"

The man shook his head, his expression unwavering. "No. The governing building was designed to be impenetrable. No tunnels, no secret entrances. The only way in is through the battle."

Thorne clenched his fists, his frustration boiling over. He couldn't accept it. He couldn't believe this was the only option.

"There has to be another way," he muttered under his breath, his thoughts spinning in vain.

One of the hooded figures lowered his head slightly, and the first man spoke again. "It's time."

Thorne barely had time to react before two of the Lost Ones took him by the arms, dragging him toward a small opening in the roof. The destroyed section of the building led them downstairs, offering a way to reach the chaos below.

In eerie silence, they descended floor after floor, moving through what had once been some kind of official building. Long corridors stretched before them, lined with empty desks and overturned chairs. The signs of looting were everywhere, drawers had been ripped open, papers scattered across the floors, and the walls were marred with scorch marks.

Thorne's unease grew with each step, the air thick with the weight of what was to come.

When they reached the bottom floor, the destruction was even worse. The stairs themselves had been obliterated, forcing them to leap down the last few meters.

They landed as one, their movements perfectly synchronized. The moment they hit the ground, every lost one drew their weapons.

"Create a perimeter," the hooded leader ordered, his voice raspy and commanding. "When one falls, plug the opening."

The others nodded, their determination palpable.

Thorne's breath hitched. He could see it in their eyes, in the way they moved, they were resigned to their fates. They knew the likelihood of survival was slim, yet they didn't falter.

He tried to speak, to protest, but the words wouldn't come.

Then the leader's hand shot up, signaling the group to move.

And like wraiths, the Lost Ones erupted into the chaos of the battle, dragging Thorne into the heart of the storm.

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