From the balcony of the Thorne estate's eastern wing, Kael Thorne leaned against the cold marble railing, arms folded, eyes fixed on the courtyard below.
The early morning sun glinted off the silver trim of the soldiers' armor as they trained in formation. But Kael wasn't watching them.
He was watching him.
Noel Thorne stood at the center of the dueling ring, wooden training sword in hand, surrounded by a cluster of winded guards—three of whom now sat on the edge of the field, defeated, sweaty, and very, very quiet.
The youngest Thorne's navy-blue tunic clung slightly to his back from exertion. His movements were sharp, practiced. His footwork precise. Every swing of the blade carried intent.
Kael's jaw tightened.
"Who the fuck is that?" he muttered.
Next to him, Damon Thorne raised an eyebrow, eyes also narrowed on the scene. His raven-black hair was combed and tied, robes pristine even at this hour. The slight shimmer around his fingers revealed his mana was active—subtly, always.
"Noel," Damon said simply, voice unreadable. "Apparently."
Kael scoffed, gripping the edge of the railing tighter. "Bullshit. That's not the same little shit who couldn't hold a blade straight three years ago."
"No. It's not."
Below them, Noel turned to face the small cluster of soldiers still standing on the sideline, giving orders in a tone that didn't match the boy they remembered. He stood tall. Sharp-eyed. Confident.
Commanding.
Damon's eyes flicked to Kael's. "You notice how they listened?"
Kael didn't answer. He didn't need to.
The answer was yes. And that was the problem.
The clang of wooden swords echoed again as Noel took another stance—ready for more.
Kael's fists were clenched now, knuckles pale against the railing. Damon, in contrast, remained still—hands tucked into the sleeves of his dark ceremonial robes, watching his younger brother move across the dirt ring like a man possessed.
"You're unusually quiet," Kael muttered, not taking his eyes off the field.
Damon exhaled through his nose. "You saw it too. He wasn't just swinging blindly."
Kael didn't respond.
"His stances were clean. Not flashy, but grounded," Damon continued, voice calm, analytical. "That last feint and step—he didn't learn that here. Not from the house instructors."
Kael finally turned to look at his brother. "So what? He took a few private lessons at the academy. Big deal."
Damon's expression remained unreadable. "It is a big deal. He beat three of our guards without breaking a sweat. They're not elite, but they're not weak either."
Kael growled. "They're undisciplined and arrogant."
"They were," Damon corrected. "Until he put them on their asses."
The two stood in silence again. Below, Noel finished his final sparring match with a clean disarm, his opponent's wooden blade sent skittering across the dirt.
The watching guards clapped out of respect. A few even nodded.
Kael's lips curled into a sneer.
"He talks to them like he's better than them," he muttered.
"He's a Thorne," Damon replied flatly. "That's exactly how he should talk to them."
Kael looked over sharply, surprised.
Damon offered a small shrug. "Doesn't mean I like it. But even I have to admit… he's changed."
Kael stared down again, eyes narrowed to slits.
"I don't know what happened to him at that academy," he said coldly. "But I don't trust it. That kind of change? That fast?"
Damon didn't argue. He simply watched as Noel grabbed a towel from a nearby stand, wiping the sweat from his brow like it was just another Tuesday.
Their brother had returned stronger. Smarter. Sharper.
And that made him dangerous.
Kael stormed down the hallway outside the balcony chamber, his boots hitting the polished stone with muted thuds. Damon followed behind him in silence.
"He walks around like he's some goddamn prodigy now," Kael spat, barely keeping his voice low. "Like he belongs."
Damon folded his arms. "He beat three of our guards."
Kael whipped around, eyes blazing. "So what!? That makes him a warrior now? You think Father will suddenly praise him for showing up and swinging a stick around for a few days?"
Damon didn't flinch. "He's doing more than you expected. And Father noticed. Don't think he didn't."
Kael scowled, turning away. "That's what pisses me off."
"Because he's a threat now?"
Kael's jaw tensed. "No—because he's supposed to be nothing. An afterthought. The weak little brother who couldn't swing a sword without tripping over his own feet. He was safe like that. Harmless."
"And now he's not."
Kael didn't respond. His silence said enough.
There was a long pause as both brothers walked in silence, passing the grand halls of the Thorne estate—the banners, the statues, the legacy.
"You're thinking of the hunt," Damon finally said.
Kael stopped walking. "Everyone will be there. Nobles. Lords. Their heirs. Even envoys from the capital."
"And?" Damon asked, already knowing where this was going.
Kael turned, his face perfectly calm. "It's the perfect opportunity."
"To do what, exactly?"
Kael didn't answer. But the look in his eyes told Damon everything.
The water was lukewarm now. Noel ran a hand through his wet hair, sighing as he stepped out of the bathroom into the quiet of his room. He tossed the towel on a chair and glanced at the mirror. Shirtless, messy hair, eyes a little sharper than before.
"Damn," he muttered. "I actually look like I know what I'm doing."
He pulled on a loose dark shirt, left it unbuttoned halfway, and dropped onto the edge of the bed. His sword rested against the wall. Revenant Fang. The blade still looked intimidating even just sitting there.
He leaned back, stretching, bones cracking as he let out a tired groan.
"Three spars, three wins. Not bad for a 'disappointment,' huh."
A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
The knights had underestimated him—of course they had. That was the plan. It made the look on their faces when he flattened them even better.
Still… something felt off.
He sat up again, brow furrowing.
"…Wait. That captain. Maren. He was paying real close attention."
That wasn't surprising. What was surprising was the feeling that maybe—just maybe—others had seen it too.
'No. No way. My brothers don't give a shit what I do. Right?'
He laughed under his breath.
'If they were watching, they'd probably be plotting my funeral.'
Noel stood and walked to the window. The Thorne estate stretched below him—same as always. Manicured gardens, patrolling guards, training grounds still faintly lit in the fading dusk.
It all looked normal.
But he didn't feel normal.
Not anymore.
"Not sure what's gonna happen from here on out," he muttered. "This isn't the damn story I read anymore. Just gotta keep moving… and hope the main events don't spiral too far off course."
His fingers brushed against the cold window frame, the faint light of the moon casting long shadows on the floor.
"I came back from the dead for a reason."
A pause. His eyes narrowed.
"…No. I do know why."
He let out a breath, the words slipping out like a bitter truth.
"That little quest."