THE AETHERBORN

Thorne’s eyes blinked open to the sight of Jonah crouching over him, his face twisted in horror. “What happened to you?” Jonah’s voice was an odd mix of shock and genuine concern, thick with disbelief as he took in Thorne’s battered state.

A faint grunt was all Thorne managed in response. He tried to sit up, but his body screamed in protest, a thousand bruises flaring up in painful unison. He collapsed back onto the unforgiving floor, every rough wooden board digging into his bruised skin like shards of glass. There was muttering somewhere nearby, Jonah’s voice a low hum, but the constant throbbing pain clouded Thorne’s mind, making everything sound distant and dull. He focused on holding back tears, feeling the sting of salt as they tried to slip from his swollen eyes.

Every inch of him hurt. Breathing hurt. Blinking hurt. His muscles felt as if they’d been twisted and wrung out, every joint raw and swollen. He barely held on to the shreds of his consciousness, his thoughts hazy and fractured, like the broken pieces of a shattered mirror.

A hand shook him gently, and he cracked open an eye to find Jonah staring down at him, worry stark in his gaze. “Do you need help getting to the bed?”

Thorne didn’t respond. It took all his effort just to keep his eyes open, and he let them fall shut, hoping Jonah would understand and just leave him be. But the next thing he felt was a sharp explosion of pain as Jonah began to lift him. Thorne’s scream tore through the silence, ripping up from his throat before he even registered it.

“Sorry,” Jonah grunted, struggling to support Thorne’s weight as he practically dragged him across the room, each step jarring every injury anew. Finally, Thorne was lowered onto the mattress, gasping for air as he sank into its scratchy warmth.

“Thank you,” he managed to croak, his voice weak and frayed.

Jonah’s cheeks flushed as he rubbed the back of his neck, looking anywhere but Thorne. “Yeah, well…you’re an idiot for getting your ass kicked this bad,” he muttered, trying to cover his worry with a casual jab. “How’re you supposed to get up and hunt in the forest? We’re kind of used to full bellies now. I’m not going back to rat stew.”

Jonah’s words were light, but his eyes were serious, a thread of genuine concern pulling his face into an uncharacteristic frown. Thorne felt a strange warmth at the sight. Was Jonah actually worried about him? He’d have laughed if it didn’t hurt so much just to breathe. Thorne noticed Ben hovering in the background, moving frantically as if looking for something. After a moment, he pointed at Thorne and gestured wildly at Jonah, who shrugged. In frustration, Ben stomped his foot before rushing out the door, a mix of irritation and worry flickering across his face.

Thorne wanted to ask what was wrong with Ben, but the words wouldn't come. His mind was a foggy mess, and he let his gaze drift to the cobwebs on the ceiling, letting his thoughts wander in and out of the pain.

A moment later, Jonah dragged a chair close to the bed and plopped into it, fixing Thorne with a hard look. He didn't waste a second before peppering him with questions, each one louder than the last. "Was it the Rats?" he demanded, his eyes flashing with anger. "If it was, the rest of us need to know. We’ll beat the crap out of any Rat that tries this again!"

Thorne could only muster a weak smile at Jonah’s intensity. Part of him appreciated the loyalty in his friend’s voice, but mostly, he just wanted Jonah to be quiet so he could sleep. But Jonah wouldn’t let up, his voice cutting into the silence, each question like a hammer to Thorne’s pounding head.

"Who did this to you, Thorne?" Jonah asked, his voice filled with growing frustration. “Was it a guard? Was it another gang?”

Thorne sighed inwardly, realizing Jonah wasn’t going to let it go. He needed to say something. With his strength ebbing away, he decided to test his new skill, Echoes of Truth. Drawing in a shaky breath, he forced his voice to steady and infused it with aether, hoping it would be enough to sound convincing.

“It was my fault, Jonah,” he murmured, his voice slipping into an eerie resonance. “I got cocky and tried to steal some food. The shopkeeper caught me and beat me up pretty bad, but at least he didn’t call the guards.”

Jonah’s tense expression softened as he exhaled a sigh of relief, his shoulders slumping. “Thank the dead gods for that. You’re an idiot, Thorne, you know that?” He shook his head, muttering under his breath. “One of these days, you’re gonna get yourself thrown in a dungeon or worse. At least you’re not dead.”

