THE AETHERBORN

Thorne knelt on the floor, the dim light from the crystals placed at each corner of the room casting long, eerie shadows that seemed to stretch and twist with his every movement. His heart raced as he unsheathed the dagger Sid had given him, the cool metal reassuring in his hand. He set to work prying at the floorboards, his hands trembling with exhaustion and anticipation. Almost there. After what felt like an eternity, he managed to loosen two planks, revealing a hidden metal box beneath.

Frowning, Thorne examined the box. It had no handle, no keyhole, just three embedded crystals—red, blue, and green—each pulsing softly with a faint glow. Great, another puzzle, he thought, frustration creeping in as he tried to figure out how to open it. He tentatively reached out, touching the red crystal first. A subtle tingle of aether shot up his fingers.

For several minutes, he experimented, pressing the crystals in random sequences, but nothing worked. He growled under his breath, his fingers twitching with impatience. Think, Thorne. There has to be a pattern.

Closing his eyes, he activated his aether vision. The crystals came alive, glowing brighter, their connections forming intricate aether lines, like delicate threads of light crisscrossing between them. Thorne focused hard, following the ebb and flow of the energy. Each crystal seemed to control different parts of the pattern: red affected the outer lines, blue the middle, and green the innermost.

His heart pounded in his ears as he pressed the red crystal twice, then the blue, and finally the green. The moment his finger left the last crystal, a satisfying click echoed in the room, and the box unlocked.

Thorne’s breath hitched as he lifted the lid. Inside, a stack of papers greeted him, each faintly radiating aether. His fingers sifted through them, his eyes darting over trade agreements, harvest reports—mundane, for the most part, though valuable in the right hands. But then, tucked among the papers, he spotted it. A letter, sealed with wax bearing the Thornfield crest.

This is it.

Thorne's pulse quickened with excitement. He could already imagine the look of satisfaction on his uncle's face when he delivered the letter. I actually did it. But before he could savor the moment, something else caught his eye—a small, glowing blue orb, barely bigger than his palm, nestled at the bottom of the box. It emitted a faint glow, swirling with aether.

Transfixed, Thorne picked it up, his fingers tingling from the magical energy inside. What is this? The orb felt... powerful, ancient even. He couldn’t identify its purpose, but his instincts told him it was valuable—too valuable to leave behind. He quickly stuffed the orb into his pocket, making it bulge slightly.

His attention was then drawn to a small pouch tucked away in the corner of the box. Unable to resist, he tugged it open, revealing four gleaming gems—ruby red, sapphire blue, emerald green, and diamond white. They were small, no bigger than his fingernail, but each one sparkled with such clarity that Thorne could see his own reflection in their facets. These alone could make me rich beyond my wildest dreams.

He pocketed the gems, careful not to let them clink together, and closed the metal box, replacing the floorboards as quietly as possible. Now, get out.

He stood, every nerve on edge, ready to make his escape. But then, a sudden pulse of aether washed over him, sending a cold shiver down his spine. His head whipped around, searching for the source. The room seemed to hum with energy, the atmosphere charged with something... wrong. His aether vision revealed the markings on the wall near the door, pulsing rhythmically, like a heartbeat. The aether swirling around them was violent, erratic, and growing more intense by the second.

Panic seized him. No, not again.

He bolted for the door, his movements quick and silent. But as soon as he entered the hallway, he heard the frantic voice of Lord Thornfield echoing down the corridor, shouting for his guards. Thorne's heart pounded in his chest as he sprinted down the hallway, slipping into the shadows.

Stay calm, stay calm...

He skidded to a stop behind a large statue, pressing himself against the cool stone as footsteps thundered past. Through the gaps in his fingers, he saw Lord Thornfield and two guards storm by, their faces twisted with rage and panic. They’re looking for me.

Desperate, Thorne tried to activate his new skill, hoping to shroud himself in shadow again. But instead of the familiar cloak of invisibility, all he felt was pain—sharp, burning pain, radiating from his core. His chest felt like it was on fire, and he barely stifled a scream. What the hell is happening?!

His vision blurred as the agony intensified, his body trembling from the strain of keeping quiet. Through his haze of pain, he saw the aether around him spiral wildly, its energy chaotic, fighting against him. Why won’t it listen?

