THE AETHERBORN

Thorne sat on his small bed, wincing as he gingerly probed the ugly bruise on his side. Uncle had been right: Sid was treating him worse than ever, as if he had a personal vendetta. Since that last meeting with his uncle, Sid had made it his personal mission to make Thorne's life a living hell.

The training sessions stretched longer each night, ending only when the first light of dawn crept into the sky. By then, Thorne was beaten to a pulp, barely able to stand. Sid no longer pulled his punches, forcing Thorne to abandon his efforts to appear weak. He had no choice but to use every stat point he had just to survive.

The silver lining was that his skills had started leveling up again. After hitting a frustrating slump, he now gained levels after each brutal training session. Still, the progress brought little satisfaction. Thorne remained stuck at level 11—just as he had been for over a year. His mother had told him that leveling up required more than just skill improvement, but despite his efforts, it didn’t seem to be enough.

If he stayed at this pace, his edge over others would disappear once they formed their cores. He stared at his character sheet, a mix of frustration and pride simmering inside him.

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: 9 -> 10

Foraging: 3

Archery: 1

Running: 9 -> 14

Stealth: 6 -> 9

Reading: 7

Arithmetic: 6

Herbalism: 2

Acting: 6 -> 7

Haggling: 5

Deception: 3

Sleight of Hand: 5

Pickpocketing: 3

Lockpicking: 2

Resilience: 3

Thick Skin: 6 -> 10

Acrobatics: 6 -> 9

Daggers: 8 -> 11

Escape Artist: 1 -> 5

PRIMAL AETHER MANIPULATION: 3

He had come so far, yet he still felt trapped. His skills had grown, but the stagnation at level 11 gnawed at him. No matter how many skill levels he gained, it wouldn’t matter if he couldn’t push beyond his current level. The one time he had leveled up was after killing the wolf in the elven forest. It wasn’t just training that would push him forward.

Strife...

The word whispered in the back of his mind, creeping in like a shadow, but Thorne ignored it, clenching his fists. He didn’t want to believe it, but he knew what he had to do. He needed to fight—no, kill. His hands trembled slightly at the thought. Was he really willing to go that far?

A heavy sigh escaped him as he flopped back onto the mattress, staring up at the ceiling. His muscles ached from exhaustion, and his mind buzzed with the weight of his realization. The only way to level up was to return to the elven forest, the place where it had all begun. But it wasn’t just about leveling anymore. If he was going to get stronger, if he was going to protect himself—and find Bea—he had to embrace the fight.

The plan started forming in his mind. He would need provisions. The journey was fuzzy in his memory, but he knew he had to be quick if he wanted to return before nightfall. Sid would expect him back for training, and missing a session was out of the question.

Thorne's hand slipped under his pillow, gripping the hilt of his dagger for reassurance. His pulse steadied slightly. But the journey wouldn’t be easy. He would need food, water, and enough coins to buy what he needed. He reached under his mattress, rummaging around until his fingers closed on the few bronze coins he had stashed away. As they clinked softly together, his stomach sank.

Not enough. Damn you, Sid!

His lips curled into a scowl. The relentless training had drained him of the energy to pickpocket or run scams in the market. The few coins he had left were barely enough for a meal. With another heavy sigh, he let the coins slip through his fingers and onto the floorboards, feeling the familiar sting of helplessness.

Thorne pushed himself upright, wincing at the sharp pain in his ribs. He needed more coins, and there was only one place to get them—the fish market. It wasn’t ideal, but there was no other way. He had to get stronger, and he had to find Bea.

*

The bustling fish market was alive with chaos, a cacophony of shouts and haggling voices that rose above the clatter of carts and barrels. The air was thick with the smell of saltwater and fresh fish, mixed unpleasantly with the sour stench of rotting produce from the nearby stalls. The crowd surged around Thorne, creating the perfect cover for someone like him—small, insignificant, and easy to overlook. But while it was a place to blend in, it was also a dangerous web of sharp-eyed merchants, aggressive guards, and desperate thieves.

Keeping his head low, Thorne scanned the crowd with the practiced ease of someone who had done this countless times. His sharp eyes flicked between potential targets, always on the lookout for heavy purses or distracted merchants. The trick was to look insignificant, to be just another street urchin lost in the tide of buyers and sellers. His dirty clothes, thin frame, and downcast gaze helped him play the part perfectly, but even so, one wrong move could mean trouble.