Thorne’s lips twitched in a weak smile, more relieved than anything that his new skill had worked. His voice had changed slightly while using it, taking on a tone that even convinced him, sounding deeper, stronger, even in his weakened state. A notification flashed in his vision:

Skill Level Up: Echoes of Truth!

Jonah sighed, patting Thorne’s shoulder awkwardly. "Rest up, alright? And maybe don’t try to steal from shopkeepers twice your size next time."

Thorne nodded, his eyelids growing heavy as the last shreds of his strength faded away. Jonah’s voice became a distant murmur as he settled back into the mattress, the pain a constant hum, but his mind drifting towards sleep. His last conscious thought was a small, surprising satisfaction that, despite the day’s brutal training, something had actually gone right.

And with that, the darkness took him.

*

Thorne jolted awake, feeling hands pressing something cool onto his aching skin. He blinked, disoriented, his first thought racing to the dreaded idea that he had missed his training. He tried to sit up, but the effort sent a wave of pain crashing over him, and he slumped back onto the mattress with a low groan.

“What's going on?” he muttered, noticing two familiar faces leaning over him.

Ben stood beside the bed, clutching a small wooden bowl filled with a thick, gritty paste, his face creased in concentration. Beside him, Jonah crossed his arms and huffed, feigning annoyance.

“Ben thinks he's some sort of alchemist now,” Jonah said, rolling his eyes. “Ever since he got his hands on that book of potions, he’s been itching to try out the recipes—and you, lucky for you, happen to be his first test subject.”

Ben flushed under Jonah’s teasing, his face turning a shade darker as he averted his gaze. Thorne’s suspicion flickered to the mystery book’s origins, especially given Ben’s habit of procuring items that weren't exactly his.

Jonah’s sigh confirmed it. “Yeah, he probably swiped it from the same alchemist we sold your haul to. Seems he thought the guy underpaid us, so he just ‘recovered’ what was rightfully ours.”

Thorne chuckled, though the movement sent a pang through his ribs. “I guess I should be grateful I’m benefiting from Ben’s moral stand.”

Ben grinned, undeterred by the ribbing. With a serious expression and a focus so intense his tongue poked out between his lips, Ben began to dab the paste over Thorne’s bruises and cuts, careful but thorough. The paste was cool, its smell earthy and sharp. Almost immediately, a calming numbness spread across his skin, soothing the bruises, the pain dulled to a tolerable throb.

Thorne’s eyes widened in surprise. “Hey, this actually works!”

Ben’s eyes sparked with pride, though he tried to hide it with a mock glare, his cheeks flushing as he resumed applying the paste.

“Told ya,” Jonah said with a smirk. “Ben’s a natural-born healer. First time he tried it on himself, though, he was convinced it’d turn him into a toad or something. It was... impressive.”

Ben rolled his eyes, flashing Jonah a quick, exasperated look, then made a series of quick, expressive hand gestures. Jonah snorted and shook his head, glancing at Thorne.

“He says if you didn’t have him around, you’d probably just lie here and whine like a baby.”

“Yeah, well,” Thorne shot back, his voice still a little weak, “he’s probably right. Thanks, Ben. I mean it.”

Ben’s expression softened, and he gave a mock salute, his grin widening, pride written all over his dirty face.

Jonah grinned, ruffling Ben’s unruly hair. “Who knew our little pickpocket would turn into such a good alchemist?”

Ben swatted his hand away and gestured again, this time more seriously. Jonah watched, nodding, and turned back to Thorne with a raised eyebrow.

“He says you might want to keep some of this stuff handy. If you keep getting into trouble, you’re going to need a lot more of it.”

Thorne let out a long sigh, his head lolling back against the pillow. “Believe me, I know. Feels like the whole city’s got it out for me.”

Jonah shrugged, ever the pragmatist. “Maybe it does. But look at it this way—if you make it through, you’ll be the toughest street rat in the whole city.”

Thorne raised an eyebrow. “That’s supposed to be comforting?”

