THE AETHERBORN

Thorne shuffled down the winding path that skirted the outer edge of the castle grounds, retracing the same route he had veered from earlier that day. Now, though, he was hardly a shadow of the confident figure who'd wandered into the rocks.

His uniform, Vellin's masterwork of enchanted fabric, hung in bloody, shredded ribbons around his frame, the self-repairing enchantments flickering feebly as if even magic couldn't stitch back what had been done.

His arms were scraped raw, his ribs felt like they'd been cracked open with a warhammer, and his left eye refused to open fully. Every step he took sent a fresh pulse of agony down his spine.

The final exchange hadn't lasted long.

Thorne had made the mistake of believing the Grallok, hulking, primal, and furious, was just another brute. He'd miscalculated, taken a moment too long to prepare his counterattack. And the beast, cleverer than expected, feinted a punch only to unleash an aether blast from its palm at the last second. The blast hit him square in the chest, lifting him off the forest floor and flinging him through branches like a broken doll.

When he'd slammed into a moss-covered boulder and his HP had plummeted below one hundred, reality had cut through his pride.

He ran.

Fast.

There was no shame in survival, he told himself, but damn if it didn't sting.

The beast didn't take his retreat lightly. Even as Thorne limped away, it bellowed in rage and gave chase, uprooting trees and hurling boulders like a creature possessed. Only by sheer desperation, and a liberal application of solidified aether steps conjured mid-air, had Thorne gained enough elevation to put some distance between them. He vaulted over the canopy, leaping through the air as fast as he could willing the aether into shape beneath his boots, the sky opening before him like a fading promise.

Eventually, the Grallok's furious roars faded behind him.

He didn't stop until he saw the statue, the twin of the one that had launched him there and jammed raw aether into it like a dying man sucking air. The stone beast roared to life, its eyes flaring, and in the blink of a breath Thorne was hurtling back through the aether tunnel, high above the forest, the floating mountain of Aetherhold looming in the distance like a sanctuary built for gods.

When his boots finally touched the cool stone of the upper path, he doubled over and let out a long, trembling breath. The kind of breath you didn't know you were holding until your body remembered it was alive.

He straightened slowly, gritting through the pain, and began the long walk toward the castle.

Despite the throb in his ribs, the dried blood on his lips, and the screaming ache in every muscle of his body, he felt...peaceful. Free. A strange, quiet joy bubbled up inside him, foreign but not unwelcome.

He had fought and lost.

And somehow, that made him feel more alive than ever.

No trickery. No assassinations. No back-alley ambushes. Just him and something stronger, faster, older. It had tested him, outmatched him... and let him live.

Thorne chuckled, clutching his side as pain bloomed like fire across his torso. "Stupid bastard," he muttered to himself, not sure if he meant the Grallok or himself.

A breeze caught the edge of his shredded cloak, and he looked up. Above him, the sky had cleared. The storm clouds from earlier had finally parted, and through the veil of shimmering stars, a sliver of moonlight spilled onto the floating peak.

He stood there a while, breathing the crisp, magic-tinged air.

"Finally," he whispered, the word brushing from his lips like a secret confession to the stars.

The light of the moon tried to do its work.

Cool, silver beams filtered through the scattered clouds and kissed his torn skin, seeking to mend the dozens of wounds carved across his battered frame. Cuts knit slowly. Bruises faded in imperceptible pulses. But even his Lunar Regeneration, that faithful, quiet blessing, was struggling tonight. His body remained raw, aching, and incomplete.

Thorne looked up with a grimace and saw why.

The moon, barely a sliver in the heavens, was fresh in its cycle. Weak and waning. The same cycle that once poured its healing strength through his veins now offered him only the faintest balm.

He chuckled bitterly.

Of course. He couldn't have picked a worse night to play 'who hits harder' with a high-level aether beast.

