THE AETHERBORN

Thorne's feet pounded against the cobblestones, his breath coming in jagged gasps, lungs burning as he sprinted through the dark, winding streets of the city. Sid’s life depended on him getting help, and with every step, his mind raced with fragmented thoughts and fears, each one urging him to go faster.

He took every shortcut he knew, his Escape Artist skill kicking in, guiding him through the maze of alleys and side streets. He vaulted over debris, barely registering the sharp edges biting into his hands, and pushed past lingering vendors who yelled at him as he darted by. The city around him blurred, every second stretching painfully long.

At last, Uncle's house loomed into view, its well-kept exterior a stark contrast to the dingy streets he’d just torn through. He didn't bother with the main entrance. Instead, with a burst of adrenaline, Thorne made straight for the side entrance to the kitchen, skidding to a stop and pounding on the door until his knuckles were raw.

No one answered. Without a second thought, he barged in, tripping over a pot that clanged against the floor, silencing the bustling kitchen.

The kitchen was in its usual state of chaos. Women bustled over steaming pots, serving girls hurried about like headless chickens, and the clatter of utensils filled the air. In the midst of it all, Arletta sat calmly at a small table by the side, sipping a cup of tea. Her posture was rigid but dignified, a stark contrast to the whirlwind around her.

A hush fell over the room as the kitchen staff stopped mid-motion. Thorne staggered, his voice nothing more than a croak. He took a deep breath, then forced the words out in a desperate yell.

“Sid is hurt!”

Every pair of eyes turned to him, and the kitchen erupted in whispers. But Arletta didn’t hesitate. She rose immediately, her teacup forgotten, and seized Thorne by the arm. Her grip was firm but not unkind as she guided him toward the hallway, demanding details in a low, urgent voice.

He gave her a hasty, broken explanation of what had happened, and he saw her pale slightly. Without a word, she pulled him through the house to the grand living room where his uncle sat among richly dressed men, the air thick with the smell of cigars and loud laughter.

Thorne barely noticed the luxurious surroundings as his uncle’s glare zeroed in on them, the man's expression darkening with irritation. “Arletta, what is this interruption?” his uncle’s voice cut through the room, silencing the laughter.

Arletta tried to speak, but Thorne’s desperation broke through. “Uncle! Sid’s hurt. Badly! He needs help—now.”

His uncle’s face shifted, irritation melting into a cold, unreadable expression. He leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “Where is he?” The question was quiet, precise, and devoid of any hint of concern.

“Near the warehouse. He told me to come get help,” Thorne replied, fighting to keep his voice steady.

Uncle fired off questions, each one more rapid and precise than the last. Thorne answered as best as he could, feeling as if he were being cross-examined rather than helped. Satisfied, his uncle turned to Arletta, his voice brisk and commanding. “Gather my bodyguards. And bring Roderick, the poisoner.”

The man next to Uncle frowned, clearly annoyed, but Uncle waved him off with an apologetic smile. “Gentlemen, a matter of urgency has arisen,” he said, excusing himself.

Minutes later, Thorne was leading a group of Uncle’s guards through the twisting city streets. The poisoner, Roderick, kept to himself, his frame cloaked in a dark, hooded garment that made him look more like a specter than a healer. His eyes held a disturbing gleam of curiosity as he followed along, clutching a satchel filled with sinister vials and tools.

Thorne’s heart raced, his mind buzzing with the pressure of the moment. The guards surrounded him in a tight formation, their faces stern, eyes scanning for threats. He glanced nervously at Roderick’s unsettling smile, but pushed the thought away, focusing on the path ahead.

Finally, they reached the alley. Thorne's anxiety spiked and he prayed they weren't too late. His stomach knotted as he saw Sid slumped against the wall, blood staining the cobblestones beneath him. His skin was pallid, breaths shallow. The guards fanned out, forming a protective ring, while Roderick knelt by Sid, hands moving with eerie calm as he assessed the wound.

Thorne watched, feeling helpless but hopeful. He had done his part. Now it was up to them to save Sid.

Thorne held his breath as Roderick began his work. The poisoner’s hands were deft, moving with practiced ease as he pulled out a series of small vials, each one containing liquids that ranged from emerald green to midnight black. He mixed them in precise measurements, grinding herbs into the concoction and murmuring words that Thorne could barely hear.

Roderick muttered furiously, his voice barely audible under his breath. "Damn assassins and their damned poisons. How many have they managed to pump into him? Half a dozen, at least." He shot a sharp look at Thorne, his eyes intense and unwavering. "Boy, I need your hands—sit down here."

Thorne obeyed, dropping to his knees on the cold, wet cobblestones. The damp chill gnawed at his bones, but he ignored it, his gaze fixed on Roderick’s rapidly moving hands as he began pulling ingredients from his leather bag, each motion more precise than the last. "Grab that vial, the green one," he snapped, pointing toward a small container glistening with vibrant liquid.