Jonah’s grin grew wider. “Hey, it beats being a dead street rat, right?”

Despite the pain, despite the throbbing ache of every muscle and bone, Thorne couldn’t help the rough, ragged laugh that escaped him. It hurt, but it was real, and it made him feel more human, more grounded. Here he was, broken and bruised, yet somehow... not alone.

Ben finished applying the last of the paste and stepped back, giving Thorne a thumbs-up. The cooling numbness spread over his injuries, lulling him into a state of almost-forgotten pain.

“Thanks, Ben,” Thorne murmured, his voice soft. “You’re a lifesaver.”

Ben shrugged, his modesty a poor disguise for the pleased look on his face.

Jonah clapped Thorne on the shoulder, careful to avoid any bruises. “Get some rest, princeling. You look like you’ve been chewed up and spat out.”

Thorne let his head fall back against the pillow, feeling exhaustion tugging at him once more. As he drifted back to sleep, he couldn't help but feel grateful for his friends, even in the midst of all the chaos and pain.

As Thorne began to drift back to sleep, he was jolted awake by Jonah's voice, rough and urgent.

“We’re heading out,” Jonah announced, rising from his makeshift bed and stretching. Ben was already stuffing their few belongings into his threadbare bag, moving with practiced efficiency.

Thorne blinked, forcing his eyes open, the remnants of sleep clinging to him. “Where are you going?” he asked, still groggy.

Jonah shrugged, though there was a seriousness to his tone. “To work. We’ve been cooped up here too long. Can’t afford to stay hidden forever if we want to eat.”

A frown pulled at Thorne’s brow. “What exactly do you do for work?”

For a moment, Jonah’s face hardened, but then his expression softened, his eyes showing a flicker of something Thorne hadn’t seen before—resignation. “Not all of us get favors from Uncle,” he muttered, though this time there was no venom in his words, only a tired acceptance.

The remark cut Thorne, even though Jonah’s voice was devoid of malice. It was a simple statement of fact, one that forced Thorne to look at the lines of fatigue around Jonah’s eyes, the faint bruise on his cheekbone, the ragged edges of his clothes.

“What do you mean?” Thorne pressed. “What kind of work do you do?”

Jonah’s gaze slipped away, his face tense. After a long moment, he let out a sigh. “During the day, we scavenge for whatever we can find—scraps, trinkets, stuff to sell,” he said, his voice flat. “Sometimes, if we’re lucky, we get our hands on something worth a few coins. And when the opportunity’s there, we pickpocket easy marks.”

Ben nodded quietly, shooting Jonah a resigned look. Jonah continued, his voice hollow. “At night, we work as lookouts for one of Uncle’s men. Sometimes they pay us. Sometimes they don’t. Depends on how generous they feel.”

Thorne felt a cold weight settle in his stomach. “Why do you do it?” he asked softly, his voice thick with worry.

Jonah gave him a look, a mix of pity and frustration, as if Thorne’s naivety was almost painful to witness. “Because, Thorne,” he replied, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper, “if we don’t, we disappear. No questions. No trace.”

A chill ran down Thorne’s spine. He wanted to protest, to argue that Uncle wouldn’t do such a thing, that he wouldn’t turn his back on his own family. But the memory of Uncle’s cold eyes, his ruthless calculations, the hundreds of lives he had sacrificed so easily, all to get richer... Thorne knew the words would only make him sound foolish.

Jonah gave him a small, awkward pat on the shoulder. “We’ll be back later. Just… try not to do anything stupid while we’re gone, alright?”

Ben waved with a quick, tight-lipped smile, his hand moving in a little salute before he slipped out of the attic, following Jonah into the twilight. Thorne watched them go, the heavy weight of helplessness pressing down on him.

Alone once again, Thorne leaned back, staring up at the dim, cracked ceiling, thoughts swirling in his mind. He didn’t want Jonah and Ben risking their lives for a few copper coins, trapped in the web of his uncle’s empire. But what could he do?

The hours passed in a blur, his exhaustion dragging him in and out of sleep. Ben’s paste, though crude, was surprisingly effective. It had dulled the worst of his pain and helped his health points recover faster than he’d expected, but he was still below the halfway mark.