Still, the castle loomed ahead now, impossibly tall, layered with sweeping archways and glowing aether torches that flared to life with the coming dark. The central courtyard peeked into view, and with it came a wave of exhaustion that nearly dropped him to his knees. The gleaming stone paths were blessedly empty at this hour, save for the occasional flicker of a construct moving through the shadows.

He spotted a bench off to the side, half-shrouded beneath the arch of a flowering crystalvine.

"Just for a while..." he muttered.

His legs gave out as he collapsed into it, body slumping, breath hitching as the full weight of the day sank into his bones. His uniform, what remained of it, hung like damp paper around him. The aether threads struggled to self-repair, sparks flaring and fizzling along the seams. He leaned back, tilted his head toward the sky, and closed his eyes.

Let the moon try.

Even a little help was better than none.

His pulse slowed. His thoughts began to quiet.

Then he remembered.

With a grunt of effort, Thorne blinked and opened the character sheet only he could see.

Notifications.

A flood of messages greeted him, all waiting in quiet judgment.

Skill Level up: Deadzone Reflex!

Skill Level up: Unarmed Combat!

Skill Level up: Windborne Agility!

Skill Level up: Aetheric Skin!

Skill Level up: Aether Lance!

Skill Level up: Aether Barrage!

Name

: Thorne

Level

:

47

Race

: Human

Age

: 19

Special Trait

:

Aetherbound [Elder Race]

Veilbreaker

2/5

Lunar Champion

2/5

Eclipsed Core

Health Points

: 103/1000

Aether

: 442/570(+200)

Stamina

: 351/920

Core Attributes

Strength

: 78

Agility

: 96

Dexterity

: 83

Endurance

: 92

Vitality

: 100

Spirit

:

197

Wisdom

: 57

Intelligence

: 52

Combat Skills

Vengeful Blades (Daggers):

12

Lethal Flurry

:

17

Backstab

: 18

Bloodletting

: 8

Unarmed Combat

:

29 → 30

Deadzone Reflex (

Combat Reflexes):

3

→ 7

Sword Mastery

: 19

Charging Strike

: 3

Throwing Knives

: 21

Knife Fan

: 8

Crossbows

: 10

Critical Eye

: 20

Archery

: 24

Piercing Arrow

: 5

Silent Draw

: 7

Stealth & Deception

Veil of Light and Shadow (Stealth)

:

9

Shadow Meld

: 33

Sleight of Hand

: 23

Pickpocketing

: 20

Lockpicking

: 19

Stealth Strike

: 29

Escape Artist

: 36

Survival & Miscellaneous Skills

Tracking

: 28

Foraging

: 6

Windborne Agility (Acrobatics):

2

→ 5

Burst of Speed (Running)

:

16

Herbalism

: 6

Hunter's Insight

: 12

Cunning Trapper

: 16

Swimming

: 2

Mental & Social Skills

Acting

: 40

Haggling

: 10

Reading

: 15

Arithmetic

: 12

Mindguard

: 19

Echoes of Truth

: 31

Mask of Deceit

: 40

Deception

: 36

Sculpted Persona

: 14

Tactful Deflection

:

12

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

Defensive Skills

Resilience

:

49

Aetheric Skin

:

29 → 30

Aetheric Abilities

Primal Aether Manipulation

:

42

Aether Burst

:

20

Aether Surge

:

30

Aetheric Grip

:

11

Invisible Threads

:

15

Aether Lance:

5 → 6

Aether Barrage:

2 → 3

Aetheric Explosion:

3

Entropy Breath:

1

Special Abilities

Veil Sense

Lunar Regeneration

Silverlight Strikes

Aether Binding

The numbers stared back at him, immutable and frustrating.

Since he'd arrived at Aetherhold, his progress had slowed to a crawl. What had once been a storm of notifications, new skills, attributes, unlocked abilities, had turned into a pathetic trickle. He had only leveled up, during the vault incident.

It gnawed at him.