Thorne’s hands were unsteady, but he found the vial and passed it over. Roderick’s hand was outstretched and ready, as if he’d expected the vial to appear in his hand before Thorne had even moved. "Good," he muttered, dropping a few careful splashes of the green liquid into his concoction. "Now, the red powder. Steady hands, this stuff’s volatile."

Thorne’s heart hammered as he picked up the pouch of red powder, feeling the slight heat of it even through the fabric. He passed it over with a concentrated calm, watching as Roderick mixed it into the potion, muttering under his breath. "Look at this—half his face crawling with green veins. That’s the mark of at least three different poisons. Filthy work."

Thorne stole a glance at Sid. The web of green veins pulsed hideously across his face, a stark contrast against his ashen skin, the grim proof of how close death was looming. He felt a shudder run through him, but forced himself to focus. Roderick was still moving at a frantic pace, his hands a blur, voice taut with urgency. "Next, the blue vial. Slowly, pour it in drop by drop."

Thorne did as he was told, watching as the liquid swirled into the mixture. Roderick narrated half-aloud as he worked, his focus more on his potions than on Thorne. "Hemotoxin neutralizer—will keep his organs functioning. But the neurotoxin… Damn assassins knew what they were doing."

Two guards checked the bodies of the dead rogues for any signs of further danger or useful information, while two more stood guard at each end of the alley, eyes scanning the shadows for any sign of movement. The last guard stayed close, his sword drawn and ready, tense and prepared for any additional threat.

Roderick didn’t look up as he extended his hand. "Yellow vial," he ordered, voice like steel. Thorne handed it over, keeping silent, his head swimming with questions he didn’t dare to ask.

At last, Roderick finished mixing the potion and tilted it gently into Sid’s mouth. Sid’s lips parted, and the thick, glowing liquid slipped down his throat. The silence that followed felt endless, and Thorne’s nerves were taut as bowstrings as he watched Sid’s pale face for any sign of life.

"Now we wait," Roderick murmured, slumping slightly, his brow damp with sweat. "This might buy us enough time to get him back to the house. If it doesn’t…" His voice trailed off, leaving the rest unspoken but painfully clear.

Thorne’s gaze returned to Sid, whose greenish veins pulsed more faintly now, but still clung to his skin like a sinister network of webs. Roderick, unwilling to rest, began preparing another mixture, his hands relentless in their task. He reached for a jar of beetle shells, each shell iridescent and shining under the faint light, a pinch of powdered moonflower, and finally, a small vial of shimmering liquid that looked like captured starlight.

"This one’s for the Nightshade’s Kiss," Roderick muttered, grinding the beetle shells to dust, mixing in the moonflower, and finally adding the drops of liquid starlight. The mixture emitted a faint glow as he poured it down Sid’s throat, each drop sinking into Sid’s body like a lifeline.

Sid’s lips moved, and he released a faint, pained groan. Roderick let out a quiet sigh of relief, but his expression remained serious. "He’s not out of danger yet," he said, looking to the guards. "This looks like Widow’s Grief poison. We need to get back to the house, and fast, if I’m to make the antidote."

Two guards nodded, lifting Sid’s unconscious form as carefully as they could manage. Their pace was measured, slowed by the weight of their comrade, as they set off through the slick streets. Thorne overheard one of the remaining guards whisper that he would stay behind to dispose of the bodies, ensuring no trace remained of the deadly confrontation that had played out in the alley.

Thorne stood beside Roderick, mind still reeling from the whirlwind of poisons and antidotes. The weight of the night’s events bore down on him, but he stayed silent, absorbing every movement, every muttered word.

As they trudged through the winding, darkened streets, the adrenaline that had kept Thorne going began to drain, leaving him painfully aware of every bruise and cut. Each step seemed harder than the last, his legs like lead, his body screaming for rest. The fight, the chase—it had all taken its toll, and now, with the urgency gone, the pain hit him like a wall. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to keep moving.

Finally, they reached the house, and the guards ushered Sid and Roderick inside without a second glance at him. Left in the entryway, Thorne swayed on his feet, his vision swimming. In the dim corner, he spotted an ornate chair, its polished wood and fine upholstery out of place in his world. But he didn’t care. Every ounce of strength was gone; all he wanted was to collapse, and so he did.

The soft cushions felt like clouds against his battered skin. His body sagged into the chair as his eyes drooped heavily, the night’s events playing through his mind in disjointed fragments. The violent clash in the alley, Sid’s cold sneer, the flash of blades—all of it swirled together, a chaotic reel that made him feel both proud and terrified. He fought to stay awake, but his body had hit its limit.

As his vision blurred, he felt himself slipping away, the ache and exhaustion drawing him down into the depths of a hard, dreamless sleep.

*

Thorne awoke to an unfamiliar room. The walls were bare, painted a faded gray that seemed to swallow the dim light. The sparse space held only a narrow bed and an old, scratched chest of drawers, its wood worn with time. A single candle, nearly melted to a puddle, flickered weakly on the nightstand, casting thin shadows that wavered across the room like ghosts. He shifted, expecting the usual pull of pain, the sting of half-healed bruises. But nothing hurt. Blinking, he ran a hand over his torso, his fingers finding smooth, unbroken skin.

