Thorne followed Arletta through the Butcher Quarter, the sharp, metallic scent of blood hanging heavy in the air, mixed with the stench of raw meat. The shopkeepers were closing down their stalls, their weary faces reflected in the dim light of the few remaining lanterns. Some threw pitchers of water across the cobblestones, the streams tinted red as they washed away the day's work. The last-minute shoppers moved hastily, as if intimidated by Arletta's rigid posture and severe frown, making wide circles around her as she passed.

"I hope your training is going well," Arletta remarked in that cool, detached voice of hers, like she was commenting on the weather rather than the brutal training he'd been enduring.

Thorne's lips curled into a sneer, a bitter laugh escaping him before he could stop it. "Oh, it's been just grand," he replied, his voice dripping with venom. "Always dreamed of becoming an assassin, you know? Living in constant fear that today might be the day I get my throat slit in my sleep. Watching my friends get ripped apart... It's been a real treat."

He felt his hands twitch involuntarily, the memory of blood on them, warm and sticky, flooding his mind. His eyes glazed over as he continued, almost as if he were talking to himself rather than Arletta. "You know, I've started to enjoy it. The blood. It's not so bad watching that irritating guy who always nags you squeal like a stuck pig... It's... satisfying... And it turns out I have a real gift for it. Who knew?"

The image of Marcus bleeding out flashed in his mind, and Thorne's smile twisted, growing wider, almost deranged. Arletta suddenly whirled around, her expression sharp with an admonishing look that bordered on worry. For a brief moment, Thorne felt a flicker of something—was she actually concerned?

"Do not speak of such things publicly," she snapped, her voice laced with cold fury. Without waiting for a response, she turned on her heel and resumed her brisk pace.

Scratch that. She didn't care about him—just that he wouldn't spill Uncle's secrets to some poor, unsuspecting fool on the street. Thorne's smile didn't fade; it grew, fueled by a dark amusement. "What can I say? Fighting every waking—and sleeping—moment for your life can leave you a little unbalanced," he said, more to himself than to her.

He felt a bubbling inside him, a restless energy that he couldn't quite contain. Arletta's indifference, her calm dismissal of his ordeal, fanned the flames of his anger. He wanted to push her, to break through that icy exterior and see what lay beneath.

"And I have Uncle to thank for all that," he continued, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, tinged with bitterness. "Without our great benefactor, the orphans in the city wouldn't be dying like flies. He's... a true... humanitarian."

The laughter that burst from him was wild, uncontrollable—a release of the tension that had been coiling tighter and tighter inside him. He doubled over, clutching his sides as if the sheer force of it would tear him apart. But there was no joy in it, only a madness that had been festering for far too long.

Arletta stopped abruptly, and when she turned to face him, her expression was one of genuine fury. "Get it out, get it all out before you meet Uncle," she hissed, her voice dangerously low. "Because I promise you, whatever you think you've learned in that god-awful training of yours won't save you if you say such things to him!"

Thorne's laughter died in his throat, as if a switch had been flipped. He straightened up, his eyes narrowing as he glared at Arletta. Her usually austere face was contorted with anger—real anger, for the first time since he had known her.

"You don't know what I've been through," he spat, his voice shaking with the pent-up rage he had been holding onto for months.

"No," she responded, her eyes narrowing into slits. "I don't, and I don't care to find out. What I do care about is Uncle's mood, and I have no intention of trying to rein in his anger after you've made him explode. So pull yourself together! You aren't meeting one of your friends, but the most powerful man in the city."

Her words cut through him like a knife, and he knew she was right. That knowledge only deepened the sense of helplessness gnawing at him. He closed his eyes, taking a shaky breath to calm the turmoil inside him. When he opened them again, the fury had receded, leaving only cold determination. He nodded curtly, and they continued on their way, the silence between them now heavy with unresolved tension.

As they walked, something pricked at Thorne's senses, something off. His instincts, always on alert ever since he joined the Famiy, picked up on a faint noise—a sound that didn't belong. He could hear breathing somewhere nearby, but no accompanying footsteps. He checked again, his mind racing through the possibilities, and then he realized.

"I hope those four following us are your bodyguards and not some assassins from an enemy gang," Thorne said, his tone casual. "Because I'm going to be honest with you, I'm not going to defend you. I'll just run."

He felt a wave of satisfaction when Arletta stumbled, her usually unflappable demeanor finally cracking. For a split second, she looked genuinely startled.

With a tone that almost made him question what he had heard, she replied, "They are here for our protection. Uncle still has enemies. Bodyguards from the Family have become common practice."

Thorne nodded, a wicked grin curling his lips as he turned to the shadows where he had last heard the faint breathing, he turned and waved his hand. "Hey, guys," he called out, a chuckle escaping him when he heard someone swear softly in response.

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When they finally reached Uncle's manor, Thorne felt a familiar sense of dread creeping up his spine. The imposing structure loomed ahead, its darkened windows like the hollow eyes of a skull, but Thorne had grown used to the foreboding atmosphere over the years.

Arletta led him to the side entrance, the one they always used when returning from missions or after dark. Thorne's steps slowed ever so slightly, a subtle reluctance he quickly quashed.

The moment they stepped inside, the tension that had built up in Thorne's chest loosened, replaced by the comforting warmth of the manor's kitchen. The familiar scents of baking bread, simmering stews, and roasting meats enveloped him, soothing his frayed nerves like a balm.

The kitchen was as he remembered it—a whirlwind of activity. Pots clanged, knives chopped with precision, and servants bustled about, each absorbed in their tasks, yet moving in perfect harmony with one another. Overseeing it all was Matilda, her commanding voice cutting through the chaos as she directed her staff with the authority of a general.

