Page 5

His eyes, sharp and calculating, flicked downward to the landscape of Erethos below, the sprawling kingdom with its jagged mountains and stone-bound settlements.

He stood as if he could see everything, his gaze sweeping the land that lay beneath his feet, as though to claim it, to watch it from his perch like a beast surveying its kingdom.

Gauntleted claws, dark as midnight, clutched the railing with a strength that made the metal creak under the pressure.

Black and bone-white claws dug into the stone, the pale hue of his fingers stark against the darkened night.

It was all too easy to imagine those claws, so capable of tearing into flesh, wrapping around Thorne’s body with crushing force.

The fantasy—or perhaps the reality—of those vicious talons seizing him, pulling him apart, flooded his mind like a dark, primal vision.

The beast didn’t have to move to create that image in Thorne’s head.

Just the sight of him was enough to freeze the blood in Thorne’s veins.

Far beyond the palace, the capital was celebrating tonight as well.

Shapes shimmered and flickered congregating around a towering bonfire where it blazed brightly from within Loog’s Square, ferocious even from the cliffside.

Though distant, the warmth and light yearned for the heavens, stretched to touch, caressing the curved tusks and sunken cheeks of the skull as he observed.

He seemed to lean into it, long to be with it.

What did Thorne really know about this man? A noble, someone strong, someone diligent.

Earnest, careful.

But was that the truth? Or just another mask? For the first time that night, Thorne wondered truly what lurked beyond the mantle.

Who hid within those grisly bones.

The man shifted, hands lifting to his face.

He fussed with his mask, tugging at the sides, and Thorne saw his fingers feel around, digging into the fur.

The skull jostled and began to lift.

The wolf was removing his mask.

Thorne went cold.

And when his body flared again, it was with heat.

The wolf’s fingers were dexterous, long and lithe, and even clawed they wove into the fur and ties with care.

It was a compelling sight, far too easy to imagine those fingers handling a sword, each elegant pull and swipe enticing him to watch, promising recompense.

But Thorne knew this was the moment of opportunity- if the beast was onto him, he needed to act fast before anyone else caught wind.

He needed, he needed...

Thorne’s senses sharpened as he steeled himself for the confrontation, every muscle in his body coiled like a spring, every thought focused on the task ahead.

His fingers slipped to the hilt of his nearest knife, the familiar weight of it grounding him as he began to creep closer to the beast.

He measured each step carefully, balancing his weight just so, aware of the icy ground beneath him, wary of the snow that crunched faintly with every movement.

He needed to be quiet, calculated.

Every step had to be precise.

He couldn’t afford to make a sound.

No reaction from the beast. Not yet.

Thorne's mind raced as he continued his advance.

The man’s hands were still busy with his mask, manipulating the fur and ties with an elegance that suggested he had done this many times before.

Thorne shifted his position slightly, adjusting his approach to come at the beast from behind, the hunter’s instinct kicking in.

The larger the prey, the more vulnerable their peripheral vision.

The closer Thorne got, the more palpable the tension in the air became.

His grip tightened on the dagger's hilt as he calculated the distance, the speed at which he could strike.

The tip of the blade slid out of its sheath just as the beast’s skull shifted again, its face bowed low, the fangs facing harmlessly away from Thorne.

It was like watching a deer stretch to graze—an easy, exposed target.

His heart pounded, his thoughts narrowing on that one vulnerable spot: the thin strip of exposed neck that had revealed itself with the shift.

The pale, barely visible curl of hair at the back of the man’s neck.

Thorne was almost there.

He could hear the beast’s breathing now, uneven, slightly labored, and for a brief moment, he wondered if the man was as nervous as he was.

The rhythmic sound of Thorne’s own heartbeat thundered in his ears, but it was drowned by the tension, the gnawing feeling in his stomach.

His fingers tightened on the dagger, every nerve in his body screaming to strike, to end this, to make the first move before the man could react.

The beast was so close, just a mere inch away from being within reach.

And then, just as Thorne prepared to make his move, everything froze.

The man turned his head.

A single, piercing dark eye met Thorne’s, locking onto him with a swift, unnerving precision.

Thorne’s body went rigid, caught in the gaze, his breath momentarily stuck in his throat.

His heart jolted, its frantic rhythm breaking free as it crashed violently against his ribcage, a frantic thing that seemed to plummet straight into the abyss.