With wide eyes, he took in his healed body, feeling more whole than he had in weeks. The pain, the ache—it was all gone. Stunned, he thought back to Roderick, the poisoner. They must have forced one of his potent brews down his throat.

Thorne lay there, allowing himself a rare moment of calm as his mind adjusted to the absence of pain. A small pang of gratitude mixed with wariness rose in him.

With a deep breath, he pulled up his character sheet, half-expecting some new downside. But instead, he was met with numbers and stats that had grown, his hard-won skills reflected in a satisfying list of improvements.

Name: Thorne

Level: 14

Race: Human

Age: 9

Special Trait: Elder Race

Health Points: 460/460

Aether: 290/290

Stamina: 357/370

Strength: 30

Agility: 36

Dexterity: 33

Endurance: 37

Vitality: 46

Spirit: 50

Wisdom: 29

Intelligence: 30

Skills:

Tracking: 11

Foraging: 3

Archery: 1

Running: 15 → 17

Stealth: 11 → 13

Reading: 7

Arithmetic: 6

Herbalism: 2

Acting: 10 → 13

Haggling: 6

Deception: 4 → 9

Sleight of Hand: 5

Pickpocketing: 3

Lockpicking: 2

Resilience: 3 → 6

Thick Skin: 11 → 18

Acrobatics: 10

Daggers: 11

Escape Artist: 10

Shadow Meld: 1 → 2

Mindguard: 1

Echoes of Truth: 1 → 3

Unarmed Combat: 1 → 3

Combat Reflexes: 1

Aether Skills:

Primal Aether Manipulation: 7

Aether Burst: 2

Aether Surge: 1

But one thing continued to gnaw at him. Even with all these skill advancements, his character level hadn’t budged. The last time he’d leveled up was after killing that elemental cat, and he’d faced far worse since then. The endless life-and-death situations, the brutal training under Sid—none of it seemed to matter.

A memory of his mother’s words surfaced. "You gain experience with skill level-ups," she had told him. But he hadn’t seen any such progress. Only one conclusion made sense: leveling up required a kill. A chill crept through him as he recalled her warnings about the elder races and their cursed path of strife. To survive and get stronger, he’d have to take lives. There was no other way.

The thought left a bitter taste, and he gave a defeated sigh, broken by the creak of the door. A young cook entered, balancing a tray in her hands. He remembered her—Mary, the girl who’d glared at him the last time after fooling her, trying to find Uncle. Her frown was even deeper today as she clattered the tray down, half-spilling the mug of milk.

“Brought you breakfast,” she said curtly, the annoyance clear in her tone. “When you’re done, Miss Arletta said to come to the kitchen.” Without waiting for a reply, she turned on her heel, slamming the door behind her.

He smirked to himself but didn’t linger. Hunger drove him to eat quickly, and he savored the simple meal more than he’d expected. For once, he felt full, his strength renewed, his mind sharper. He took a deep breath, steeling himself, and made his way to the kitchen.

As he entered, he found Arletta seated at the small table, her face unreadable, a stone mask that revealed nothing. She didn’t glance up until he was close, then gestured for him to sit.

“Sit down, Thorne,” she commanded, her voice devoid of warmth.

Thorne complied, feeling the tension prickling his skin. He waited, his mind racing with unspoken questions, each heavier than the last.

“Sid will pull through,” Arletta said finally, her voice calm, but her words were a balm. A wave of relief swept over him, releasing a tension he hadn’t realized he was holding. But as quickly as it came, relief turned to curiosity—and frustration. He leaned forward.

“Who were those men?” His voice came out sharp, edged with desperation he couldn’t quite hide.

Arletta’s expression remained cold and distant. “That is none of your business.”

His jaw tightened, and frustration bubbled inside him. He clenched his fists, willing himself not to snap. “I want to see Uncle.”

Her eyes narrowed, and her tone grew icy. “Master is unavailable.”

Thorne crossed his arms defiantly, forcing himself to meet her gaze. “I know who those men were. They wore the same gloves as the ones inside the Thornfield estate. The Gravediggers.”

For a moment, something flickered in Arletta’s eyes—surprise, or maybe it was recognition—but it was gone in an instant. If she knew more, she was good at hiding it.

“You shouldn’t worry your little head over adult matters,” she replied, dismissive, as if he were nothing more than a nuisance. “Master asked me to inform you that your training is suspended until Sid recovers. He’ll see you when the time comes.”

With that, she rose, making it clear that the conversation was over. Frustration tightened his chest, but he knew better than to push further. Not here, not now.

“It’s time for you to go,” she added, her voice brooking no argument.

Thorne stood, casting a glance toward Matilda, who waved at him with a warm, kind smile. He forced a small smile in return, his anger softening for just a moment. Then, turning sharply, he left the kitchen, the door closing behind him with a soft, final click.

As he made his way back to his attic, he couldn't shake the feeling of frustration and helplessness. The one upside was that he now had the time to go back to the forest and hunt. It was time he leveled up again. With new plans in mind, his steps became lighter and more confident.