As he weaved through the crowd, Thorne spotted a woman dressed in fine clothes, her purse hanging loosely at her side while she haggled with a fishmonger. Her distracted state and the heavy clink of coins immediately caught his attention. His heart quickened, but he kept his movements calm, slipping through the throng like a shadow.

With a well-practiced feigned stumble, he bumped into the woman, muttering an apology under his breath. His Sleight of Hand skill activated, and his fingers deftly loosened the strings of her purse. He caught the falling coins in a quick motion, tucking them into his pocket before she could even realize what had happened. The woman barely glanced at him, too absorbed in her argument over the price of cod.

Thorne let out a slow breath, the tension in his chest easing. It was a small victory, but one he couldn’t afford to take for granted. He moved away from the scene swiftly, merging back into the ebb and flow of the market, his sharp eyes already searching for his next mark.

As he drifted through the market, Thorne couldn't help but notice the other street urchins, each of them trying to survive in a world that cared little whether they lived or died.

A boy, no older than eight, caught his attention as he was shoved aside by an angry merchant. The boy’s small hands reached out, begging for scraps, but the merchant’s response was a harsh kick to the ribs, sending him sprawling into the dirt.

Thorne winced but kept moving. He had learned long ago that the market was unforgiving—intervening meant drawing attention, and attention was dangerous. The boy would have to fend for himself, just like everyone else.

Finding a corner near a bustling stall, Thorne knelt down, adopting the pitiful expression that always worked. Begging wasn’t his preferred method—it grated against his pride—but it was sometimes necessary. His small voice was barely audible above the din of the market as he began murmuring his well-rehearsed pleas.

"Please, sir, just a coin... Ma'am, anything helps... I'm so hungry..."

Most people walked past without even glancing at him, their eyes sliding over him as if he were invisible. A few muttered insults under their breath, calling him lazy or a street rat, their disdain evident. Thorne swallowed his pride, keeping his hand outstretched and his head low, hoping for a rare act of mercy.

After what felt like an eternity, a kind-looking woman stopped in front of him. She wore a simple dress, her hands rough from work, but her face softened as she looked at Thorne. Without a word, she dropped a bronze coin into his hand and handed him a small, stale piece of bread. "Stay safe, child," she said softly, her voice full of quiet sympathy before she walked away.

Thorne nodded, pocketing the coin and taking a small, careful bite of the bread. It was dry and hard, but he savored it as if it were a feast. He slipped into a narrow alley, his Escape Artist skill guiding him to a hidden corner where he could eat without being seen.

The sounds of the market faded into the background as he leaned against the wall, chewing slowly, his mind racing with plans. The meager bread in his hands wasn't enough, but it was a start. He’d need more coins, more supplies—enough to get him back to the elven forest.

As Thorne chewed the last bite of bread, a sudden commotion caught his attention. His instincts kicked in, and he peeked around the corner to see a burly merchant gripping Jonah by the collar, his thick hands shaking the boy like a rag doll. "Think you can steal from me, you little rat?" the merchant snarled, spittle flying from his mouth. His face was twisted with rage, and the veins in his neck bulged.

Jonah, usually so full of swagger, looked terrified. His eyes were wide with panic, his mouth slightly open as he stammered something incoherent. The merchant, however, wasn't interested in hearing excuses. With a powerful backhand, he slapped Jonah hard across the face, the sound of the blow echoing through the crowded market. Jonah yelped, clutching his cheek as the merchant spat at his feet. "Thieves like you deserve worse!"

The crowd around them barely reacted. This kind of thing wasn’t unusual in the fish market. But when the merchant spotted a pair of guards approaching, he wasted no time. "Caught this one red-handed," he growled, shoving Jonah toward them like a piece of trash.

The guards exchanged a knowing look before one grabbed Jonah by the hair, jerking his head back so forcefully that Thorne could hear the crack of the boy's neck snapping upright. The guard sneered, his grip tightening as he lifted Jonah to his toes. "We’ll see to it he gets the punishment fitting for a thief," the guard said coldly. "A hand for a hand."

Jonah’s face drained of color, his usual bravado completely shattered. Fear, raw and unfiltered, spread across his features as the guards began to drag him away. Thorne watched, feeling a twisted sense of satisfaction—after all, Jonah had tormented him for months, made his life miserable. It felt like justice in a way. He should have looked away, let Jonah face his fate. But then, from the corner of his eye, he saw Ben rushing toward him, wild-eyed and terrified.

