THE AETHERBORN

Thorne dashed through the chaos-stricken city, heart hammering as his eyes scanned for any path out of the carnage. Every corner of the city seemed engulfed in destruction, bodies scattered across the cobblestones like discarded toys, their vacant eyes staring up at a sky tainted by the glow of burning homes and shops. The acrid stench of smoke mixed with the coppery tang of blood assaulted his senses, making it hard to focus. He had to keep moving, had to find his uncle.

His Escape Artist skill guided his feet, instincts kicking in as he weaved through narrow alleys and side streets, evading danger like a shadow slipping through the cracks. He barely registered the new notification flashing in his vision.

Skill Level Up: Escape Artist!

Thorne’s mind was too focused on survival to process the small victory. Everywhere he looked, violence erupted—guards fighting as if possessed, their sashes the only indicator of which noble house they belonged to. Civilians were caught in the crossfire, screaming and fleeing, only to be cut down in the chaos by those who were supposed to protect them.

His breaths came in ragged gasps as he sprinted, his chest tight with both exhaustion and fear. He had to find his uncle. Had to understand why this madness was tearing through the city. Was it because of him? Had the letter he delivered sparked this war?

Turning a corner, Thorne’s boot caught on something, and he stumbled over a body lying cold in his path. The man’s face was frozen in a silent scream, eyes wide with terror. Thorne’s stomach twisted, bile rising in his throat, but he forced himself forward. There was no time to stop, no time for fear.

The city center was a war zone. Buildings, once grand, had crumbled into flaming wreckage, reduced to smoldering ruins. The square, usually alive with merchants and their bustling stalls, was now a battlefield, littered with bodies. Guards clashed with an intensity born of desperation, the sharp clang of steel ringing out like a death knell amidst the cries of the dying.

Thorne’s Escape Artist skill guided him through the madness, helping him avoid the worst of it. He ducked under a fallen beam, barely skirting around a group of guards locked in a deadly brawl. He could hear the whistle of blades cutting through the air, feel the dangerous hum of steel passing too close to his skin, but he kept moving, his heart threatening to burst from his chest.

Another notification blinked.

Skill Level Up: Escape Artist!

The brief satisfaction he felt from his progress was smothered by the chaos around him. There was no time to celebrate. His uncle was somewhere in this hellish nightmare, and Thorne had to find him. Had to figure out what had triggered this bloodshed.

As Thorne pushed deeper into the heart of the city, the violence seemed to intensify. The streets were clogged with corpses, the once vibrant avenues choked with blood and debris. The air was thick with the screams of those still fighting for their lives, the clash of swords, the crackle of flames devouring the city.

His eyes darted to the sashes worn by the guards—some were black for House Ravencourt, others green for House Thornfield. No sign of the city guards anywhere, likely hiding, waiting for the chaos to burn itself out.

Buildings blazed around him, their flames casting an eerie orange glow over the slaughter. Thorne’s Escape Artist skill faltered, his sense of direction failing him. Every street seemed blocked by skirmishes or debris, every alleyway a dead end.

Desperate, he ducked into what appeared to be an abandoned alley. The darkness wrapped around him like a cold embrace, offering a brief respite from the carnage. But halfway through, his blood turned cold.

He was ambushed.

Five men emerged from the shadows, their sudden appearance almost ghostly. Thorne hadn’t heard a sound, no hint of their approach. His eyes darted to the ground, and he saw why. A woman’s body lay in a pool of blood at their feet, her clothes torn, her body mangled. Bruises and cuts marred her skin—evidence of the horrific assault she had endured.

Thorne’s stomach flipped, his heart hammering in his chest as he locked eyes with the men. The savagery in their expressions made the elemental cat he had fought seem almost merciful by comparison. Their taunts started immediately, their voices laced with malice.

"Look at this little rat," one sneered, his voice thick with cruelty. "Think you can run through our city like you own it?"

Another laughed, the high-pitched sound chilling Thorne to the bone. " Maybe we should show him what happens to rats in this city, teach him a lesson."

Panic seized Thorne’s mind as the men closed in, circling him like predators. His mind raced. He had to escape. But the guards had him cornered, slowly herding him back against the wall. His escape artist skill, which had served him so well, offered no solutions. No hidden passage, no secret escape. He was trapped.

A burly guard with a deep scar running down his cheek grumbled, "I want to find more traitors, not waste time with this runt."

The lead guard, grinning hungrily, shook his head. "But our job is to clean out the trash, isn't it? And he's just as much a part of the filth as anyone."

