THE AETHERBORN

Nine Years Ago

The hare was munching on some wild ederwheed, completely oblivious to the arrow aimed at it. Thorne’s small arms trembled as he struggled to keep his bowstring taut, his fingers beginning to cramp from the tension. His breath was shallow, his heart pounding in his ears as he tried to steady himself. The hare’s nose twitched, sensing something amiss in the stillness.

Thorne let the arrow fly.

Even before it left his fingers, he knew he had missed. His heart sank as he watched the arrow’s path, sure it would veer off course. A soft breeze picked up, just enough to alter the arrow’s trajectory, and Thorne’s eyes widened as the arrow pierced the hare’s neck. A high-pitched squeal escaped the creature as it collapsed.

Thorne frowned. He shouldn't have hit it.

A heavy hand clapped down on his shoulder, startling him. His father’s deep chuckle rumbled through the quiet clearing. “That’s my boy!” His father’s pride radiated through his words, but Thorne didn’t share in the satisfaction.

“Why the frown?” his father asked, puzzled by Thorne’s reaction as he stood, eager to retrieve their prize before any predators could pick up the scent of blood.

“I thought I missed,” Thorne muttered, his frown deepening as he slung his small bow over his shoulder. His father gave him a puzzled glance.

“Miss? That was a perfect shot!” He gave Thorne’s shoulder a firm squeeze before walking forward to retrieve their prize. “Come on, let’s grab it before something else does.”

Thorne trudged after him, pushing through the bushes that had hidden them from their prey. His father knelt beside the hare, making quick, efficient work of skinning it, the practiced movements of a man who had done this countless times before.

The fur went into one sack, the meat into another, destined for the stew pot that night. Thorne’s mind wandered, imagining the pelt becoming part of one of his mother’s sewing projects. She loved to craft little things from the animals they brought back—maybe this one would become a small pouch or lining for a winter coat.

“You ready?” his father’s voice broke through his thoughts, an eyebrow raised in question. The tone was light, but there was an expectation behind the words that Thorne couldn’t ignore.

His lips pursed in frustration. "Please, Dad! Can’t we just go play? Bea brought marbles from the market, and she promised to teach me how to play. They’re so shiny, and one even has blue in it!" His voice was edged with desperation, the excitement of the marbles making his earlier exhaustion fade into the background.

His father gave him a flat look, the kind that didn’t leave room for argument. “You can play later, once we’re done. Besides, Bea’s with your mother in the village. They won’t be back until sundown.”

Thorne groaned, kicking a small rock in frustration. The thought of spending the rest of the day running through the woods made his legs ache. He wanted to play with those marbles, to feel the cool glass in his hands and watch the colors swirl in the sunlight. But there was no changing his father’s mind. They always did the same thing after hunting: run. A lot.

They always ran the same path, heading toward the same clearing. His father called it training, but to Thorne, it felt more like punishment.

With a resigned sigh, he started running, his feet crunching through the undergrowth. His legs were short, his stride uneven, but his father’s deep voice was a constant presence behind him, encouraging him to push harder.

“Keep it up, Thorne! You’re getting faster. One of these days, you’ll get your running skill!”

Thorne gritted his teeth, pushing through the burning in his legs as he navigated the rough terrain. His father made it look effortless, his long strides covering ground with ease, but Thorne struggled to keep pace. The undergrowth snagged at his feet, and he stumbled more than once, but he refused to stop.

They passed familiar landmarks—the jagged rocks with a small opening at their base, where he’d once found a shiny beetle, the towering oak with the hollow where an owl slept during the day.

By the time they reached the clearing, Thorne was gasping for air, his legs shaking from the effort. He collapsed beside the creek, splashing cool water on his face, grateful for the brief respite. His father sat on a nearby rock, already sharpening his knife, looking as though they hadn’t just run for miles.

“This path leads straight to Alvar City,” his father said, pointing with the blade of his knife toward the narrow trail ahead. His tone was serious, and Thorne could practically recite the next part by heart.

“I know, Dad!” Thorne groaned, splashing his feet in the creek. “You tell me every time we come here!”