The guards moved past him, too distracted to notice the boy curled behind the statue. As soon as they were out of sight, Thorne forced himself to move, biting back the pain as he pushed forward. His limbs felt heavy, his body sluggish from the aether’s rebellion, but he had no choice. He had to escape.

He followed the route he had memorized earlier, weaving through the corridors, every step a battle against the searing pain coursing through his chest. The markings on the walls pulsed violently now, their light flickering like flames ready to engulf him.

Just a little further.

Thorne bolted down the stairs, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he leapt two steps at a time. The markings pulsed angrily beneath him, lighting up the stone walls and floor with an ominous glow. He landed heavily at the base of the stairs, but the echoing footsteps of more people rushing toward the foyer sent a chill down his spine.

He froze for a split second, heart hammering. Nowhere to hide, nowhere to run, and the aether won’t listen. His mind raced, and for a terrifying moment, his escape artist skill stayed silent. No clear paths, no clever escape routes revealed themselves. Thorne felt trapped, panic rising as he imagined being cornered, captured, or worse.

Just as he was about to give in and surrender to whatever fate awaited him, his eyes caught sight of a simple, ordinary object that could be his saving grace—a small, ornate table pushed against the wall, complete with a large, gold-framed mirror above it. His eyes then darted to a forgotten rug that lay crumpled at its side. That’s it!

Without hesitating, Thorne dashed toward the table, grabbing the old rug and an unlit candlestick from its surface. With practiced quickness, he dropped to his knees and pretended to scrub the candlestick. His body was a mess of nerves and exhaustion, but his acting skill kicked in, guiding his movements as if he were simply an exhausted servant, caught mid-task.

His heart raced as he heard the footsteps approaching. Stay calm, stay calm! He lowered his head, pretending to be engrossed in his work. His breath came shallow and fast, but his skill helped him regulate it, making his fear look like the natural nervousness of a lowly servant caught in the wrong place.

Just then, a group of hooded figures burst into the foyer, their dark cloaks billowing behind them. Thorne stole a glance at them from the corner of his eye. They moved quickly, their voices hushed but laced with tension. He strained to listen, catching fragments of their conversation.

“...must find the letter before it’s too late.”

“No! We’ve been discovered. We need to leave, now!”

Thorne kept scrubbing, his hands trembling, and his acting skill doing everything it could to help him look terrified—but ordinary.

One of the figures, taller than the rest, turned and locked eyes on him. “Who are you?” The voice was cold, suspicious.

Thorne jumped, dropping the candlestick and letting it clatter against the marble floor. He raised his hands in mock fear, his voice quivering. “I-I’m just a servant, sir! Please, I didn’t see anything!” He made his voice crack, channeling every ounce of genuine fear he felt into his act. “I was just cleaning, sir! I swear it!”

“Cleaning? At this hour?” Another figure sneered, stepping closer. “You think we’re fools?”

Thorne's acting skill surged, twisting his expression into one of terrified confusion. His face paled, and his hands shook as he wrung the stained rug in his grip. “I... I don’t know, sir! The lady of the house, she’s very strict about cleaning. Makes us work at all hours. Please, I didn’t see anything! I’m just doing what I’m told!”

One of the hooded figures, their face hidden in the shadows of their cloak, approached. Their cold eyes bore into Thorne, suspicion radiating off them in waves. “And what exactly did you hear, servant boy?”

Thorne swallowed, his throat dry, but he forced himself to keep up the act. “N-nothing, sir! Just... just footsteps and voices! I thought Lady Elara was back early.”

“He’s lying,” the suspicious figure hissed, turning to the others. “We should kill him.”

Thorne’s pulse spiked. His body tensed, ready to spring if they moved toward him. Please, please don’t!

But before the figure could step closer, another snapped, “No time! The guards are coming. We need to go now.”

There was a brief moment of hesitation, and then the hooded figures turned and sprinted toward the stairs, their cloaks trailing behind them as they fled. Thorne didn’t dare move, watching as they disappeared from sight, their footsteps growing fainter with each passing second.

His relief was short-lived, though. The sounds of the guards grew louder, echoing through the grand foyer. Panic gnawed at Thorne’s gut. If the guards find me here, they’ll know I triggered the alarm. They’ll never believe I’m just some servant.

In a last-ditch effort to buy himself some time, Thorne shouted, “Intruders! Hooded intruders going upstairs!” His voice rang out through the grand foyer, sharp and clear despite his trembling fear.