"Whatever," the impatient voice of another chimed in. "Let’s just finish this."

Two of the guards left, disinterested in the outcome, leaving three behind. Thorne’s fear spiked as the remaining men advanced, their twisted smiles making it clear they intended to enjoy this.

They loomed over him, their shadows dark and imposing against the alley walls, like nightmares brought to life. Thorne’s back hit the cold stone of the wall, and he knew he was out of time. His breath came in short, desperate gasps, his mind scrambling for a plan, any plan.

He had to act fast, or he wouldn’t survive the night.

"What's the matter, boy?" one of the guards sneered, his voice oozing mockery, eyes glinting with cruel amusement. "Scared? You should be."

Another guard, taller than the rest with a vicious grin stretching across his face, took a step forward. "Maybe we'll let you go if you entertain us first," he said, reaching out, his hand almost lazily extending toward Thorne’s arm.

Thorne jerked back, pressing himself as far as he could against the cold wall behind him. His heart thundered in his chest, and he could barely manage to get the words out. "Leave me alone."

Their laughter echoed through the alley, bouncing off the walls like cruel spirits. The tall guard’s grin widened, twisting into something sinister. "Oh, we’ll leave you alone... after we’re done with you."

Panic surged through Thorne like a tidal wave. His pulse quickened as his thoughts scrambled. He couldn’t let them touch him. He wouldn’t survive. Every instinct in his body screamed to run, but there was nowhere to go. He had to fight, had to do something—anything to keep them at bay.

Desperation sparked within him, a flash of anger mixed with terror. His fingers tightened around Sid’s dagger, and before he even realized it, he lashed out. The blade gleamed in the dim light, slicing through the air, aimed directly at the tall guard’s hand.

The guard jerked back just in time, barely avoiding the strike. He let out a surprised yelp before his face contorted with rage. "You little bastard," he snarled, his eyes narrowing into hateful slits. "You’re dead for that."

The other two guards immediately closed in, their faces twisted with fury, their bodies tense like wolves about to pounce. Thorne’s mind raced, adrenaline fueling his thoughts. He couldn’t fight them head-on, not with three of them. He had to escape.

His eyes darted around the alley, desperate for anything—any opportunity, any advantage. Then he saw it: a stack of crates leaning against the wall just within reach. If he could get to them, climb up and over the rooftops, he might stand a chance.

Without hesitation, Thorne lunged toward the crates, swinging his dagger wildly to keep the guards at bay. His breath came in sharp, panicked bursts as he clawed his way up the wooden boxes. His fingers stretched toward the rooftop’s edge, freedom within his grasp.

But he wasn’t fast enough.

One of the guards grabbed his ankle, yanking him back down with brutal force. Thorne hit the ground hard, the impact knocking the air from his lungs. Pain radiated through his side, and for a second, everything went white. But even through the haze of agony, he refused to let go of his dagger. He clung to it like a lifeline.

"Get off me!" Thorne shouted, his voice raw with desperation. He kicked out with his free leg, connecting solidly with the guard’s face. The satisfying crunch of bone breaking filled the alley, and the man stumbled back, clutching his bleeding nose and swearing viciously.

The other two guards paused, momentarily startled by the ferocity of the boy’s attack. That moment was all Thorne needed. Gritting his teeth through the pain, he scrambled back to his feet, his back against the wall as his wide, frantic eyes flicked between the three men.

"You little rat," the tall guard hissed, wiping the blood from his nose with the back of his hand. His lips curled into a snarl. "You’re going to regret that."

Thorne’s body was trembling, but not from fear this time. The sharp edge of his panic had dulled, replaced by something colder, more primal. He couldn’t hold back any longer. The risk of revealing what he was—of exposing the power hidden inside him—was nothing compared to the certainty of death that loomed in their eyes.

His fingers twitched, and he could feel the aether stirring within him, wild and eager. He didn’t want to use it, didn’t want to reveal the truth of his elder race heritage, but he knew he was out of options. His heart raced, but his mind steadied.

Deep in the alley, with only the pale light of the moon illuminating the scene, the shadows stretched long and thick, offering Thorne the sliver of hope he desperately needed. His mind raced as he decided to use every skill at his disposal. The alley was cluttered with debris—discarded crates, broken barrels, and the detritus of a city at war. Perfect for hiding. Without a second thought, he activated Shadow Meld, and in an instant, he disappeared into the darkness. The guards, now shouting in surprise, fumbled as Thorne slipped out of sight.