At first, he'd chalked it up to the nature of the academy. A place of learning. Of theory. Of slow, careful refinement.

But that was a lie.

The truth was crueler: he'd grown complacent.

Aetherhold had a way of wrapping itself around you. Enchanting towers. Gleaming stonework. A thousand voices all claiming this place produced the finest mages in the world. His classmates were proud, noble-born, talented and yet, they were weak.

Thorne had seen what true power looked like. In blood. In fire. In the eyes of monsters.

Compared to that?

The best of the best here could barely light a corridor or hold a shield spell without chanting for half a minute. They preened over glowing quills and levitating books.

And he... he'd let that infect him.

He remembered Marian's awe. Zarash's reverence. The way even Argessa had eyed him with caution. It had fed something inside him, something arrogant, something dangerous.

But the Grallok had shattered that illusion.

It had pounded it into the dirt, along with several of his ribs.

He leaned forward, elbows on knees, fingers steepled as his head hung between them.

"I needed that," he muttered aloud. His voice was hoarse but certain. "I forgot what it felt like to be prey."

He looked up at the moon again, pale and distant.

His goals crystallized.

Become stronger.

Not just better in class. Not just sharper with spells or clever in battle. Stronger. Ruthlessly so. Enough to take on anything, beast, mage, empire. Even a god, if need be.

And the second goal... it twisted in his chest like a cold blade.

Find any sign of Bea.

He still saw her sometimes, in dreams. A silhouette caught in firelight. A girl vanishing into shadow, her hand slipping from his. He had failed her. And the longer he stayed here, sheltered and watched, the more that failure deepened.

She was somewhere. Alive. Or dead. He had to know. He had to find her.

He clenched his fists. The healing moonlight continued its slow work, but his pain had already begun to fade, not from regeneration, but from resolve.

He would not waste another day.

Thorne stayed like that for a while, letting Lunar Regeneration knit flesh and dull the throb in his ribs. The glow of the moon above offered only modest reprieve, too early in its cycle to do more than patch him together. But it was enough.

With a pained sigh, he pushed off the bench and rose to his feet.

Most of Aetherhold was still. The castle's vast halls echoed with his quiet footsteps, and the ever-burning lanterns lining the walls cast long shadows over ancient stone. He walked slowly, limping slightly, every motion stiff with bruises and cracked bone.

As he reached the entrance to Umbra House, his eyes drifted upward.

The stone guardian loomed where it always did, the hooded figure carved from obsidian-like rock, holding a flickering candle in one hand and a closed book in the other. Its face was hidden in shadow, as if watching him without ever revealing its judgment.

Thorne met its unseen gaze for a moment, then continued downward, descending the stairs into Umbra's heart.

Thorne limped through the entrance of the Umbra common room, expecting quiet shadows and empty corridors.

Instead, the common room buzzed like a beehive after dusk.

Warm light spilled from the runed thought lanterns drifting in the air, casting soft glows over huddled figures. Students crouched in shadowy alcoves, scrolls and grimoires scattered across their laps, quills scratching in frantic rhythm. The low hum of whispered spells drifted like static in the air, someone reciting an incantation under their breath, another testing sigil sequences in the air with glowing fingertips.

Clusters of others lounged on velvet divans and stone benches, nursing half-empty cups of plum-colored wine and speaking too loudly. The air smelled of fruit, parchment, and burnt herbs.

Near the still pond at the room's center, two students sat with their bare legs dipped into its enchanted surface. They giggled as glowing images shimmered across the glassy water, private messages, perhaps, or predictions shaped by aether-activated enchantments.

It was strange, chaotic, oddly beautiful.

And all of it stopped the moment Thorne stepped inside.

Conversations died. Quills stilled. Half a dozen heads turned in eerie unison.

And then the gasps began.

Because he looked like a disaster given form.

