THE AETHERBORN

Thorne perched on the thick branch, savoring the last morsel of his blueberry pie. He licked his fingers, searching for any forgotten crumbs, but finding none, he sighed in resignation and tried to get comfortable. A simple shift made him wince as pain shot through his body. His entire form was a tapestry of bruises and cuts, courtesy of his training with Sid.

The past week had been a relentless cycle of dodging, running, and fighting through the labyrinthine streets of Alvar City, with Sid constantly on his heels, daggers ready to strike. Each night, Thorne had been jolted awake by nightmares of those gleaming blades, of Sid’s mocking laughter echoing through the alleys.

Yet, as grueling and terrifying as it was, he couldn’t deny the results. His skills had been improving steadily, his body adapting to the brutal pace of training. Even so, he noticed that the rapid progression was slowing down, each new level requiring more effort and time.

He raised his status page, the glowing numbers and letters offering a rare sense of satisfaction amidst the pain.

Name: Thorne

Level: 11

Race: Human

Age: 9

Special Trait: Elder Race

Health points: 360/360

Aether: 240/240

Stamina: 320/320

Strength: 25

Agility: 36

Dexterity: 28

Endurance: 32

Vitality: 36

Spirit: 40

Wisdom: 24

Intelligence: 25

Skills:

Tracking: 8 -> 9

Foraging: 3

Archery: 1

Running: 3 -> 8

Stealth: 4 -> 6

Reading: 7

Arithmetic: 6

Herbalism: 2

Acting: 6

Haggling: 5

Deception: 3

Sleight of Hand: 4 -> 5

Pickpocketing: 3

Lockpicking: 2

Resilience: 1 -> 3

Thick Skin: 3 -> 6

Acrobatics: 2 -> 5

Daggers: 3 -> 8

PRIMAL AETHER MANIPULATION: 3

Thorne scanned the list with a sense of accomplishment. Each increase represented countless hours of pain and fear. His stealth skill was becoming almost instinctual, his feet unconsciously finding the quietest paths. His dagger proficiency had soared, every brutal encounter with Sid honing his strikes, forcing him to be more precise, more lethal. He knew that Uncle would be pleased with his progress, even if Sid's methods were brutal.

He let out a slow breath, feeling a mix of pride and exhaustion. The numbers didn’t lie; he was becoming stronger. But at what cost? His body ached constantly, and his nights were haunted by vivid, terrifying dreams. He felt like prey even in his sleep, always hunted, always running.

The branch swayed slightly under his weight, and Thorne glanced out over Alvar City. The sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows over the rooftops and winding streets. The distant cries of merchants packing up for the day floated up to him, mingling with the occasional call of a seagull.

As the evening deepened, his thoughts drifted to his parents. He could still remember their gentle voices, the warmth of their hugs, the safety of their presence. A pang of sorrow pierced his heart, but he quickly shoved it down. There was no time for weakness, no time for memories. He had to survive, had to keep growing stronger.

Shifting his position slightly, he tried to blend further into the lush foliage of the tree he was perched in. He was hidden in the expansive garden of a noble lord’s estate, perched high on a hill at the center of Alvar. The estate was a vision of luxury, with elegant fountains bubbling softly, marble statues poised gracefully among colorful flower beds, and gazebos nestled beneath towering trees. It was a world away from the grimy alleys he was used to.

He had slipped into the estate by scaling the outer wall and hopping from tree to tree until he reached his current vantage point, a maneuver that would have been impossible before his recent training with Sid.

Below him, guards patrolled the grounds, their armor gleaming in the fading light. They moved with practiced efficiency, their eyes scanning the shadows. But the well-pruned cypress trees lining the path to the main entrance provided perfect cover for Thorne. He could see everything from his perch—every move, every whisper. He was waiting for two men: a noble lord and the mysterious merchant from the capital who had been the talk of the city.

A maid had already set a table on the veranda, the centerpiece a strange metallic sphere that emitted a faint, purplish glow. The object intrigued him. He couldn’t feel any aether emanating from it, but he knew that the sphere was special.

Out of habit, he scanned the estate again. The gardens were a masterpiece of design, each statue seemingly alive, each flower bed arranged with artistic precision. Thorne felt a pang of envy for the life of ease and comfort the residents here enjoyed. It was so different from his own world of struggle and danger.

