Chapter 161 Thorne's last card

Chapter 161 Thorne's last card
"He’s bound in high-tensile silver, Justin," Amelia countered softly, her eyes tracking the quiet movement of her daughter Sapphire against her chest. She looked at Gideon, her aristocratic features softening with a rare, historical empathy. "He has no pack link left. He has no strength. Gideon is the only one who can look him in the eye and speak the language of the old court. If there is any shred of truth left in Thorne’s mind, Gideon is the one who can pull it out."
I looked at Rayder. The Southern Alpha met my gaze, a silent, complex communication passing between us through the pack link. We had spent months tracking the ghost; we had spent hours listening to his venom. But Gideon had spent his entire life in the shadow of the tyrant’s father.
"We go together," I decided, my voice clear and absolute, leaving no room for argument. "All of us. We do not leave the old enforcer alone with the ghost, but we will give him his meeting."
Gideon bowed his head again, his shoulders dropping a fraction of an inch. "Thank you, Lady Selene. The North is fortunate to have your mercy."



The descent to Level Minus-Four was different this time. We didn't travel in the darkness of an emergency raid; we moved as a unified command unit.

The elevator doors glided open, and the group stepped into the sterile, white-lit corridor of the concrete bunker. Rayder walked in the center, carrying Winter against his broad chest. The toddler had finally calmed down, his small chin resting against Rayder’s shoulder as his golden eyes blinked sleepily at the flickering fluorescent lights. 

Behind him came Amelia, her hand resting protectively over baby Sapphire's head, while Justin and Elias brought up the rear—Justin's hand resting flat against the grip of his human pistol, his eyes scanning every corner with mechanical precision.

Elias stopped by the main control console, his fingers tapping the interface to deactivate the automated security fields of Cell 01. "The ballistic glass is set to one-way audio control. If he starts speaking in tongues or trying to invoke ancient blood pacts, I can cut the frequency with a single keystroke. Keep it brief, gentlemen. The air filtration down here costs thirty dollars an hour to run."

The thick, smart-tinted glass of the cell slowly cleared from an opaque white to a transparent blue.

Inside, Thorne sat on the low concrete bench. He was still covered in the dried, crusty yellow remnants of the public parade, his tattered rags sticking to his emaciated ribs like old bandages. He looked small,almost microscopic under the harsh, unyielding white glare of the ceiling lamps.

But the moment the glass cleared and his single, milky eye locked onto the figure of Gideon standing in the corridor, something inside the tyrant ignited.

A horrific, yellow-toothed smile stretched across Thorne’s rotted face. He didn't look at me. He didn't look at Rayder or the children. He stared at Gideon like a starving man staring at a feast. He dragged his skeletal body off the bench, his withered legs scraping against the floorboards as he pulled himself toward the glass partition, his long fingernails tapping against the material with a sharp, rhythmic click-click-click.

"Gideon..." Thorne wheezed, his voice coming through the audio feed as a wet, ecstatic rattle. "Look at you... look at my beautiful, faithful shadow. They washed the mountain dirt off your face... they gave you a clean coat... they treat you like a dog that finally learned how to sit on command."

Gideon stood completely still, his hands tucked deep within his wide sleeves, his face a mask of absolute, historical sorrow. He looked at the dried egg yolk on his cousin's brow; he looked at the necrotic patches on his limbs.

"I am alive, Thorne," Gideon said softly, his voice echoing through the microphone into the cell. "And I am refreshed. The winter has ended for our people. The sun is on the ridge."

"The sun?" Thorne let out a sharp, mocking cackle that turned into a violent fit of coughing, a spray of dark blood hitting the inside of the glass. He wiped his mouth with the back of his bound wrist, his single eye wide with a manic, triumphant energy. "You call this a sun? They turned our father's palace into an administrative office! They have human accountants calculating the value of our sacred valleys! Come closer, cousin... come closer and look at what you’ve allowed them to do to our blood line."

Thorne tapped the glass frantically with his finger, pointing directly at his own ear. "Come closer, Gideon. Don't let the Southern whore and her pet human listen to the last secret of the court. Come closer... let me tell you what my father said before he went into the dark."

Gideon turned his head slightly, his pale grey eyes glancing at me for permission. I felt a cold knot form in my stomach, an instinctive, defensive alarm ringing in the back of my mind. But Gideon’s expression was so profoundly broken, so entirely weary, that I found myself nodding.

"Keep the audio live, Elias," I whispered.

Gideon stepped forward, his massive frame pressing against the glass partition. He leaned his head down, his ear aligning with the small acoustic grill at the base of the frame.

Inside the cell, Thorne pulled himself up as high as his withered limbs allowed. He leaned his face against the glass, his breath fogging the material, and began to whisper.

The audio console on Elias’s desk didn't pick it up clearly—the sound came through as a series of low, rhythmic sibilants, a dark, archaic dialect that didn't belong to the modern language of the clans. It sounded like the wind blowing through a pile of dry bones. As Thorne spoke, the grotesque smile on his face never faded, his milky eye widening until the white of his eyeball was completely bloodshot.

Gideon’s face didn't change, but his large hands slowly slid out from his wide sleeves. His fingers were shaking—a subtle, microscopic tremor that only someone who had watched him execute men for twenty years would notice.

"Repent, Thorne," Gideon said aloud, his voice dropping into a deep, heavy register that sounded like a funeral bell. He looked through the glass at his cousin’s rotted features. "The ledger is full. The people are the law now. Repent before the dark takes you completely. Ask the Thatcher line for forgiveness."

Thorne stopped whispering. He leaned back, his crooked jaw twisting into a look of absolute, unadulterated contempt. He shook his head slowly, a low, guttural growl vibrating in his chest.
"Our blood does not repent to thieves, Gideon," Thorne whispered through the grill, his voice clear as ice. "Our blood finishes the contaminated bloodline.”