His uniform, Vellin's enchanted fabric, was torn at the shoulders, ripped at the sleeves, bloodied from thigh to collar. The protective weave was still trying to repair itself, but it gave off a sad, sputtering shimmer, like a dying star trying to reform its own light.

His face was bruised, lip split, cheekbone scraped. One sleeve was entirely missing, and his hair, usually tousled but passable looked like he'd fought through a hurricane and lost.

For a long second, the only sound was the quiet drip of water from the pond.

Then...

"Thorne!" a voice cried out.

Isadora burst out of the crowd like a crimson firework, her cloak fluttering behind her, then stumbled a little as she rushed over. Her usual grace had taken a minor vacation. Her cheeks were flushed, and she reeked of berrywine and perfumed oils, her dark braid lopsided from the evening's excess. She wore a playful grin until she got a good look at him.

"Oh. My. Gods." Her smile died instantly. "What in the dead gods' name happened to you?!"

"I'm..." Thorne started.

"You look like you got hit by a wagon. Then dragged by it. Then set on fire. Then..."

"I got it," Thorne muttered, swaying slightly. "And I'm fine."

She cut him off by placing both hands on his chest, then immediately recoiled with a gasp. "You're wet, no, wait, that's blood! Are you bleeding? That's blood! Oh no."

"It's mostly dried..."

"You look like you crawled out of a monster's stomach," she said, voice climbing an octave. "Did you crawl out of a monster's stomach? You would do that."

"I'm fine."

"You are not fine," she snapped, grabbing his arm. "You're limping. You're grimacing. And your shirt is, and I mean this with affection, absolutely ruined."

"I just need..."

"... a health potion," she finished, tugging him toward the stairs. "My room. Now. Before you collapse and bleed all over Umbra's furniture. And then they'll charge you a restoration fee. It's in the handbook."

Thorne exhaled through his nose, dragging his feet. "Isadora..."

"Don't argue. You're in no condition to win a battle of wits right now."

He considered protesting, but honestly, the stairs looked like a summit expedition at this point. His ribs ached, his vision was spotty around the edges, and he was pretty sure there was tree bark embedded in his arm.

"I'm only going because I don't want to die on the stairs," he muttered.

"That's the spirit," she said cheerfully. "Bleed quietly if you must, just not in the carpet."

They moved to the alcove leading up to their chambers and then up the curved staircase, Isadora still fussing, half-worried, half-drunk, and entirely incapable of being ignored. Thorne let her, exhaustion sinking into his bones like lead. A part of him wanted to laugh. Another part, the bigger part, was just glad to be alive.

And maybe, for once, not alone.

Thorne had been in Isadora's room before. He knew what to expect. And yet, stepping inside again, bloody, bruised, bone-weary, felt like crossing into a different realm altogether.

The scent hit him first. Something soft and powdery with a sharp floral edge. Then came the low, ever-present hum of magic, barely audible, more a sensation in the air than a sound. Velvet drapes shimmered in the candlelight, shifting hue from indigo to amethyst with every passing second. Her room was still a study in curated opulence: silver thread embroidery, floating crystal orbs humming contentedly, gilded furniture and delicate glass charms suspended from the ceiling like falling stars.

But it wasn't the room that caught his breath this time.

It was her.

He now noticed that Isadora had changed into an evening gown, floor-length, sleek as moonlight poured into silk. Midnight blue with silver embroidery curling like frost over her bodice, it hugged her figure with a kind of elegant defiance, like it knew exactly the effect it had and welcomed the attention. Her long hair had been half-pinned, loose strands framing her flushed cheeks and wine-dark lips. She wasn't just dressed for company, she looked like she was the company.

"Don't bleed on anything expensive," she said, closing the door behind them and placing her hands on her hips. "Which is..." her gaze swept over him, "... basically everything."

Thorne grunted. "You should've led with that warning."