The group of rogues swore, quickening their pace toward the staircase, all but one. The man who had wanted to kill Thorne earlier stopped and turned, his cold gaze locking onto the boy with a piercing intensity. Time seemed to slow as the hooded man reached into his cloak, his movements almost casual.

Without hesitation, with an unnerving flick of his wrist, the man hurled a knife straight at Thorne.

Thorne’s breath caught in his throat. He barely had time to react—his instincts took over, and he threw himself to the side. The blade sliced through the air where he had been standing just a heartbeat before, clattering to the marble floor with a sharp metallic ring.

Too close.

The guards stormed into the foyer, their attention torn between the fleeing intruders and the startled "servant" boy. One of the guards shouted, “Get them!” and the others immediately took off in pursuit, their heavy boots thundering up the stairs.

Thorne lay on the floor for a split second, frozen, his heart pounding in his ears. The man who had thrown the knife disappeared with the rest, leaving Thorne in the chaos. His limbs felt like lead, the aether in the manor still pulsing violently, making every movement feel sluggish and strained. I need to get out. Now.

With a surge of adrenaline, Thorne scrambled to his feet and bolted for the nearest exit. His mind raced as he dashed through the halls, weaving through the aftermath of overturned furniture and shattered decor. He sprinted out into the garden, using the shadows to his advantage, slipping between hedges and trees, keeping his body low and his movements silent. The cool night air stung his lungs as he made his way back to the gate.

Once outside the estate, he didn’t stop running. Only when he reached a deserted alley did he finally allow himself to collapse against the rough stone wall. His body shuddered violently from the accumulated stress, and he doubled over, gasping for air.

He inhaled the cool, salty breeze, each breath slowly calming the storm inside him. Relief and disbelief washed over him in waves. He wanted to cry, laugh, scream—it didn’t matter. He had done it. He had actually done it!

It had been both easier and far more difficult than he’d expected, the danger more intense than he’d imagined. But in the end, against all odds, he had managed to secure the letter. His hand instinctively patted his pockets, reassuring himself that the magical orb, the letter, and the small pouch of gems were still safely tucked away. It wasn’t just the letter—I’ve got more than I bargained for.

Thorne allowed himself a moment to bask in the glow of his triumph, despite his exhaustion. He had outwitted guards, survived the attack of a trained killer, stolen valuable artifacts, and unlocked new skills along the way.

A new notification popped up in his vision, informing him that he had leveled up his acting skill twice. He pulled up his character sheet, wanting to marvel at his success.

Name: Thorne

Level: 12

Race: Human

Age: 9

Special Trait: Elder Race

Health Points: 410/410

Aether: 64/240

Stamina: 290/370

Strength: 25

Agility: 36

Dexterity: 28

Endurance: 37

Vitality: 41

Spirit: 45

Wisdom: 24

Intelligence: 25

Skills:

Tracking: 10

Foraging: 3

Archery: 1

Running: 14

Stealth: 9 → 10

Reading: 7

Arithmetic: 6

Herbalism: 2

Acting: 8 → 10

Haggling: 5

Deception: 4 → 5

Sleight of Hand: 5

Pickpocketing: 3

Lockpicking: 2 → 3

Resilience: 3

Thick Skin: 10

Acrobatics: 9

Daggers: 11

Escape Artist: 7

Shadow Meld: 1

Primal Aether Manipulation: 4

Aether Burst: 1

As he scrolled through the numbers and skill levels on his character sheet, Thorne couldn’t help the laughter that erupted from him. It started as a small chuckle and then grew into a full-bodied laugh, filling the empty alley around him. He laughed and laughed, a mix of relief, disbelief, and sheer exhilaration pouring out of him. It was the laugh of someone who had just stared death in the face and come out grinning.

He glanced back at the Thornfield estate, the chaos he’d left behind still echoing in his ears. Guards were running, shouts pierced the night, and the air practically crackled with confusion and tension. And there he was, a scrappy nine-year-old kid, standing just outside the chaos he’d caused, holding priceless secrets and treasures in his pockets.

A grin spread across his face, wide and wild. He couldn’t believe it—he had pulled it off. Against the odds, against his own doubts, against every damn obstacle, he had done it.

"I did it," he whispered breathlessly, the smile lingering on his lips. His gaze lingered on the estate for a moment longer, a flicker of pride in his eyes. Then he turned away, his body still humming with adrenaline.