Thorne felt the first genuine smile of the night tug at his lips. Matilda looked up from her task of kneading dough, flour dusting her hands and forearms. Her face lit up as she spotted him, and without hesitation, she abandoned her work and ran toward him, her round cheeks flushed with excitement. Thorne's nose was filled with the comforting scents of yeast and sugar.

Matilda pulled back slightly, still holding him by the shoulders as she looked up at him with mock sternness. "I swear to the dead gods, every time I see you, you're getting taller! When are you going to stop sprouting? I can't reach you anymore to give you a kiss!"

Thorne couldn't help but laugh, a sound that felt foreign in his own ears. Leaning down, he planted a loud, exaggerated kiss on her plump cheek before pinching it playfully. "All you have to do is ask, my dear lady," he teased, taking her hand and spinning her around as if they were in the middle of a ballroom instead of a bustling kitchen. "Now, let me have a look at you."

He pretended to scrutinize her, tsking as he shook his head. "Matilda, you're not eating enough! I hope Uncle isn't working you to death!"

Matilda giggled, batting at his chest with a flour-covered hand. "Oh, stop it, you! I'm eating plenty, and you know it."

Thorne grinned, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "What can I say? Your food is the best in Alvar. I thank the dead gods I'm not here every day, or you'd have to roll me out of this kitchen with a cart."

The kitchen staff, overhearing the exchange, chuckled quietly as they worked, the atmosphere lightening in Thorne's presence. Matilda blushed, the pink in her cheeks contrasting with the flour dusted on her skin. "You're such a sweet-talker," she said, her voice warm with affection.

Thorne's grin widened as a mischievous thought struck him. "Now, tell me," he said, narrowing his eyes in mock seriousness and placing his fists on his hips. "Has Toby proposed yet? If not, I'm going to have a few words with him."

Matilda's face turned a deep shade of red, and she let out a startled yelp, "Thorne!"

Thorne laughed, the sound rich and full of genuine amusement. He had known about Matilda's crush on Toby, the burly man who delivered supplies to the manor, for quite some time. And from the way Toby's eyes followed Matilda whenever he thought no one was looking, Thorne was certain the feeling was mutual.

"Now that I think about it," Thorne continued, feigning deep contemplation, "I hope he hasn't proposed yet! He hasn't asked for my permission, after all. I'm not giving my girl away without some assurances about her future! Where will you two be living? Are you planning on having kids? How many? Not too many, I hope—you have to mind your alluring figure! Three are enough, don't you think?"

Matilda was now as red as a beet, her eyes wide with embarrassment as she tried to hide her face behind a stained rag. The kitchen staff, sensing an opportunity for some harmless fun, began to chime in with good-natured jabs and laughter.

"Better make sure Toby knows how to cook, Matilda! You can't be expected to do it all!" one of the older maids teased, grinning from ear to ear.

"And don't forget, you'll need someone to look after all those kids while you're here baking us pies!" another added, winking at Thorne.

Matilda was laughing so hard she could barely speak, her face buried in the rag as she waved them off. "You lot are terrible!" she managed between giggles.

Thorne, thoroughly enjoying the chaos he had stirred up, turned to the gathered crowd, spreading his arms wide. "What do you all think? Three kids? Four? I'm not sure Matilda can handle more than that—Toby might have to hire some help!"

The kitchen erupted in laughter, the noise filling the room and spilling into the hallways beyond. Matilda, now thoroughly flustered, peeked out from behind the rag just in time to see Thorne grinning at her.

Arletta, who had been standing by with a patience that was clearly wearing thin, finally stepped forward. "That's enough," she said firmly, though Thorne caught the faintest ghost of a smile tugging at her lips. "Uncle is waiting for you."

Thorne sighed theatrically, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. "Duty calls," he said with exaggerated regret, giving Matilda one last fond smile. "Be sure to keep me a plate of that blueberry pie."

Arletta, already holding the door open, interjected, "You won't be needing it. You'll be dining with Uncle tonight."

Thorne's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "I am?" he asked, genuinely taken aback. Then he shrugged as if it didn't matter. "I am," he repeated, turning back to Matilda with a wink.

He started to leave the room but then paused, a mischievous glint in his eyes. Turning on his heel, he pointed an accusatory finger at Matilda. "Have you two kissed yet?" he asked, his voice a mix of playful suspicion and mock horror.

Matilda's eyes went wide, her mouth opening and closing as she struggled to find words. The guilty flush on her cheeks was all the confirmation Thorne needed. He threw his head back and laughed, a rich, full-bodied sound that filled the kitchen. "You have!" he declared, pointing at her in delight. "Next time, tell him to take you for a moonlit stroll by the piers—I know just the place. But no funny business, mind you!" He shook his finger at her, his expression one of exaggerated disapproval.

"Thorne! Stop it!" Matilda cried out, her voice a mixture of exasperation and amusement as she hid her face behind her hands, her neck now as crimson as her cheeks.

The room erupted in laughter once more, the sound echoing off the walls as the kitchen staff doubled over with mirth, thoroughly enjoying the spectacle. Even Arletta, who usually remained stoic and composed, couldn't hide the small smile that briefly crossed her face.

But that moment of levity was short-lived. With a sigh, Arletta reached out, grabbed the nape of Thorne's shirt, and began to drag him out of the kitchen, much to the continued amusement of the staff.

"Alright, alright, I'm going!" Thorne protested, though he didn't resist. He cast one last look over his shoulder at Matilda, who was still trying to recover from her embarrassment, and gave her a wink. "I'll be back to check on you, Matilda—don't you worry!"

With that, Arletta pulled him through the doorway, the warmth and laughter of the kitchen fading behind them as they stepped into the cold, echoing halls of the manor once more.

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