Chapter 3 - A Place at the Table
It was raining the day Caelan Thorne stepped into Morgrave’s west wing.
He wasn’t in uniform. But his posture gave him away. Tall, squared shoulders, expression carefully unreadable. He moved like someone used to authority, but not the kind that demanded attention. The kind that watched a room before speaking.
Devon noticed him before the administrator said a word.
The dean’s office had a way of making visiting officials feel taller than they were, but this man already seemed to fit the room. His black gloves were damp from the rain, but he didn’t remove them. His eyes, a shade of grey like Karrnathi winter skies, scanned the rows of books and crystal lamps with casual precision.
“Thorne,” he said, when introduced. “House Deneith, Defenders Guild. I’m coordinating protection for a high-value negotiation in Sharn. There’s been a divination complication.”
Devon arched a brow. “Divination complication?”
Caelan turned. “Multiple attempts at scrying have returned…interrupted results. Blurred, fragmented. My field team suspects arcane tampering. The House wants an outside opinion.”
“And Morgrave gave you me?”
“You came recommended,” Caelan replied. “Twice. Once by Dean Herani, and once by someone named Selian who swears you read their fortune over lunch and predicted their breakup.”
Devon laughed under his breath. “To be fair, they were already halfway to throwing wine.”
He didn’t expect Caelan to smile, and he didn’t. But something in the man’s eyes shifted, just enough to register as respect.
“I need someone with your skillset,” Caelan said simply. “And I need someone who’s not going to make a show of it. Quiet, clean, professional.”
Devon tilted his head. “You’ll get all three. But I expect full access to arcane records and site readings.”
“Done.”
“And a decent cup of tea.”
That earned the smallest, sharpest twitch at the corner of Caelan’s mouth. “I’ll see what I can do.”
They shook hands — gloved and ink-stained fingers meeting in the middle — and just like that, a working partnership began.
The first job turned into a second. And then a third.
Before long, whenever House Deneith ran into a divination riddle that their own spellcasters couldn’t cleanly untangle, Commander Caelan Thorne’s first request was always the same name.
Devon Ashborn didn’t advertise his talents. He didn’t need to. Word of his accuracy, and more importantly, his discretion, spread through Deneith’s channels like a quietly kept secret. He wasn’t just precise, he was thoughtful. He didn’t flood clients with cryptic riddles. He gave them what they needed to know, and only what they could bear to hear.
Caelan appreciated that. Over months of correspondence and quiet assignments, their professional rapport turned into something resembling friendship. Though Caelan would never call it that out loud. Not at first. But he trusted Devon. Enough to write him directly. Enough to send private updates after missions.
Enough to start calling him Ashborn less and Devon more.
Eventually, after a long assignment in Karrnath ended without incident, thanks in no small part to Devon’s subtle insight into a client’s double life, Caelan did something he rarely did. He invited Devon to dinner at the Thorne family home.
Devon had no idea what to expect from the Thorne family home. He’d heard so much about them over the months. Always in passing, always with a hint of reverence. Their name carried weight in House Deneith, thanks to Daran Thorne, the retired field commander whose reputation still echoed through the Defenders Guild. And then there was Elira, often mentioned only briefly, but always with quiet respect.
Devon had assumed he’d be stepping into a house of iron discipline and stiff conversation.
What he found was warmth.
The Thorne home was modest but full of life. Weapons hung neatly alongside pressed herbs and handwritten letters. The smell of roasted root vegetables and dark tea filled the space, and laughter — real, unforced laughter — drifted from the kitchen where Elira moved with gentle command. She greeted Devon with a hug like they’d known each other for years. “Any friend of Caelan’s is already part of the family,” she said, smiling with the kind of sincerity that left no room for awkwardness.
Daran, broad-shouldered and still carrying the presence of a man who’d once led soldiers into battle, shook Devon’s hand with a firm but relaxed grip. “We’ve heard your name plenty,” he said. “You made quite an impression, apparently.”
“And I wasn’t even trying,” Devon replied, grinning, and caught the way Caelan rolled his eyes across the room.
And then there was Gideon. The younger Thorne son had all the muscle and posture of a front-line soldier… and the unapproachable stillness of a statue. He nodded once to Devon, offered a short “Nice to meet you,” and spent most of the evening listening rather than talking. But Devon caught the way his gaze flicked curiously across the table whenever he spoke. Measuring, observing, quietly trying to place him.
“Is he always this intense?” Devon murmured to Elira when Gideon stepped out of the room.
She laughed softly. “Only since birth.”
After dinner, with tea in hand and the fire low, Caelan finally said it.
“You’ve been helping the Guild longer than some of our internal mages,” he said. “Ever thought of making it official?”
Devon raised a brow. “I don’t think I’d survive Guild admin. I can’t keep a ledger without doodling in the margins.”
“I didn’t mean behind a desk,” Caelan replied. “But here. In Korth. On your own terms.”
Elira looked up. “You said your father ran a shop, didn’t he? Magical supplies, scrolls, that sort of thing?”
Devon nodded. “Still does. Northedge district. He’s a good man. Worrywart. Taught me how to brew ink and run from late fees.”
Daran chuckled. “Sounds like he taught you all the essentials.”
“You could do the same here,” Elira said gently. “Open a shop. Something yours. This city could use more honest, thoughtful magic.”
Devon blinked, surprised. “You really think I’d… fit here?”
“You already do,” Caelan said simply. “You just haven’t unpacked yet.”
Devon didn’t have a response for that.
But later that night, walking alone through the quiet streets of Korth with the taste of spice tea still on his tongue and the memory of Elira’s laughter echoing in his head, he realized something:
It had been a long time since he’d felt this at home anywhere.