Silas Thorne's Justification

The air in Thorne’s private archive was thick with the scent of ozone and something else, something sterile and vaguely metallic, like old blood. Mara breathed it in, a shallow, defensive intake that did little to calm the frantic hummingbird of her heart. Before her, a monolith of polished obsidian housed rows upon rows of crystalline memory shards, each one glowing with its own internal, captured light. It was a mausoleum of stolen lives, and at its heart, standing as still and imposing as a statue, was Silas Thorne.

He turned, his movement fluid, almost predatory, and a smile that didn’t reach his eyes bloomed on his face. “Mara. I confess, I’m disappointed. I had hoped you wouldn’t come to me directly. It lacks a certain… dramatic flair.” His voice was a low baritone, smooth as polished stone, and it sent a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with the ambient temperature.

“Dramatic flair isn’t what I’m after, Thorne,” Mara said, her voice steadier than she expected. She kept her gaze locked on his, refusing to be intimidated by the sheer, oppressive wealth and power that radiated from him. “I’m after the truth.”