THE AETHERBORN

Thorne was woken early the next morning by a gentle nudge. His body ached, every movement reminding him of the brutal beating he had endured the previous night. As he tried to sit up, pain radiated from the bruises and cuts that marred his skin, making him wince.

“Uncle said to wake you early and give you a good breakfast,” Gilly, one of the kinder barmaids, said with a soft smile. She placed a small plate on the rickety table near his bed. The smell of steaming eggs, rich and savory, filled the small attic room.

“Thanks, Gilly,” Thorne muttered, his voice raspy from the swollen lip. He slid off the bed and shuffled to the table, his muscles protesting every step. Despite the pain, his stomach growled hungrily. He hadn’t eaten since the previous morning, and the sight of the food made his mouth water.

Gilly lingered near the door, her fingers twisting in her apron. She watched him with a worried expression, her eyes darting to the dark bruises visible on his arms. Thorne noticed her hesitation and looked up, his brow furrowing. “What is it?” he asked, trying to sound nonchalant despite the fatigue weighing down his voice.

She shifted on her feet, clearly torn. After a moment, she took a deep breath and spoke, her voice low and cautious. “It’s just... Sid isn’t a good person, Thorne. You should be careful around him.” Her eyes, filled with concern, met his. “Every barmaid here has had problems with him at some point. He’s dangerous, especially when he’s had too much to drink. Just... watch yourself, all right?”

Thorne frowned, swallowing a mouthful of eggs. The warning was not surprising, but hearing it from Gilly made the situation feel more real, more immediate. He had seen Sid’s unpredictable nature firsthand—the way the man’s temper flared at the slightest provocation, the violence in his eyes whenever he felt disrespected.

“I’ll be careful,” Thorne promised, giving her a small, reassuring smile, even though his stomach churned with anxiety. Gilly nodded, but her eyes still held a shadow of doubt. With a last, lingering look, she turned and hurried down the stairs, leaving Thorne alone with his thoughts.

Thorne stared at the closed door, his fork hovering mid-air. He chewed slowly, mulling over her words. He knew of Sid, though their interactions had been limited. He was hard to miss, always stumbling around the tavern, drunk and belligerent. The man had a way of turning every minor inconvenience into a brawl, his booming laughter filling the tavern one moment, only to be replaced by the terrified screams of his victims the next.

He could recall more than one occasion where Sid had sent a patron bleeding to the floor, his clothes smeared with crimson and his eyes alight with a dangerous, manic glee. The man’s erratic behavior made him a terror to be around, and the only reason he wasn’t barred from every establishment in the district was Uncle’s leniency.

For some reason, Uncle kept Sid around, even going as far as to defend his actions when the complaints piled up. Thorne had his suspicions about the nature of their relationship. He had seen them in close conversation more than once, Uncle’s face dark with concentration as Sid listened carefully. The next day, Sid would be gone, and a few weeks later, he’d return with a swagger in his step and a bulging coin purse to spend on booze and women.

Thorne shook his head, pushing the troubling thoughts aside. He finished his breakfast quickly, the warmth of the food giving him a small measure of strength. Despite the bruises and the lingering fatigue, he felt a sense of determination settle over him.

He needed to learn to defend himself. He couldn’t rely on his aether abilities; he needed a real weapon, real skills. And if that meant putting up with Sid’s drunken tirades and unpredictable temper, then so be it.

After washing up quickly in the basin, he splashed water on his face, hissing as the cold water hit the cut on his cheek. He caught his reflection in the cracked mirror above the basin. His face was a patchwork of bruises and scratches, his eyes slightly swollen. He looked terrible.

He left the attic, descending the creaky stairs and stepping into the bustling streets and made his way through the bustling fish market, the air thick with the stench of fish, salt, and unwashed bodies. The merchants shouted their wares, their voices blending into a chaotic chorus that filled the narrow streets. Thorne navigated the crowd with practiced ease, his eyes darting around, always alert for any sign of trouble.

As he neared the docks, the air grew thicker with the smell of salt and brine, mingling with the tang of sweat and smoke. The wooden platforms creaked under the weight of sailors unloading crates and barrels, their shouts and laughter carrying over the gentle lapping of the waves against the harbor.

Thorne paused for a moment, climbing onto a stack of crates to get a better view of the docks. His eyes swept over the crowd, taking in the sight of various races mingling together.

A gnome with a colorful hat barked orders at a pair of burly sailors struggling to maneuver a massive tree that glowed faintly with aether. Nearby, an elf stood apart, his expression stoic as he tried to recruit sailors for some distant voyage. His efforts seemed futile, as most of the humans avoided him. The lingering tension between the kingdom of Caledris and the neighboring elven kingdom was still too high.