Every bruise, every ache and throb of his battered body reminded him of Sid, of the ruthless training and Sid’s promise that things would only grow harder.

When dusk deepened into night, despite the pain and the multiple bruises that had turned his skin into a purple nightmare, he crawled out of bed and headed to the warehouse. Each step felt like a battle, his body screaming in protest, but he pushed through, driven by a mix of fear and determination.

The storm had eased, leaving the night air cold and damp. Despite his slow pace, he was there before Sid. The cavernous space felt even more oppressive without the sound of rain to mask his nervous breaths.

Sid appeared out of nowhere, emerging from the shadows like a specter, and attacked Thorne without warning. His battered body and surprise didn't give him enough time to evade, and a right hook slammed straight into his face. Pain exploded in his cheek, and he stumbled back, clutching his face.

“Pathetic!” Sid mocked him and then ordered him to stand up.

When Thorne managed with a pained grimace, Sid told him that tonight he wanted him to simply evade his attacks. From then on, Sid didn't talk; he just punched, kicked, and even headbutted. Tears ran down Thorne's face from the pain, but he didn't give Sid the satisfaction of quitting. He tried again and again to evade the vicious attacks, but as time passed, his body didn't want to respond to his wishes.

Sid sneered, delivering a sharp kick to Thorne's side. "You call this evading? You're moving like a slug!"

Thorne struggled to stay on his feet, every muscle in his body screaming in protest. Sid's blows were relentless, each one finding its mark with brutal precision. Thorne's attempts to dodge were met with swift and punishing counterattacks, leaving him gasping for breath and reeling from the pain.

Thorne's vision blurred as he tried to focus. He saw Sid's fist coming towards him, but his reflexes were too slow, and the punch connected with his jaw, sending him sprawling to the ground. Blood trickled from his split lip, and he tasted copper.

Sid circled him, his eyes cold and merciless. "You're not cut out for this. Maybe I was wrong about you."

Thorne forced himself to stand, his legs trembling from exhaustion. He couldn't afford to show weakness. He had to push through the pain. He tried to anticipate Sid's next move, but the man was always a step ahead, his attacks swift and unyielding.

Sid's mocking laughter filled the warehouse. "You're hopeless! Just a pathetic little boy trying to play at being a fighter."

The training ended when Thorne's stamina ran out, and he got an especially brutal kick to the head. The world went black.

When Thorne woke up, he was completely disoriented, not even recalling where he was or why he was there. Sid's mocking voice brought him back to reality. "Pitiful," Sid sneered. "I regret taking you on as an apprentice."

After a few more moments of verbal abuse, Thorne stood up, swaying on his feet. His eyes had trouble focusing, and he barely understood what Sid was telling him. Some semblance of cognition returned when he saw notifications on the corner of his vision.

Skill Level Up: Resilience!

Skill Level Up: Resilience!

Skill Level Up: Thick Skin!

Skill Level Up: Thick Skin!

Skill Level Up: Thick Skin!

Skill Level Up: Thick Skin!

Skill Level Up: Thick Skin!

Skill Level Up: Unarmed Combat

Congratulations! New Skill Unlocked: Combat Reflexes!

Thorne was too absorbed in his new gains to fully understand what happened next. The notifications brought a small spark of hope in his otherwise bleak reality. They had just stepped out of the warehouse, Sid still talking down to him, when Thorne heard a whistling sound. Before he could register what was happening, Sid pushed him to the ground, Thorne skittering on the rough cobblestones as an arrow pierced Sid's lower side.

Sid grunted in pain but remained standing, his eyes scanning the shadows for their assailants. Thorne looked up with wide eyes, full of fear, as three figures appeared in a puff of smoke at the mouth of the alley. They moved with a predatory grace, their faces obscured by dark hoods. Thorne's heart raced as he realized who these men were. Sid's usual air of invincibility seemed shaken, and that terrified Thorne more than anything.

Sid, clutching his wound, still managed to stand protectively in front of Thorne. "Stay behind me," he growled, his voice lacking its usual mocking tone. "This is going to get ugly."

Thorne nodded, too scared to do anything else, as the three figures advanced, weapons glinting menacingly in the dim light.