The sight of those eyes sent an icy shiver down his spine, a quiet warning he couldn’t ignore.

He wasn’t prepared for this.

The beast’s body jerked in surprise, the movement so sudden that Thorne instinctively tensed, ready to react, to pull the dagger free and strike the moment the man lunged.

His body coiled, muscles bracing for impact, ready to meet the force of whatever came next.

But instead of a deadly confrontation, Thorne was greeted with a sound of breathless relief.

The beast exhaled sharply, his shoulders sagging as he straightened up, the tension visibly leaving him in waves.

"Oh! Ah, it’s just you." The words tumbled from the man’s mouth, half-ragged, almost...

relieved? Thorne’s mind struggled to keep up with the sudden shift in tone.

Relieved? The thought barely had time to form before the beast’s entire demeanor shifted.

He sighed deeply, his body slumping against the railing as if the weight of the world had been lifted off his shoulders.

His entire stance shifted from predatory to… exhausted.

Thorne paused, hand still wrapped around the handle of his dagger, his pulse still racing, confused by the beast's reaction.

Relief? That didn’t make sense.

Hadn’t the man been searching for him? Hadn’t he known? The unexpected wave of relief left Thorne with a sinking feeling in his gut.

This wasn’t what he had expected at all.

The beast didn’t seem to notice Thorne’s confusion.

Instead, he quickly and with an almost frantic urgency, began to readjust his mask, pulling it back into place over his face with swift, practiced movements.

The skull settled back into position, and within moments, he had transformed once more into the figure Thorne had known—hidden, cloaked in mystery, and formidable.

A beast in truth.

"Forgive me," the beast muttered with a quiet chuckle, sounding flustered, almost sheepish.

"I did not mean…" He paused, a little embarrassed, as if searching for the right words.

"You did not see me taking off my mask, just now.

Because that is not in good sport."

Thorne couldn’t help but blink in disbelief.

His grip on the dagger loosened slightly, though he still kept it close, his body still poised for action.

The beast, who had seemed so dangerous just moments ago, was now acting… almost human.

Thorne’s confusion deepened, but before he could say anything, the beast cleared his throat, almost nervously.

"What brings you out here?" the beast asked, his voice suddenly quieter, almost conversational.

"Not… taking off your mask, as well?" He chuckled again, though it was a weak sound, tinged with an awkwardness that had not been there before.

Thorne stood frozen for a moment, still processing what had just happened.

The man—no, the beast—had shifted so suddenly from tension to relief, from predator to something entirely different.

Thorne had been ready for a fight, had been poised to strike, but now he wasn’t sure what was happening anymore.

The cold air bit at his skin, and the tension in his body began to dissipate, though unease still hung in the air between them.

Thorne drew a deep breath, the cold air rushing into his lungs and clearing his mind, or at least trying to.

The strange weight of the moment hung heavy in the air between them, the shift in their exchange settling uneasily in his chest.

His blood thrummed in his ears, pulsing like a distant storm, but even that sensation seemed muffled, as if it were coming from the depths of the ocean rather than his own body.

He swallowed the tightness in his throat, taking a step closer to the man, trying to force his words past the knot of discomfort that had formed there.

“Getting some fresh air,”

he said, his voice sounding more composed than he felt.

“It’s stale in there.”

The beast—if that’s what he truly was—nodded in acknowledgment.

“The cold does wonders for that, indeed.”

A silence stretched between them, thick and tangible.

The beast’s cold, dark eyes were fixed on Thorne, though they were hidden deep within the skull’s eye sockets.

Those eyes were like pools of fathomless darkness, their depths impossible to read.

Thorne couldn’t tell if he was being studied or simply observed, but the sensation was unnerving all the same.

There was nothing in the way the beast held himself, nothing in his posture, that suggested immediate danger—but still, Thorne couldn’t shake the feeling that something was being examined, something he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted the beast to see.

Thorne’s movements were careful, controlled, as he approached the balustrade, his hand resting on the cold stone a short ways away from the beast.

As he did, the man shifted slightly, turning to face him fully.

Firelight from the distant bonfire spilled across the terrace, catching the sharp edges of the mask and casting long, eerie shadows that seemed to cling to its form.

The flickering light evaporated the heavy darkness that had gathered in the hollowed eyes of the skull, momentarily returning them to something like clarity.

For a brief instant, Thorne was almost relieved to see the mask in its familiar state, its shape so solid and cold.