He wondered briefly what it would be like to live in such a place, to not have to worry about where his next meal would come from or whether he’d survive the night. He shook his head, pushing the thought away.

Suddenly, his sharp ears picked up the sound of voices as if coming out of nowhere. He tensed, focusing on the conversation. Two figures emerged from the large double doors of the balcony: a tall, regal-looking nobleman, his gait commanding and dignified, and a shorter, rotund man dressed in rich merchant garb, his every step betraying a slight nervousness.

The noble lord, with his greying hair swept back in a calculated display of authority and distinguished features sharpened by age and experience, spoke in a deep, resonant voice that seemed to command the very air around him. “Welcome to my estate, Master Holgar. I trust your journey from the capital was uneventful?”

The merchant, Master Holgar, chuckled, though his laughter held an undertone of unease. His beady eyes darted around the estate, taking in the opulence with a mix of admiration and apprehension. “Indeed, Lord Durnell. Your hospitality is most generous. I must say, your garden is truly magnificent.” His voice carried a practiced charm, but Thorne could hear the hint of tension underlying his words.

Lord Durnell waved a hand dismissively, the gesture elegant yet authoritative. “A mere trifle,” he said, his eyes narrowing as if already weighing the merchant’s worth. “Come, let us sit and discuss our business.” He led the merchant to an ornately set table under a canopy of flowering vines, the soft glow of lanterns casting dappled shadows across the veranda.

Thorne watched intently as the two men settled themselves at the table. A maid appeared almost instantly, moving with practiced grace as she placed a tray of refreshments before them. Crystal glasses caught the light, sparkling like captured starlight as she poured deep red wine into them. Thorne’s heart raced with anticipation, his senses heightened. This was his chance to gather valuable information for his uncle.

As the men leaned back in their chairs, their postures deceptively relaxed, Thorne strained to hear their conversation over the gentle burbling of a nearby fountain and the distant chirping of night insects. Every detail mattered; every word could be crucial.

“Tell me, Master Holgar,” Lord Durnell began, his tone smooth and measured, “what brings you to Alvar City? It is rare for merchants from the capital to venture this far.” His eyes bore into the merchant, the intensity of his gaze belying the casualness of his question.

Holgar sighed dramatically, a performance worthy of a seasoned actor. “An unexpected journey, I’m afraid. I had to restock my supplies, much to my dismay.” He spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness, though his eyes flicked cautiously towards the noble, gauging his reaction.

Sensing an opportunity, Lord Durnell leaned in slightly, his interest piqued. “Alvar may be small, but it has much to offer. Especially my house’s main export—wool. It is the softest and most durable in the kingdom. I’m certain the nobles in the capital would love it.” His voice held a subtle edge, the practiced tone of a man used to striking deals and gaining the upper hand.

The merchant offered a placating smile, his plump fingers drumming lightly on the table. “I’m sure it is quite fine, Lord Durnell.” His tone was noncommittal, evasive. Thorne recognized the dance of words, the careful maneuvering that his uncle had often spoken of. It was a game of patience, a delicate balance of power and persuasion.

Thorne soaked up every word, his mind piecing together the dynamics at play. He recalled one of his uncle’s games, where he had to solve a riddle about the reigning nobles in Alvar City. Lord Durnell was one of the most powerful, having established his house as one of the most affluent families in the west. And all that thanks to the wool he produced and sold. It was clear that Lord Durnell was fishing for a way to establish a foothold in the capital, while the merchant enjoyed the attention and was in no hurry to make commitments.

After relentless badgering from Lord Durnell, the merchant finally relented, his shoulders sagging slightly as if in defeat. “Very well, my lord. I will inspect your wool, and if it meets my standards, I would be open to negotiating.” His words were spoken with the air of a man conceding a minor victory, though his eyes remained watchful, guarded.

Upon hearing this, the noble’s eyes lit up, a triumphant smile curving his lips. He gestured to the maid standing discreetly to the side. “Bring the sapphire liquor,” he ordered, his voice barely concealing his eagerness. Thorne’s eyes followed the maid as she bowed and hurried away, her movements fluid and practiced.

She returned moments later with a bottle of deep blue liquid, its color as rich and mysterious as the night sky. Master Holgar’s eyes widened with a greed he made little effort to hide, his tongue darting out to wet his lips in anticipation. The maid poured the liquor into their glasses, the liquid catching the light in mesmerizing swirls. Thorne watched as the merchant took a deep sip, his round cheeks flushing almost instantly.

