Chapter 6 Exile: The First Nights
Rain sheeted over London, turning the city into a graveyard of neon and shadows. Aris Thorn stood under the skeletal awning of a shuttered bookshop in Soho, water sluicing down the collar of his ruined cashmere coat, the only thing he'd worn when they dragged him from Thornhaven.
Three days. Seventy-two hours of hollow hunger and gnawing cold. His ribs ached were the guards had kicked him into the gutter outside the estate. His knuckles were split from pounding on the gated mansion of Marcus Thorne, his cousin and once closest ally.
"If I see you again, I'll put a bullet in your skull myself," Marcus had hissed through the intercom, security cameras glaring like cyclopean eyes.
Aris had run then. Not from fear—from rage. Rage that curdled into disbelief as he called every number seared into his memory, but no one answered all this friend and allies had abandoned him.
Even the homeless shelter near Vauxhall Bridge turned him away when he offered a Patek Philippe watch for a cot. "Stolen, ain't it?" the manager sneered. "Piss off, rich boy."
The third night, while Aris was walking on the street, he saw a store that sold TV. The store was very big and there was working Tv in front of the store used as displays.
On one of those TV London News.
HEIR KILLS UNCLE IN BLOOD FEUD!
Aris Van Thorn, disgraced scion of the Thorn dynasty, is wanted for questioning in Silas Thorn's brutal murder…
Seeing this, Aris knew someone was looking for him because the Thorn would not want to show the public the truth of the family battle for power. It would only bring bad press and seeing how it was only the Metropolitan Police Station meant the person knew he could not leave the country yet or the city for now.
So they are looking for him.
The First Hunt
Night four. Aris crouched in an alley off Brick Lane, chewing stale naan scavenged from a bin. His mind-raced attacks always come from no where
First, a black cab slowed as he limped past Hyde Park. Eyes tracking him in the rearview. He'd bolted into Knightsbridge traffic.
Second, a man in a Savile Row overcoat "bumped" him near Piccadilly Circus. Fingers brushed Aris's pocket try to steal whatever was left in his pocket .
Now Footsteps. Two pairs of Leather soles on wet pavement. Professional.
Aris melted behind a dumpster as shapes materialized tall, broad, faces obscured by hoods.
"See him?"
"Rats can't hide forever."
They knew the alley. Split up. One scanned fire escapes; the other kicked over crates. Aris's hand closed around a broken bottle. Not the tanto. Never again.
The hunter passed his hiding spot. Aris lunged not at the man, but at the wall. Foot on brick, push off, twist.
The bottle jammed into the second man's thigh. A guttural scream.
"YOU LITTLE BASTARD!"
Aris was already sprinting. Bullets cracked plaster where his head had been. Silenced pistols. Corporate mercs. They were cleanup crew.
He didn't stop until he hit the Thames, lungs burning. Dawn stained the sky corpse-gray. On a bench, an old woman wrapped in plastic bags eyed him.
They'll keep coming, dearie," she rasped. "Wolves always do
Day six. Aris found Father Duncan's soup kitchen in Whitechapel. The priest was one of Aris alleys and an old friend of this step mom.
I need to get to my mom and I also need a place to stay too can you help me please
"I can't shelter you, Aris," beside I haven't talk to your mom for a long time to Duncan whispered in the sacristy, pressing £20 into his hand. "Atticus's men came yesterday. Threatened to shut us down."
Aris was angry he knew his families where trying to cut off any thing that was to do with him but this was too fast. It was like they planned it all out where I will go and who I will see. But as long as I am still here I will be under there watch so they can kill me slowly knowing full well that if i try to leave i will be killed. but if i am able to leave london it will be harder to kill me.
"You know I didn't kill Silas."
Duncan's eyes were wet. "It doesn't matter. The Thorns own the truth now."
That afternoon, he tried the last sanctuary:
The Obsidian Club, a members-only den beneath Bank station where Silas used to launder money.
Aris came here knowing the last place the person try to kill him will look
The bouncer a mountain with knuckle tattoos—blocked the door.
"Mr. Thorne left instructions. You show your face here, we break your legs."
"Which Mr. Thorne?" Aris goaded. *"The dead one? Or the murderer?"
The fist came fast. Aris dodged, but the second blow caught his kidney. He crumpled onto the pavement, tasting blood.
"What can't tell your boss is dead" Aris said as his body was in pain
And then leaving the joint before people recognise him
Aris on the street
As he was walking down the street, looking back at I'm just spending six days without money food or water And also running from people trying to collect his bounty. That was placed by Gods knows who?
Looking back at everything he learned
Sleep in daylight. Nights belonged to gangs and hunters.
Move constantly. Bridges, construction sites, abandoned Tube tunnels.
Eat when you can. Half-eaten kebabs. Rejected pastries. Food banks if you arrived early.
Trust no one. Not the addicts twitching in doorways. Not the teens eyeing his shoes.
He could not sell some of his expensive clothes since he was wanted, he could only traded his coat for a stolen army jacket in Camden. Sold his cufflinks to a pawnbroker for £150. Bought a lockpick set, a knife, and antibiotics for his festering cuts
And still could not find any way out of London without being killed
Still, they found him.*
In a derelict warehouse near Docklands, three men cornered him. No hoods this time—faces like granite. Ex-SAS. Private security. Wraith's handiwork.
Aris backed toward a broken window. Thirty-foot drop to oily water.
They charged. Aris fought dirty
Keys to the eye.
Knee to the groin.
Teeth to the wrist.
But they overwhelmed him. A boot stomped his hand. Bones snapped. Pining him to the ground
"Nothing personal," he shrugged, raising a pistol.
A siren wailed. Blue lights strobed through broken windows. The guards were startled using this as an opportunity
Aris crawled into the Thames, letting the current carry him to darkness
Looking down the men saw he as the current carried him and before they could act gun shot ranged out and the men bolted
Day fourteen. After spending all his money Hypothermia gnawed his bones. He sheltered under Blackfriars Bridge, shivering in a nest of sodden cardboard. That's when Mrs. Dunbar found him
Eighty years old, with eyes like cracked porcelain, she ruled a colony of outcasts beneath the bridge.
"Thorn, eh?"She stirred a pot of stew over a barrel fire. "Heard they gutted you proper."
She knew. They all did. The street had its own intelligence network—stronger than Atticus's surveillance.
Why help me?"Aris croaked.
"Saw your mum once,"she said, handing him a chipped bowl. "Lady Elena. Gave me fifty quid when I was sleepin' in St. James's Park. Told her I'd pay it back." Debt's owe
For the first time since exile, Aris didn't feel alone.
Mrs. Dunbar's looked at Aris and said "I have my rule if you don't follow you are out got it " Aris nodded his head yes
1. Keep watch (her "boys" were meth addicts; loyal but erratic).
2. Earn your keep (Aris stole medicine for her arthritis).
3. Never speak of tomorrow.
One night, over shared vodka, she muttered: "Your uncle Silas came down here 'fore he died. Met a bloke. Foreign. Argued 'bout a 'vault."
Aris stilled. "What vault?"
"Dunno.
But Silas left somethin'…" She tapped her temple.
"Maybe it can help" she said. Aris looked at her and said no need he was not planning on proving anything.
If the world said so then so be it
He did not care anymore