Silas Thorne stepped around the mapping table, moving towards the hunter who knelt in submission before him.
This was one of the hunters he'd hired. He had tasked them with searching the city for the boy. There had been thirty in total. Each split into groups of three. Whoever found the boy and brought him in would be given a promotion.
So why was this one here now, all alone? And no boy in tow?
Before the man could speak, Thorne raised a hand. "What is your name?"
"Falco," the man said, bowing his head again.
"Good, Falco. Tell me about the boy."
Falco began speaking, and Thorne listened. That alone was a privilege to anyone beneath him.
He told Thorne details of the alleyway where they'd spotted the boy. He described their chase, and finally the unexpected resistance.
Thorne allowed him to speak without interruption, fingers resting lightly against the edge of the table as the city map pulsed beneath his touch.
"We found him in a closet. The next thing we knew, Garon was dead. Then, Syril managed to grab him, but the boy used this sword to kill him."
At that, Thorne's attention sharpened.
"A sword?" He asked, his voice calm but curious. He stepped closer now, angling his head to the side. "Describe it."
Falco swallowed hard. "Ancient, my lord. Untarnished. The boy held it, but it still moved like it had a will of its own. I'm afraid…it is the sword. The one from the myths. I've seen sketches before, and its resemblance was uncanny."
Silence stretched.
Thorne exhaled softly through his nose, something close to satisfaction curling at the corners of his mouth.
"So," he said thoughtfully, "the stories were true after all."
That sword, as the legends went, ended kingdoms and royal bloodlines. It destroyed everything in its path.
And now it was in the hands of the boy whose family he had tortured and killed.
No, Thorne would not give into the fear. Not yet. That boy was weak. Stupid. Small.
The sword needed to be in the hands of someone powerful to be put to good use. Someone like him.
Thorne paced in front of Falco.
"Power is interesting, don't you think, Falco?" Thorne asked, his tone almost conversational, "Every change this world has ever known was born from it. Not faith. Not hope for a better future. Power. Power does not ask permission. It has no need to explain itself. It simply is."
Falco nodded in agreement, but stayed quiet.
"Power does not disappear. It shifts. It transforms. And in the form of this sword, it can choose a side. It seems it has chosen this boy. A child holding such power is not a tragedy. No, I like to think of it as an opportunity."
Falco dared to lift his head. Hope flickered across his face. "M-my lord, if given more time, I swear I can–"
"No," Thorne said gently. "If this truly is that legendary sword, there is nothing a simple weakling like you will be able to do. We must gain control of it, with or without the boy, before it's too late."
"But, my lord, I can still–"
Thorne raised a hand, cutting off Falco's words. "You misunderstand. This was never a conversation. You failed me. And I don't grant second chances for redemption."
The veins along Falco's neck darkened, bulging grotesquely before crawling downward through his chest and arms like blackened roots beneath skin.
He gasped, eyes flooding with terror.
Thorne squeezed both of his fists, imagining the veins imploding on themselves.
The hunter's body went limp, and he collapsed to the ground.
Thorne turned to the guards at the door. "You," he said to the one on the left. "Clean this up."
The guard stiffened but nodded.
Thorne glanced at the other guard on the right. "Retrieve one of my enforcers."
Then he returned to the mapping table, exhaling softly.
From here, the entire city of Pralis lay exposed beneath his fingertips. From the pristine towers of the upper districts to the sagging, diseased sprawl of the Lower Ward.
Somewhere out there, a boy carried a blade that could change the balance of the world.
Power always surfaced eventually.
And when it did, men like him would be there to claim it.
The doors of his Sanctum opened, and an enforcer walked in. "The Hound", as Thorne liked to call him.
He was a massive beast of a man. Taller than Thorne, and nearly twice as wide. The Hound wore a fanged dog mask, his red eyes barely visible beneath. Across his back was a massive crossbow and a quiver full of arrows, each colored for a different purpose.
If Thorne needed something tracked down, The Hound was the man for the job. If he could even be called a man. Sometimes, Thorne caught him crawling on all fours. He barely spoke. The Hound was truly more beast than a man.
Thorne inspected the enforcer. "Raise the bounty. One thousand royal credits."
The Hound turned his head to the side, listening intently.
"Find the boy. Bring me the sword."
Thorne paused for a moment, considering.
"The boy is optional."