Lord Durnell saw his chance and began his second round of questioning, his voice smooth and coaxing. “Master Holgar, you mentioned an unexpected journey. What exactly happened?” His eyes never left the merchant’s face, his gaze sharp and calculating.

Thorne noticed strange patterns of aether emanating from the noble, invisible threads reaching towards the merchant like the tendrils of a predatory plant. Holgar’s earlier confidence seemed to waver as he spoke, his voice slurring slightly.

“I was at Whitepearl Harbor when the royal runner found me,” Holgar confessed, taking another sip of the potent liquor. “I was shocked and ecstatic, as you can imagine. Between you and me, my lord, I got the short end of the deal. I was to sail to a no-name village in the Emerald Sands kingdom to deliver an artifact I had acquired recently. I sailed at once, as you can imagine. One cannot ignore the king’s commands, and I didn’t have time to collect enough supplies. Alvar was the closest city I could restock my diminished stock.”

The merchant looked crestfallen, his earlier bravado slipping away like sand through fingers. But Lord Durnell’s eyes gleamed like a cat sighting its prey. “And what was this artifact?” he asked, new strings of aether snaking out toward the merchant, the air around them charged with a subtle, unseen force.

Holgar looked almost helpless as he responded, his voice barely above a whisper. “You are not asking the correct question, my lord.”

Lord Durnell frowned, the lines of his face deepening with impatience. “And what is the correct question?”

“For whom the artifact was for,” the merchant replied, his eyes suddenly clear and focused despite the alcohol clouding his mind.

Lord Durnell almost breathed the question, his voice tinged with something close to reverence. “Who?”

The merchant took another deliberate sip, savoring the noble’s frustration like a fine wine. He let the silence stretch, the tension building, before finally speaking the words that would send a shiver down Thorne’s spine. “For an oldbone.”

Thorne's world came to a standstill. The words hung in the air, heavy and ominous, echoing through the stillness of the garden like a death knell. He felt his breath hitch, his heart pounding in his ears as if trying to drown out the implications of what he had just heard.

An oldbone.

Thorne lost the next exchange as he tried to process the revelation. Someone like him—they had found someone like him. An elder race! His thoughts spiraled out of control, each one more frantic and disjointed than the last. He struggled to calm his racing mind, to focus back on the conversation.

But before he could gather himself, he heard Lord Durnell’s voice drop to a conspiratorial whisper, laced with apprehension. “We’d better continue this conversation inside.” There was a note of fear beneath his polished tone, as if even speaking of such matters in the open air was inviting danger.

Thorne watched in dismay as the two men stood up. Master Holgar, clearly affected by the alcohol, stumbled slightly, his rotund form swaying as he struggled to maintain his balance. Lord Durnell, his face a mask of thinly veiled disgust, quickly hid his expression when the merchant glanced his way. The abrupt end to their conversation left Thorne reeling. He had been so close to learning more, to uncovering the full truth of what they knew.

"No!" he wanted to scream, the frustration boiling inside him, but he dared not make a sound. His body trembled with the effort of staying still, of holding back the scream of rage and helplessness building in his throat. His mind raced as he watched their retreating forms, the door to the mansion looming like a gateway closing off the answers he so desperately needed.

He needed to hear more. He needed to know everything.

Abandoning any sense of caution, Thorne scanned the garden frantically for any sign of the guards. To his relief, they were patrolling far from his position, their attention turned toward the perimeter of the estate. A risky grin split his face, and without a second thought, he leapt from the branch, swinging through the air.

He jumped from tree to tree like a ghost in the night, his acrobatics skill barely keeping him from slipping as the branches scratched at his skin and tore at his clothes. He ignored the pain, driven by the urgency of the situation. His heart pounded in his ears as he drew closer to the balcony, his eyes fixed on the open door through which the two men had vanished.

But as he neared his goal, dread pooled in his stomach. The balcony was still a good distance away, too far for a simple jump. No, no, no, his mind screamed, panic bubbling up as he took in the gap. He couldn’t let this opportunity slip away. Not now, not when he was so close. Tears of frustration pricked his eyes, but he blinked them away, his gaze hardening with determination.

"I can do this," he whispered fiercely to himself, taking two steps back on the branch, as far as it would allow without sending him plummeting to the ground below. He took a deep breath, every muscle in his body tense with anticipation, and then he was running, the branch bending under his weight as he launched himself into the air.