His fingers still curled lightly around the hilt of his knife, the grip never fully relaxing, but loosening as the immediate threat seemed to ebb.

The longer he looked at the beast, the more his own tension seemed to melt away, though a new, tighter feeling began to coil in his chest.

The man’s appearance was now clearer in the firelight—gray eyes, weary and pinched at the corners, and the mask slightly askew.

The fur at the edges had been ruffled from his hurried transformation earlier, and something about it made Thorne feel strangely unsettled.

The man wasn’t exactly what Thorne had expected.

There was a weariness in him, a fatigue that seemed to seep through the otherwise imposing figure.

It was at odds with the strength he had associated with him—the quiet authority of someone capable of dominating a room.

Yet now, with the mask askew and his shoulders slightly hunched against the cold, the man seemed...

less certain, less composed.

Something wasn’t adding up.

Thorne didn’t mean to speak, but the question came out before he could stop it.

"What’s wrong?"

The beast tilted his head slightly, his expression softening under the shadow of his mantle, his voice quieter. “Hmm?”

Thorne’s heart thudded heavily in his chest as his words caught him off guard.

He had been ready to kill this man only moments ago, his blade poised for a strike, but now here he was, asking what was wrong with him? His throat tightened with the absurdity of it.

He’d been preparing to end his life, but now he was concerned about the beast’s well-being? It made no sense, but it was too late to take it back.

“I mean, I…”

Thorne faltered, feeling the weight of the situation shift underneath him, making him unsure of what to say next.

“You seem really tense.

Did something happen?”

The beast’s gaze softened even further, his shoulders rising with a long, drawn-out sigh as his hands gripped tightly to the railing.

“No, nothing has happened.”

He paused, as if considering his words carefully.

“I simply tire of this all.

It’s as I said before, I find little joy in these events.”

Thorne watched him, the way his hands clenched the balustrade, the movement a subtle sign of his internal struggle.

There was something in that sigh, something in the weariness in his voice, that pulled at Thorne’s own chest.

He could relate more than he wanted to admit.

The wind nipped at his lips, which had already been chapped by the cold.

He had to wet them with his tongue before he could speak again, the words coming slow as he considered them.

“Me neither,”

he said, his voice a little hoarser than he intended.

“I’ve been to dozens of these things over the years, and it’s the same every time.” He grimaced, the words coming easier now, a shared frustration slipping out of him.

“It all has a purpose, I know, but I still hate everything about it.”

The beast hummed softly, his gaze flicking to Thorne with a curiosity that felt almost...

human.

“Pray tell then, what brings you here, if you truly do not enjoy these sorts of events?”

The story Thorne had crafted for himself surged at the back of his throat, words ready to spill, a carefully constructed narrative that had been years in the making.

He was here, in the capital, for the opera—the Lion of Aegis, in three days' time—an event meticulously planned.

A guest of Lord Roan, whose son, Bran, had shown a growing interest in aligning with Seraphina’s cause.

The stirring up of old tensions since the failed civil war three years ago still loomed large, and Thorne could feel the weight of all these pieces, poised to fall into place as part of his mission.

Every detail was there for him to seize, to wield as a weapon.

He could make his move, play the part of the humble guest, keep his purpose veiled in shadows.

But when the beast’s eyes locked onto him with that unsettling intensity, something shifted within Thorne.

His own story seemed to falter before his lips, the calculated words threatening to break apart as he sought to maintain his composure.

He inhaled, bracing himself for the next moment—and then, on instinct, he found himself saying something else entirely.

"I'm here to meet someone." The words came out before he could second-guess them, simple and unspecific.

That was enough to make the beast react.

His sharp attention was instantly piqued, the slight twitch of his head betraying his curiosity.

“Oh? An old friend? Or a suitor, perhaps?”

The beast’s tone was teasing, but there was an edge to it—like a hunter toying with his prey.

Thorne felt a flush rise to his cheeks, a rush of warmth he hadn’t expected.

His gaze immediately fell to his hands, one still resting dangerously close to the dagger at his hip.

For a moment, it felt as if the entire world had zeroed in on him, a weight pressing against his chest.

His heart skipped a beat, and the heat in his face threatened to burn through the very mask he wore of nonchalance.

"Something like that," he muttered, unable to keep the unease from his voice.

He cursed himself silently for even entertaining the thought.

He was meant to be focused, on edge, playing the game with the same cold precision he always did.