“Alvar City is the closest settlement to our village,” his father continued, ignoring Thorne’s complaint. “It’s a port city in the Duskshore kingdom. Full of rowdy sailors and people looking to swindle you out of a copper.”

“I know, I know,” Thorne muttered, half-listening as something shiny in the creek caught his eye. His attention drifted away from his father’s lecture, his focus entirely on the small, iridescent stone that glittered in the water.

“Ooh, shiny!” Thorne exclaimed, dropping to all fours to fish the stone out of the creek. He held it up, watching in awe as the sunlight hit it just right, casting tiny rainbows across the surface of the water.

“Thorne!” his father’s amused voice cut through his excitement. “Pay attention!”

Thorne clutched the stone protectively, wary that his father might toss it aside. “What? You were just talking about Alvar City again.”

His father shook his head, standing and untying a cloth from his belt. “You need to remember this stuff,” he said, bending down to dry Thorne’s hair, much to his irritation. “South of Alvar City are the elven kingdoms. They don’t take kindly to humans.”

“I can dry myself, Dad!” Thorne protested, pushing his father’s hands away. He was almost eight, after all. He didn’t need help with something as simple as drying his hair. “I’m not a baby!”

His father offered him the cloth with an amused smile, one that only irritated Thorne further.

His father smiled, handing him the cloth. “You’re not a baby, but you’re not grown either. There are a lot of dangerous things out there, Thorne. People, places. You need to know how to stay safe.”

Thorne bobbed his head absently, more interested in spinning his new shiny rock in the light. The way it refracted tiny rainbows fascinated him. I’ll show Bea when I get home, he thought, already imagining her reaction.

“There are many kingdoms across the continent, Thorne—human, elven, and dwarven. Some are powerful, some not so much.” His father paused in his explanation, looking up with a serious expression. “People are just like kingdoms. Some are powerful, others not so much.”

Thorne huffed, his frustration clear. “I know, Dad. You’ve told me a thousand times.”

His father’s expression softened, but his tone remained firm. “If you ever see someone powerful, Thorne,” he said quietly, “you run. Understand?”

Thorne looked up, puzzled by the shift in his father’s voice. “How will I know if they’re powerful?”

“You’ll know,” his father said simply, his voice heavy with finality. “Now, let’s head back.”

*

The walk back to the village was uneventful, with Thorne completely absorbed by his new shiny rock. His feet moved on autopilot as his mind wandered, thinking about all the things he could show Bea when she returned. He barely noticed the familiar landmarks, the trees, or the soft crunch of his father’s footsteps beside him.

When they finally reached home, thin smoke curled lazily from the chimney. Thorne’s father frowned, his brow furrowing in confusion. “That’s strange,” he muttered under his breath.

But Thorne didn’t care about that. His heart leapt in excitement. “Bea’s back!” he shouted, taking off toward the house at a sprint, leaving his father behind. He slammed open the gate to their small garden, ignoring his father’s half-hearted call to slow down.

Inside, the familiar smells of cooking filled the air, making Thorne’s stomach rumble. His mother stood at the hearth, stirring a pot of stew, a soft smile on her face as she spotted him.

“Hey, sweetie,” she said warmly. “Where’s your father?”

Thorne waved vaguely over his shoulder, already scanning the room for Bea. His excitement grew with every step, his eyes darting around, looking for any sign of her.

“Bea! You promised to teach me how to play marbles!” Thorne hollered, running toward her room. He threw the door open without knocking, practically bursting inside.

Bea sat on her bed, nose buried in a book, and she glared at him. “You can’t just barge in like that, Thorne!” she snapped, tossing the book onto the bed in annoyance.

“Come on, Bea! You promised!” Thorne whined, bouncing on the balls of his feet, his excitement making it impossible to stay still. “Didn’t you bring any more shiny rocks?”

Bea sighed, rolling her eyes as she reached into her dress pocket. “Here,” she muttered, pulling out a bright marble. “Happy now?”

Thorne’s eyes went wide, his breath catching in his throat. “Ohhhhh,” he whispered in reverence, taking the marble from her with trembling hands. The colors inside swirled like tiny rivers, and Thorne held it up to the light, completely mesmerized.