Crouched behind a pile of crates, he could feel the aether drain rapidly as his Shadow Meld consumed his reserves. He let go of the skill just as his aether points dipped dangerously low, transitioning into his Stealth skill, which wasn't as reliable but far less taxing. He became one with the darkness, the shadows clinging to him like a cloak. His heart pounded in his chest as he strained to remain perfectly still. The slightest sound could give him away, and he wasn’t willing to gamble with that risk.

The guards were smart enough to block both ends of the alley, effectively trapping him in the middle. There was no clear route for escape. Thorne’s eyes darted between them, assessing the situation. He needed to wound one of them, create enough confusion to make his move. But with three of them, he had little chance in a direct fight.

He wished he were faster, able to dash, stab, and retreat before they even realized what happened...

That’s when the memory of the elemental cat hit him.

The aether surge, the way the cat had drawn in raw energy and turned it into unmatched speed and power, replayed in his mind. Thorne clenched his teeth, his fingers trembling with adrenaline. What if he could mimic it? But doubt gnawed at him. He’d tried before and almost blown himself up. Yet, he had no choice now. Desperation filled him as he recalled how the aether had moved through the cat—fast, wild, but controlled.

The voices of the guards taunted him, their footsteps edging closer as they baited him, trying to smoke him out. Thorne closed his eyes and forced himself to focus. He called to the aether motes around him, drawing them in, each one swirling toward him with purpose. Fear and doubt clashed inside him—what if he failed? What if he lost control? What if he exploded? What if he was discovered? What if? What if?

The memory of the cat's attack solidified in his mind as if he wasn't hidden in a dark, dirty alley, surrounded by enemies, but he was fighting the elemental cat again. The cat, with a surge of aether, attacked!

His eyes snapped open with realization. He knew what to do.

He took a deep breath.

With a primal roar inside him, Thorne drew in the aether like a man starved for breath. But this time, he didn’t just shove it into his muscles. No, he channeled it through his core, letting it flow and disperse naturally, letting his body adjust to the influx. His senses sharpened. His muscles thrummed with power. Every nerve was alive with raw energy.

A notification flashed before his eyes:

CONGRATULATIONS!

YOU HAVE UNLOCKED THE SKILL: AETHER SURGE!

The world around him seemed to explode into clarity. Everything became brighter, sharper, as if the moonlight itself had intensified. Thorne’s grip on the dagger tightened, the leather hilt creaking under his fingers. He made the faintest sound, and the guards turned, alerted. But they were too slow.

Thorne vaulted over the crates with effortless ease, his body surging forward like a whip. His dagger lashed out, cutting cleanly into the gap between the nearest guard’s gauntlet and arm. He didn’t stop. Before the guard even registered the pain, Thorne had dashed forward, disappearing once more into the shadows as he activated Shadow Meld. The guards cried out in confusion.

“Where the hell is he?!” one shouted, panic creeping into his voice.

Thorne didn’t answer. He crouched behind a pile of trash, watching as they fumbled, searching the darkness. The second the lead guard turned his back, Thorne struck again, darting from the shadows like a phantom. His dagger found its mark in the man’s back, slipping between the armor plates. He vanished into the shadows once more before the others could even react.

With Aether Surge activated, power coursed through his veins like wildfire. But it came at a cost. Every movement burned his muscles, as if they were being torn apart from the inside. His limbs screamed in protest, the edges of his vision blurring as his stamina drained faster than he anticipated. It was intoxicating—this newfound strength—but he could feel it consuming him.

"He’s a changeling! A spirit sent by the dead gods!" one of the guards screamed, his voice laced with pure terror.

Thorne remained silent, feeding off their panic. An inexplicable sense of power and vengefulness made him bold. He lashed out again and again, striking with quick, shallow cuts, never staying in one place long enough for them to retaliate. The guards, disoriented and terrified, began retreating. Thorne was in a strange state, half-drunk on power but also feeling light-headed as if he was slowly being drained.

Just when they were about to flee the alley, the lead guard turned one last time, his wide eyes scanning the darkness for Thorne. Their gazes locked, and for a moment, the guard froze, fear etched into his face. His expression twisted in horror, but before he could scream, an arrow sliced through the air, embedding itself in the guard’s eye. His body crumpled to the ground, lifeless.

The two remaining guards screamed, their terror silenced in seconds as daggers found their throats.

Thorne blinked, dazed and confused. He hadn’t fired an arrow. His limbs felt heavy, his head light from the aether overuse. Thorne didn't know what was happening until a familiar voice cut through the haze.

"You can get out now, boy."