His hands reached desperately, straining for the balcony rails as he flew through the air. But even as he soared, he felt gravity’s cruel grip pulling him down. No, not now, he thought, panic seizing his chest as he felt the ground rushing up to meet him. He let out a strangled sound, fear clawing at his mind, and in that split second, his control over the aether slipped.

Ethereal motes flared to life around him, and as if responding to his unspoken plea, white motes of aether clustered beneath him, shimmering faintly. Thorne barely registered what was happening. His descent slowed, the sensation strange and dreamlike as his foot touched something solid yet invisible.

It was enough. He pushed off the aetheric platform, the strange sensation of solid nothingness beneath him vanishing as he sprang forward. His fingers brushed the cold metal of the balcony rails, and then he was gripping them with both hands, his body swinging wildly as he struggled to pull himself up.

Breathing heavily, Thorne hung there for a moment, his heart a hammering drum in his chest. He stared down at the garden below, his vision blurred with the adrenaline coursing through his veins. The realization of what he had just done slowly dawned on him, and his eyes widened. He had used the aether again, instinctively calling upon his heritage’s power in a moment of desperation. A shiver of weakness coursed through his limbs, his body recoiling from the effort it had taken. He didn’t have time to dwell on it now, though. He needed to focus.

With a grunt of effort, he hauled himself over the railing and dropped silently onto the balcony. He crouched low, his eyes darting to the glass doors leading into the room where the two men were seated. He could see them talking animatedly, but curiously, no sound traveled outside.

Carefully, he edged closer to the window, his senses straining to catch any trace of their conversation.

The moment his head poked through the invisible barrier, the sounds rushed in, the merchant’s slurred speech filling his ears. “I’m telling you, it was really an oldbone,” Master Holgar was saying, his voice thick with drink, his cheeks flushed from the sapphire liquor. “I saw him being transferred to a royal galley. Truly a horrific sight!”

Lord Durnell, perched on the edge of his seat, was as enraptured as Thorne, hanging on the merchant’s every word. “But why would the Emerald Sands surrender such a find? Surely the royal family would want his core!” The noble’s voice was incredulous, his eyes wide with disbelief.

“Oh, they truly want his core. They had already sent a squad of their most powerful champions,” the merchant replied, shivering as if trying to dispel a dreadful memory. “And their pets.” His voice dropped to a fearful whisper at the last word, his eyes haunted by whatever horrors he had witnessed.

Lord Durnell’s face twisted with confusion. “Then how did they let an opportunity like that slip through their fingers?” he demanded, his voice edged with frustration. He leaned forward, his gaze intense, his whole body straining toward the merchant.

“Unfortunately for them, the informer was one of ours. He first tipped the royal family, and the Emerald Sands heard of it too late. The king didn’t mind any expense; he used his mage to portal his entire king’s guard! You should have seen the sight!” Master Holgar’s voice was thick with awe, his hands shaking slightly as he reached for his glass.

Thorne’s heart was pounding in his chest, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. An oldbone, someone like him, was discovered. And now it was in the hands of the king. The implications were staggering. He had to know more.

He strained to focus back on the conversation, but a faint whistling sound behind him grew louder, more insistent. He pushed it aside, his mind wholly absorbed by the information unfolding before him.

“The oldbone was a citizen of Caledris, who had only recently traveled to the Emerald Sands. So, as per the accord, he belongs to our king,” the merchant said, his voice dripping with satisfaction. Lord Durnell nodded, urging the drunk man to continue, his eyes gleaming with the prospect of newfound power.

“The oldbone is headed to the Academy as per law. Only then will the king be able to—”

The merchant’s words were abruptly cut off as the whistling behind Thorne grew deafening, a high-pitched wail that sent a jolt of terror through his veins. The two men looked up, startled, their eyes widening in alarm. Thorne’s head whipped around, his heart seizing in fear as he saw the source of the sound.

The metallic sphere, the strange device he had seen earlier, was now hovering in the air, spinning rapidly as it emitted a piercing, bell-like ring. Its surface pulsed with a brilliant light, shining like a beacon in the darkness, pointing directly at him.

“Oh, shit!” Thorne breathed, his voice barely more than a whisper, as panic flooded through him. He was exposed, and there was nowhere to hide.