Bea laughed at his reaction. “You’re so weird,” she teased, her voice filled with fond amusement.

“MOM!” Thorne yelled, already running back to the kitchen, clutching the marble tightly in his hand. “Look! Look at what Bea gave me!”

His mother was talking quietly with his father when he burst into the room, but their conversation stopped as soon as he entered. His mother smiled patiently, patting his head. “That’s lovely, sweetie. Bea picked it just for you.”

Thorne nodded, a little disappointed at the lack of enthusiasm from his parents. But his excitement quickly returned, and he ran back to Bea, begging her to teach him how to play.

*

They spent the afternoon playing marbles in Bea’s room, the soft thud of the small orbs hitting the floor filling the space. Thorne’s laughter echoed through the house, mixing with Bea’s occasional sighs of resignation. They only stopped when their parents called them for dinner.

After the meal, when Thorne asked to play some more, his father’s blank stare sent him to bed instead. Thorne sulked for a moment but eventually climbed into his bed, wrapping himself in his rabbit fur blanket. He clutched his shiny stone, his excitement from earlier still lingering as he drifted off to sleep.

Eventually, his eyelids grew heavy, and he drifted off to sleep.

But the soft murmur of voices pulled him back to consciousness.

Thorne yawned and rubbed his eyes, blinking sleepily as he realized his shiny stone had slipped from his hand. His heart pounded as he searched the covers, but then he saw it—lying on the floor, bathed in a shaft of pale moonlight. He hopped out of bed and grabbed the stone, relief flooding through him as he clutched it tightly.

That’s when he heard his parents’ voices.

“...so? Should we move?” His father’s low rumble carried through the walls.

Thorne’s curiosity spiked, and he padded silently toward the door. He cracked it open just a smidge, careful not to make a sound. Through the small gap, he saw his parents sitting at the round table, a single candle flickering between them.

“I’m not comfortable taking Bea to the village anymore, Kearan,” his mother’s voice was hushed but firm. “Her beauty is drawing too much attention. People are starting to talk. Rumors are already starting to spread that she is some kind of elf.”

There was a long silence before his father’s voice rattled the walls of the house. “If anyone dares to lay a hand on my little girl, I’ll crack their skull.”

“Shh! You’ll wake the kids!” his mother hissed.

He heard a mumbled apology and his mom continued.

“We have to keep a low profile!” his mother’s voice was sharp, her eyes clouded as she stared blankly into space. “You can’t go about killing every man who wants to marry our daughter. Besides... that’s not who I’m worried about.”

“Thorne?” Dad inquired, perplexed. His mom nodded; a deep frown on her face.

Thorne’s heart skipped a beat. What does she mean? He squinted through the crack, his little heart racing.

His mind spinning with confusion. Were they talking about him? What was wrong with him? His mother’s next words sent a chill through him.

“All the signs are there, Kearan. Any day now...” her voice trailed off, heavy with meaning Thorne couldn’t understand.

His father let out a long sigh. “Are you sure?” His voice was quiet, almost broken.

His mother nodded. “I’m sure.”

Thorne’s chest tightened, his mind racing with questions. What were they talking about? What signs?

His mother’s voice was quieter now. “Maybe we could go to Marian. If she’s in a good mood, she might help.”

“Marian?” his father scoffed, his voice dripping with doubt. “She won’t help us.”

His mother sighed deeply.“There’s not much to do for now. Let’s go to sleep.” She extended her hand, and his father grabbed it like a lifeline.

Thorne backed away from the door, his hands shaking as he clutched his shiny stone, fear wrapping around his heart like a vice. What’s wrong with me?

His thoughts were a tangled mess of confusion and fear, and he didn’t know what to do with the strange heaviness in his chest.

They’re talking about me. Something’s wrong with me. He climbed back into bed, pulling the blanket over his head. He held the shiny stone close, its cool surface pressing into his palm, willing the strange feeling to go away.

Sleep finally claimed him, but the unease lingered, wrapping around him like a second blanket.