He collapsed onto her bed without hesitation, sinking into the absurd luxury of the pillows and feather-stuffed mattress. The sheets were still the same soft silver he remembered, cool against his skin, and, unfortunately, already speckled with drying blood.

Isadora winced. "Thorne! I just told you!"

"You want me on the floor?" he muttered, eyes closing for a moment. "Because I can fall again. Pretty sure I've got one good crash left in me."

She made a noise halfway between exasperation and concern. "You look like you've been mauled by a herd of stampeding drakes."

"Just one," he corrected, cracking an eye open. "A very big, very angry one. But thank you for the visual."

She huffed but crossed the room in a few graceful strides and began rummaging through a crystal-inlaid drawer at her vanity. "You're lucky I'm prepared for every disaster. Including fashion ones."

He leaned back on his elbows, a small smile tugging at his lips as he watched her, the way her dress shimmered in the lamplight, how the room seemed to shape itself around her presence like it had no other choice. "You always like this after wine?"

"I've had two glasses," she said, holding up a finger. "Hardly drunk. Just... charmingly uninhibited."

"Mm-hm."

"You know," he continued lazily, "you're not half bad when you're half-drunk."

Isadora scoffed. "That's slander. I'm amazing when I'm half-drunk.

She returned a moment later, triumphantly holding a bottle in hand "Here. Elixir of Vital Bloom. This batch was brewed under a red moon and steeped with phoenix ash. It'll do more for you than a week of rest."

She offered the vial with an exaggerated flourish, and Thorne took it with a raised brow. The potion inside shimmered a rich red-gold, swirling slowly like molten gems.

"This better not kill me," he said, unstoppering the bottle.

"If it does, I promise to bury you somewhere scenic."

He took the potion and uncorked it. "Why do all your potions sound like they belong in an overpriced spa?"

"Because they do," she said with a wink.

The potion was warm going down, syrupy and spiced like something halfway between brandy and fire. Relief hit him like a slow wave, tightened muscles unwinding, aches dulling, energy pooling slowly back into his limbs.

"That good, huh?" she said smugly.

"Yeah," he said hoarsely. "I think I just tasted godhood."

She beamed, then suddenly leaned forward, brushing his hand aside as she began to unbutton his shredded uniform shirt. Thorne flinched.

"Whoa. What are you doing?"

She rolled her eyes. "Relax. I'm not trying to ravish you. Your uniform's completely ruined, look at this!" She held up the tattered, blood-streaked fabric in horror. "This was limited edition. Do you know how many favors I had to cash in to get Vellin to agree to this cut?"

Her fingers worked deftly over the torn buttons and frayed seams. Thorne groaned when her touch grazed a bruise, and her hands paused, suddenly gentler. She peeled the ruined shirt off him carefully, trying not to wince at the sight beneath, bruises blooming in rich purples, gashes still half-healed despite the potion, muscles taut from strain and blood loss.

"This uniform cost a fortune," she muttered, folding it with surprising tenderness. "And now it looks like it survived a war. Barely. I'm sending it to my tailor in Evermist," she said firmly. "He's a miracle worker. If anyone can salvage this disaster, it's him."

He grunted when her fingers grazed a fresh bruise. "You're not going to send me too, are you?"

She smirked. "Tempting. You do look like a half-dead mercenary someone dragged in from the borderlands."

Thorne chuckled, leaning back again as she folded the ruined shirt with meticulous care. "So you're saying I wear the bloodied look well?"

"I'm saying," she said, stepping close and brushing a lock of hair from his brow, "that I kind of like this whole... disheveled warrior vibe you've got going on. Mysterious. Dangerous. Bleeding." Her voice dropped as she leaned in, lips close to his ear.

"But if you get blood on my sheets, I will kill you."

A shiver ran down his spine despite himself.

He smirked. "Noted."

Isadora pushed him back onto the pillows, and despite her warning, her sheets drank in the blood streaking his bare skin.

"You had one job," she muttered, half amused, half exasperated.