Not...

this.

Thorne quickly withdrew his hand from the dagger’s hilt and moved it to his hip, his posture stiffening as he turned to look out over the mountains, his gaze hardening.

He could feel the heat of the beast’s scrutiny like a tangible force, but he wasn’t about to break.

"I haven't had much luck finding them, however.

They don't know I'm here.

It's...

meant to be a surprise."

The beast’s response came quickly, his tone unexpectedly sympathetic.

“Ah, that is unfortunate.

Is it due to the masks, you think?”

Thorne’s lips twitched in a tight, humorless smile.

"Well, at this point, they're certainly not helping."

“Perhaps I could do something about that.”

The suggestion was made casually, but there was an undeniable weight to the words, a calculated promise that made Thorne’s heart race.

The beast was leaning into this, clearly enjoying himself.

Thorne’s eyebrows shot up, a sudden jolt of disbelief washing over him.

“What do you mean?”

Thorne asked, his voice low but filled with a sharp edge of curiosity.

The beast released the railing and turned toward him fully, his presence growing more imposing, more commanding.

“I might be able to get everyone to lift their masks for you, even if only for a moment.

Would that suffice, you think?”

Thorne’s eyes narrowed, his mouth twisting into an incredulous smirk.

He couldn’t help himself.

“Hmph.

How chivalrous of you.”

“I try,”

the beast replied solemnly, and for the briefest of moments, Thorne could hear sincerity beneath the amusement.

It unsettled him in a way he hadn’t expected.

There was something far more complex to this figure than Thorne had first assumed—something deeper, something harder to grasp.

Thorne wasn’t sure if it was the sincerity or the overwhelming sense of something sickly twisted in the beast’s words, but the unease in his gut only deepened.

Then, just as he thought the moment would pass, the beast lifted his chin slightly, as though preparing for something else, something more.

"However," he continued, voice taking on a sharper tone, "I am not doing this entirely for your benefit."

Thorne’s brow furrowed, a sense of wariness creeping back into his chest.

"Oh?" he questioned, his voice guarded but tinged with disbelief.

Despite everything, despite the strangeness of this encounter, his heart still beat unevenly.

This wasn’t what he’d expected.

But then again, nothing about this night had been.

The beast’s gauntleted fingers unfurled as he flicked his wrist, a subtle yet deliberate gesture that seemed to draw attention to Thorne.

“For my assistance in helping find your person,”

the beast said, eyes glinting with a mischievous spark.

“I’d ask that you dance with me.

Provided it did not discomfort or offend the found party, of course.”

Thorne scoffed, crossing his arms in disbelief.

“How presumptuous.

Really so confident in yourself, are we?”

The beast leaned forward slightly, the amused glint in his eyes turning into something almost predatory.

He lowered his voice, crooning sweetly, his words heavy with intention.

"Would you like to make it a competition?"

Almost immediately, the beast pulled back, rising to his full height and forcing Thorne to chase him.

The challenge was clear.

Without thinking, without fully considering the consequences, Thorne did exactly that—he followed.

His body moved on instinct, his feet carrying him across the balcony, his gaze fixed upward at the beast, who seemed to glide, his every motion imbued with that same strange confidence, that animal grace that spoke of predatory intent.

Thorne tipped his head back, following the motion of the beast, and found himself drawn into the jagged, firelight-hued curve of the beast’s fangs.

They weren’t touching—yet—but the invitation was unmistakable.

The glint of the sharp tips of the teeth, deadly and poised, seemed to promise something far darker, a danger lingering just out of reach.

In the back of Thorne’s mind, he couldn’t help but imagine how quickly those jaws could snap shut.

The full moon’s glow, fierce and unyielding, hung behind the beast’s back like a shadow, framing him as a monster—something both magnificent and terrifying.

It was a game.

A deadly one.

At the edge of a gnarled wood, the beast lured Thorne in with the promise of what was just beyond the veil of darkness.

Thorne knew well that the darkness made him bold, made him reckless.

The beast had yet to claim anything from Thorne—not yet—but that didn’t stop him from inching ever closer, daring the predator to close the distance.

Thorne felt the air between them thick with unspoken tension, the weight of it pressing down on him as he walked the fine line between the chase and submission.

Thorne knew exactly how fast the beast could close that gap.

The beast knew it, too.

But neither of them was willing to take what was not offered—what was not yielded willingly.

