The tavern was bathed in the pale light of morning, its wooden beams creaking under the weight of years of salt and wind. The air, thick with the lingering scent of sea salt and the faint traces of last night's ale, carried the faint hum of the waves against the distant cliffs. The room was quiet now, the hustle and bustle of the night’s patrons replaced by the soft clink of dishes and the low murmur of a few early risers nursing their morning drinks. The warmth of the hearth, though dim, still lingered in the corners, providing the only comfort against the chill of the sea air creeping in through the open window.

Cassian stood by the worn table, his hand pressing hard against the wood, fingers tense, knuckles white. The air between them crackled, thick with something unspoken. He had thought—just for a moment—that the previous night had been real. That the interest, the pull, had been genuine. But now, staring at Thorne, the weight of realisation settled in his chest, bitter as salt.

"You came to me because of him. Didn’t you?" Cassian’s voice was quiet, but edged.

Thorne leaned against the window, the moonlight cutting over his face in sharp relief. He didn’t answer immediately. That was answer enough.

Cassian let out a soft, bitter exhale. "I should’ve known."

Thorne’s jaw twitched. "It’s not what you think."

"No?" Cassian let out a hollow laugh, shaking his head. "You were looking for him. You saw me and thought—what? That I could be useful? That I was an easy way to get to him?" His throat tightened. "That I was him?"

Something flickered in Thorne’s expression, quick and almost imperceptible. But Cassian saw it. And it made something ugly coil in his stomach.

Thorne sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I won’t lie to you. I did approach you because of Matthias." He hesitated, then added, "You remind me of him."

Cassian’s breath caught. He hated how much those words stung.

Thorne looked away. "But that’s not all it was."

Cassian scoffed, folding his arms. "Right. So what was it, then?"

Thorne exhaled sharply, frustrated. "I enjoyed the night, Cassian. You think I pretend that easily? That I force myself to—" He cut himself off, shaking his head. "It was real. Until it wasn’t."

Cassian frowned. "What does that mean?"

Thorne hesitated, then spoke, his voice quieter. "The gods came up. And I remembered. I remembered why I couldn’t—"

Cassian’s stomach turned. "Matthias."

Thorne nodded once. "You don’t understand what that curse does. You don’t want to."

Cassian inhaled sharply. "Don’t you dare say that."

Thorne’s gaze darkened, something unreadable passing over his face. "You want the truth? Fine. But understand this—if I tell you everything, you won’t walk away from this the same. You don’t know how deep this goes."

Cassian stared at him, his own breath tight in his chest. The certainty in Thorne’s voice—the quiet, terrible finality—unnerved him more than the secrecy.

He knew.

He knew things Cassian wasn’t sure he wanted to hear.

But Matthias was out there. Alive. Cursed.

And Cassian would be damned if he let him rot in that prison.

"I don’t care," he said, voice steady now. "I’m not leaving him."

Thorne let out a slow breath, something almost resigned in how his shoulders sank.

"Then you’ll do things my way. No questions. No hesitation." His gaze darkened, sharpened like the edge of a blade. "You want my ship? You follow my lead."

Cassian didn’t answer immediately. He could feel the storm raging between them, the weight of what was unspoken. The silence stretched, taut and dangerous.

Then, at last, Thorne spoke again, softer this time.

"Do you trust me?"

The question hung between them, an impossible thing.

Cassian held his gaze, his own breath shallow. The answer clawed at the back of his throat.

But he wasn’t sure if he could say it.