Ben, usually silent and timid, was practically shaking with panic. His mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air, and he made frantic gestures, pointing first at Jonah and then at Thorne. His eyes were pleading—desperation etched into his round face. It wasn’t just terror; it was something deeper. Ben wasn’t asking for Jonah's sake; he was asking because he knew what was coming next.

And then, in a flash of movement, Ben pointed to his throat. Thorne’s gaze dropped to the small boy’s neck, and for the first time, he noticed the way Ben opened his mouth, trying to speak, but no sound came out. Thorne’s heart lurched, pity flooding through him. He had never asked why Ben was always silent, assuming it was by choice, but now the truth hit him like a punch to the gut. Ben wasn’t silent by choice—he was mute. The realization struck Thorne hard, and it wasn't difficult to imagine that whatever had stolen Ben's voice had likely come at the hands of the guards.

Ben met his eyes, and in that moment, something inside Thorne shifted. This wasn’t about Jonah anymore; it was about Ben. Thorne knew the pain of loss, of helplessness. He couldn't just stand by and watch Ben go through that again.

Thorne hesitated for only a second before nodding to Ben. Then, he bolted into the crowd, his mind racing as he closed the distance between himself and the guards. He caught up just as they turned a corner with Jonah in tow.

Without a second thought, Thorne stumbled forward, clutching his stomach dramatically. "Jonah!" he called out, his voice trembling with desperation. "Did you find anything to eat?"

The guards and the merchant turned, surprise flashing across their faces. Thorne staggered closer, his knees almost buckling as he put on the best performance of his life. "Please, sir," he gasped, turning his wide, pleading eyes toward the guards. "We haven’t eaten in days. He’s my brother... Please don’t hurt him."

His Acting and Deception skills kicked in, and he wavered on his feet, eyes half-lidded as if exhaustion were about to take him. "We just wanted some food... Please..." With a final, dramatic flourish, Thorne collapsed onto the ground, feigning unconsciousness.

The guards exchanged skeptical glances, but the merchant’s hardened expression softened ever so slightly. "Brothers, you say?" the merchant muttered, scratching his unshaven chin. "If that’s true..."

One of the guards gave Thorne a rough nudge with the toe of his boot. "Get up, boy," he barked, irritation coloring his voice. But Thorne didn’t move, keeping his breathing slow and shallow, just as his mother had taught him long ago during one of their lessons in the woods.

The merchant sighed, exasperated. "Look, I don’t want to deal with this all day. Just let the kid go. They’re probably just starving."

The guards, clearly not interested in making a bigger scene, exchanged another glance before shrugging. "Fine," one of them grumbled, shoving Jonah toward Thorne’s limp form. "But if we catch either of you stealing again, it’ll be the stocks for both of you."

Thorne peeked through his lashes as the guards and the merchant turned away, their attention already shifting to the next problem in the busy market. He waited a beat, just long enough to be sure they were gone, before slowly sitting up, rubbing his eyes as though just waking from a fainting spell.

Jonah, still reeling from the entire ordeal, stared at Thorne in bewilderment. "Why did you do that?" he asked, his voice quiet, almost unsure.

Thorne shrugged, the act of indifference sliding back into place like a well-worn mask. "Ben asked me to," he said simply, casting a quick glance at Ben, who was still watching from a distance. The round-faced boy nodded vigorously, his eyes wide and grateful.

Jonah seemed to struggle with his next words, his mouth opening and closing several times before he finally muttered, "Thanks." His voice was barely audible, his pride clearly fighting against the unfamiliar taste of gratitude.

Thorne didn’t respond, only nodding in return. He knew this didn’t change anything between them. Jonah would still be a bully tomorrow, but for now, they were safe. And in the silence that followed, a soft chime in his mind alerted him to something else: both his Acting and Deception skills had leveled up from the performance.

Without another word, Thorne stood, brushing off his clothes and motioning for Jonah and Ben to follow. They needed to get out of the market and back to their hideouts.

As they weaved through the crowded streets, Thorne couldn’t help but pat the pocket filled with coins he’d lifted earlier. His mind was already racing ahead, planning for his trip to the elven forest. A shiver ran down his spine as the memory of the fearsome wolf resurfaced, but an excited smile tugged at his lips.

He couldn’t wait!