That was the nature of the hunt.

They both understood that, even if the game itself seemed ridiculous.

But Thorne couldn’t help but relish the chase, the heady feeling of being pursued, of making the beast want more.

He met the beast’s gaze with a daring smirk, lips twisted in challenge.

"Alright, fine," he said, voice low but teasing, full of that mocking defiance he’d come to perfect over the years.

"I’ll be busy, but if you can find me after it all, I’ll dance with you." He wasn’t serious, of course.

The moment he identified the prince, he would deal with that business swiftly, and the beast would be left to wander, searching in vain.

But the game—the chase—was too delicious to resist.

What was the harm in prolonging it? The beast was persistent, almost too much so, and if he still thought Thorne was prey, well, that only made it more gratifying for Thorne to show him how well he could outrun him.

The beast let out a delighted noise, clearly pleased by Thorne’s response.

"Thank you," he said, his voice full of something close to genuine excitement.

The fool.

The puppy.

Thorne couldn’t help but feel a slight tightening in his chest at the sincerity in the beast’s tone.

"Well then," the beast continued, smoothing down his finery with exaggerated care.

"It seems there’s something I need to do. It shouldn’t be too long now, so be sure to pay attention."

Thorne barely had time to react before the beast turned away, moving toward the balcony doors with a lightness in his step that contrasted sharply with the imposing figure he had presented just moments ago.

There was a subtle shift in the air as the beast paused before the doors, glancing back over his shoulder at Thorne with a shy glance, almost as if to remind him of his promise.

"Please remember your promise," the beast called over his shoulder, his voice carrying a note of playfulness but also a strange sense of expectation.

Thorne waved him off with a casual flick of his hand.

"Of course, wolf."

The beast nodded, pulling on the door handle with a faint wince at the squeak it made, then sending Thorne a sheepish look before stepping inside.

A moment later, the door clicked shut behind him, and the night settled once again into its muted quiet, the tension of the moment slipping away like the fading echo of footsteps.

Thorne slumped back against the railing, exhaling a weary sigh, feeling the weight of everything that had just passed.

The over-eager beast had played his part well, hadn’t he? It was almost a shame to leave him wanting, to tease him with promises and then disappear, leaving him searching.

The strange feeling in Thorne’s stomach was tight—unsettling—but somehow, his chest felt lighter, a confusing mix of emotions swirling within him.

His heart beat a little faster than it should, and his thoughts felt scattered, disorienting.

He couldn’t quite make sense of it, but somehow he knew that it wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

The smile he had flashed the beast wasn’t false.

He had enjoyed this, far more than he would have admitted to anyone else.

The banter had been sweet, the attention from the beast something new and intoxicating.

For a brief moment, he had felt something he rarely allowed himself to—noticed, coveted, pursued.

And now that he’d gotten a taste, it wasn’t something he could easily forget.

But this indulgence—this dangerous indulgence—was risky.

He couldn’t afford to lose focus, not now. Everything depended on the chase.

Seraphina depended on it.

Thorne’s family depended on it.

Orion might have been the first considered for the task, but it was Thorne who had volunteered.

It was Thorne who had to do this.

His family—his legacy—depended on it.

Orion had always been the one chosen for greatness, destined to rise as Lord Demetrius, the first unmagical leader of their family in generations.

He would be the one to sit at Seraphina’s side in her court, shaping the future, respected and listened to.

Thorne had always known that.

He had always accepted that Orion’s path was the one that was set. But now, it was Thorne who had to prove his worth. It was Thorne who had to seal the fate of the Demetrius family, one last, definitive time.

Standing there, bathed in the cold starlight, surrounded by the harsh, timeless presence of the mountains and the snow, Thorne found himself drawn back in time.

The bonfire below, blazing fiercely for the Olivets, seemed to ignite the past with its crackling warmth, pulling him into thoughts of his ancestors, of Erethos—the land and life his family had once sworn to protect before they turned their backs on it.

It was easy, in that moment, to feel the weight of the past, to remember the choices that had been made, the betrayal that had followed, and the reason Thorne would gladly bloody his hands in the service of a cause his forebears had once opposed.

Over four hundred years ago, the War of the Lilies had torn the continent apart.

Thorne’s own house, Demetrius, had cast its fate alongside House Olivet, striking a blow to Tarvela in a war that lasted four bloody years.

The war had been a catastrophe for both families, but in the end, it was House Olivet that earned its independence, its forces emerging victorious and unscathed.

