Arthur Thorne’s funeral did not feel like a final tribute to a man; it felt more like a summit of apex predators at the top of the food chain. A light drizzle wrapped around St. Patrick’s Cathedral in Manhattan, deepening the oppressive gloom. Hundreds of men in black suits and dark glasses lined the sidewalks, each with hands never far from inside their jackets.Alaric Thorne stood in the front row, directly before his father’s sealed bronze coffin. The eagle signet ring on his finger glinted beneath the cathedral’s dim chandeliers. Beside him, Maia stood in a sleek but functional black dress, her eyes constantly scanning every mourner who entered.“Master,” Maia whispered, her voice barely audible beneath the priest’s prayers. “Your half-brothers from the European and Asian branches have just landed. They didn’t come to mourn. Each brought their own mercenary units and are on their way here.”Alaric didn’t turn. His gaze remained fixed on the coffin. “Let them come in. I want to see