Chapter 2: The Cold Shoulder
The grand halls of the Thorne estate, usually a symphony of purposeful hums from research labs, the low murmur of strategic discussions, and the occasional, refined laughter of a privileged upbringing, were now steeped in a suffocating silence. The air itself felt thick with unspoken disappointment, a tangible weight that pressed down on Alexian. He moved through the familiar corridors like a ghost, each step echoing the hollowness in his chest. His parents, Lord Commander Theron Thorne and Lady Isolde Thorne, avoided his gaze, their conversations halting abruptly and voices lowering to barely audible whispers whenever he entered a room. It was as if his very presence was a contagious ailment, a blight on the distinguished family name.
His older brother, Lysander Thorne, a formidable Battle Armor Master whose recent combat exploits were already legendary, now regarded him with a chilling mixture of pity and contempt. Lysander, usually quick with a challenging jest or a competitive glance, now offered only curt nods, his eyes sliding away as if Alexian were a stranger. Even his younger sister, Aria Thorne, still too young for her own awakening but already embodying the Thorne family's sharp intellect, treated him with a detached politeness that was more wounding than outright scorn. She would politely excuse herself, citing "urgent studies," the moment he approached. He was no longer Alexian, the brilliant prodigy; he was merely "the Mechanic Master," a label that stripped him of all identity and worth.
The true cruelty, however, came in the form of his father, Lord Commander Theron Thorne. Summoned to his austere, data-filled study, Alexian found himself facing a man whose face was a mask of profound disappointment, his jaw tight, eyes cold and distant. "A Mechanic Master has no place in the House of Thorne, Alexian," his father stated, his voice devoid of paternal warmth, colder than a winter wind. "Our legacy is built on the creation of superior armors, the command of battle, not on mending the trivial scraps of others. Your talent is… an anomaly. A liability." The words were delivered with a surgical precision that cut deeper than any physical blow, implying Alexian was effectively disowned, a burden rather than an asset. The Thorne family relied on Battle Armor Masters and their strategic minds to maintain their exalted status, defend the city's dwindling borders, and secure their political power. A Mechanic Master offered nothing to that equation.
Lady Isolde Thorne, his mother, had been present, her elegant hands clasped tightly before her. Her eyes, usually so warm and expressive, were now clouded with unshed tears, but her sorrow was for her shattered expectations, not for his suffering. She avoided his gaze as she spoke, her voice hushed, "It's for the best, my son. Some paths... some destinies... are simply not for us. The family name must be protected." Her words echoed his father's sentiment, sealing his fate with a heartbreaking finality.
The next blow came swiftly, delivered by Seraphina Vance herself. She came to his private chambers, her posture as impeccable as ever, but the warmth that usually radiated from her had vanished, replaced by an unsettling coolness. Her initial flicker of genuine empathy quickly turned to a cold, pragmatic distancing. She explained, her voice carefully modulated and precise, that their engagement was for the benefit of their families, for future power and collective protection against the relentless monster threat. "A Mechanic Master, especially one who cannot fight, is a liability, not an asset, to the Vance Strategic Command," she stated, her eyes distant, already calculating a new future without him. "My family's duty is to the city's defense. My path, our family's path, lies with those who can actively protect the city on the front lines." She broke off the engagement, perhaps with a touch of genuine regret for what could have been, for the intellectual companionship they once shared, but it was quickly overshadowed by a steely, almost clinical sense of duty. The carefully constructed edifice of his privileged life crumbled to dust around him.
His attempts to seek solace from his friends proved equally futile. He tried to find Jory Sterling, a childhood companion from another prominent family, but was met with averted gazes, hurried excuses about urgent training or strategic meetings. Others simply vanished, their comms going unanswered, their usual haunts empty when he appeared. They were afraid of being associated with a "useless" talent, afraid of jeopardizing their own standing and future awakenings. His isolation became absolute, a suffocating shroud that wrapped around him.
As Alexian retreated into himself, overwhelmed by grief and the crushing weight of his abandonment, he found solace only in the familiar weight of the locket around his neck. He fiddled with it constantly, tracing its worn, intricate engravings that depicted strange, flowing mechanical patterns and symbols he'd never truly noticed before. Now, in his heightened state of despair, they seemed to shift subtly in his peripheral vision, almost alive.
A subtle detail: the locket, which was always cool to the touch, now felt faintly warm, almost as if radiating a faint, internal heat. Or it vibrated almost imperceptibly when his despair was at its peak, a low, resonant thrum that only he could perceive, a comforting presence in the crushing silence of his new reality. He couldn't shake the nagging question: why was the Mechanic Master talent so reviled? The city ran on complex technology, even if much of it was self-maintaining. But the societal rejection was absolute. The prevailing belief, ingrained from childhood, was that true progress lay solely in combat ability, in raw power and tactical deployment, not in maintenance or understanding of underlying systems.
The decision solidified in his mind, cold and clear as the winter air outside. He could not stay. He could no longer bear the pity, the contempt, or the suffocating disappointment that permeated every corner of the Thorne estate. He packed a small, worn satchel, taking only essentials and the locket. His family's immense wealth was now utterly meaningless to him, a symbol of the life he no longer had.
As he slipped out of the Thorne estate, through a secluded service entrance under the cover of a moonless night, he felt a profound sense of loss for the life he once had, for the future that had been so meticulously planned. But amidst the desolation, a tiny, almost imperceptible spark ignited – a defiant, nascent will to prove them all wrong. The city lights, once a beacon of safety and progress, now felt like a mocking reminder of his broken world, a world that had cast him out.
He found himself in the shadowed, grimy lower streets of Ironheart City, a stark contrast to the pristine upper districts he had always known. The air here was heavy with the scent of damp metal and desperation. Clutching the now-distinctly warm locket, a feeling of utter desolation mixed with a strange, burgeoning curiosity about the object in his hand, a solitary beacon in his darkness. He was alone, utterly alone, but for the first time, he felt a flicker of something new – a desperate, yet undeniable, sense of freedom.