The Demetrius family, on the other hand, had paid dearly for their part in the rebellion.

Lord Demetrius, Thorne’s ancestor, had perished in the war, his head mounted on a pike as a grim reminder of Tarvela’s power.

With Lord Demetrius dead, his younger sister, Elena, was left to take the reins of the Demetrius family.

In the face of the destruction and uncertainty the war had brought, Elena made a decision that would alter the course of their history forever.

She, an echo of her brother’s stubborn loyalty to a cause that had failed, chose to abandon the oath they had sworn to the king.

Instead, she turned to the enemy.

She capitulated to Tarvela.

It was a cold, pragmatic choice, one made to save what little remained of her family, and in doing so, House Demetrius regained its standing—though at a terrible cost.

Elena’s decision was seen as an act of betrayal, but it saved her people from further annihilation.

She took what remained of her family, fled west, and accepted Tarvela’s offer: their loyalty in exchange for survival.

The Demetrius family was allowed to rebuild, but it would be forever indebted to the king.

No longer would they hold land outside the capital.

Their relationship with the Olivets, once strong and proud, died that day, and over time, the Demetriuses would become nothing more than a vassal house to Tarvela, knights and assassins working alongside the queen’s spies.

They were forever branded as traitors, their name whispered in contempt by the lords of Erethos.

Thorne didn’t care much for that history.

The decisions of his ancestors, the battles they fought and the oaths they swore, had no real bearing on his life.

The bonds they had broken and the betrayals they had wrought seemed like meaningless relics of a time long past, and the bloodshed they had caused felt like the kind of pointless war that never truly served anyone.

His ancestor, Elena, had struck a deal with Tarvela to protect her people, but it was not the kind of decision Thorne would ever respect.

He understood the pragmatism of it, the cold reality of the choice—but he still found reproach in it, because it had been made for the sake of a relic, for a goal that never truly justified the cost.

Thorne hadn’t become an assassin for the thrill of bloodshed, nor because it was a tradition passed down through generations.

He wasn’t in this life because of some talent for killing, nor did he possess some magical gift that made him suited for it.

No, Thorne had become the best assassin not because of any lofty ideals or inherited skills, but because he valued efficiency above all else.

He loathed needless death, the waste of life that came from poor decisions, poor strategy.

He preferred quick, clean resolutions, the kind that left no room for unnecessary suffering.

Seraphina had a vision for the future, a world that Thorne could get behind—a world that needed to be rebuilt, even if it meant sacrificing blood and tears along the way.

The old ways, the current system, where magical children were placed on pedestals and paraded about like cattle at a fair, where marriage proposals and birth certificates were part of some game of power, that world was doomed.

Thorne knew that as well as anyone.

He had seen the way the nobility clung to their power, using amulets and scrolls of magic as weapons to threaten and control.

That world could not last.

It was fated to collapse under its own weight.

And Thorne had avoided that fate only because his own magic remained hidden.

Officially, according to every document, Thorne Demetrius was inconclusive when it came to magic.

His Academy records—kept under Seraphina’s personal influence—allowed his abilities to remain a secret.

Thorne’s magic, his power, had been kept within the family, a guarded secret.

And if he had any say in it, that secret would stay hidden until his dying day.

If anyone ever found out about his magic, every power-hungry house in the land would descend upon him, desperate to court his favor, to add the Demetrius name to their own mantle, and to control him as a tool of their own ambitions.

He could never live freely if that were the case, and he could never serve Seraphina properly if he was shackled by the constraints of marriage and heirs, each one a binding chain placed upon him by the whims of the nobility.

And therein was Thorne’s relationship with his own magic, which his father and brother always claimed was something worth striving to flourish,, and the history of it.

It was an ability and a curse that Thorne, even as its sole inheritor, cared little for.

There was nothing that would be accomplished by protecting the old ways.

He was a blade, and he could defend just as well with such.

He would no sooner announce his abilities and accept the title of heir than he would throw everything he had worked towards- sworn himself to- away for a chunk of bone and metal, much as that distressed his father.

To forsake everything that had been promised, everything that had been built, for that.

...The things people did for power.

He took a deep breath, letting the cold black night seep into his lungs, his mind.

Let it turn him tundra, freeze and smother his doubt.

And then Thorne tilted his head back again, eyes passing over Erethos, rising to meet the stars.