Thorne’s heart ached with a strange, unnamable longing as he watched them. He didn’t know what he was looking for—maybe someone like him. He knew that it was impossible, even if someone had elder blood in his veins, he knew he wouldn't be able to figure it out. Nonetheless, whenever he came to the docks, he took the time to watch the different races in fascination.

But then his gaze caught on a familiar figure, and his mood soured. Jonah was haggling with a grizzled sailor, his tone sharp and commanding. His lackeys were clustered around him, casting intimidating glares at anyone who ventured too close. Ben, as usual, hovered at the back, his eyes darting around nervously, as if expecting an attack at any moment.

Thorne narrowed his eyes, his fingers itching to throw something at the pompous boy. But he resisted the urge. He couldn’t afford another confrontation, especially not today. Not when he was already dreading what awaited him at the warehouse.

He tore his gaze away and made his way through the maze of streets until he reached the rundown building. The warehouse loomed before him, its dark, shadowed interior offering little comfort. He took a deep breath and stepped inside, his footsteps echoing in the cavernous space.

Taking a few hesitant steps further in, he strained his ears, listening for any sign of Sid. The shadows seemed to stretch and grow in the dim light filtering through the dirty windows.

He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding when his ears finally picked up a loud, rumbling snore from a shadowy corner. Thorne cautiously made his way towards the sound, weaving between the stacks of crates that created a labyrinthine path through the warehouse. He found the older man sprawled haphazardly behind a mountain of crates, an arm slung over his face, an empty bottle discarded carelessly at his side.

Sid looked disheveled, his clothes rumpled and stained, his face shadowed by a scraggly beard. The deep, throaty snores reverberated in the small space, punctuated occasionally by a muttered word or a sharp, whistling inhale. Thorne hesitated, his gaze flicking between the man and the exit. The last thing he wanted was to provoke Sid in his current state, but he also didn’t want to face Uncle’s wrath for not training.

Unsure, he perched himself on a nearby box, the wood creaking under his slight weight. He wrapped his arms around his knees, his mind racing as he considered his options. Time seemed to stretch as he sat there, the minutes dragging by.

Thorne’s patience, already thin, began to fray. He tried clearing his throat softly at first, but the sound was swallowed up by the cavernous room. A bit louder, he coughed again, a pointed sound that echoed in the stillness. The third time, he added a bit more force, his voice rasping in the quiet space.

The reaction was instantaneous. Sid jerked awake with a violent start, his eyes snapping open, wild and unfocused. In the blink of an eye, two gleaming knives appeared in his hands, the blades catching the dim light. Thorne flinched, instinctively leaning back, his heart hammering in his chest as the man’s piercing gaze fixed on him.

“Who are you?” Sid demanded, his voice rough and gravelly, the knives held with a steady, practiced grip. The air between them seemed to crackle with tension, the steel of the blades menacingly close.

Thorne gulped, his mouth suddenly dry. His eyes darted from the wickedly sharp knives to Sid’s narrowed eyes, the man’s stare burning with suspicion. “Uncle said you would train me in knives,” he managed to say, his voice small but steady, each word carefully measured.

For a moment, Sid’s posture remained tense, his eyes boring into Thorne’s with an intensity that made the boy’s skin crawl. Then, just as abruptly, his shoulders relaxed, and he let out a low, grumbling chuckle. The knives disappeared as quickly as they had appeared, and Sid flopped back against the crates, rubbing a hand over his stubbled face.

“Oh, that,” he muttered, his words slurring slightly. He waved a hand dismissively, the movement lazy and uncoordinated. “Too early for that. Come back in a couple of hours.”

Thorne blinked, disbelief flashing across his face. “But—” he started, but Sid was already gone, his eyes closed, and his breathing evening out as he slipped back into sleep, completely unconcerned.

Thorne sat there, wide-eyed and unsure of what to do. He considered leaving, but the thought of facing Uncle with nothing to show for the morning made him stay put.

With a resigned sigh, he settled back against the crate, his fingers drumming idly against his knee. Time stretched and twisted, the silence pressing down on him. Boredom began to claw at his mind, and without thinking, he reached out for the familiar comfort of the aether.

He could feel it immediately, buzzing around him, eager and restless. It was like an old friend, always present, always waiting for him to acknowledge it. The vibrant motes seemed to dance in the air, invisible to all but him, their colors blending and swirling in a beautiful, chaotic mess.

He hesitated, a small voice in the back of his mind warning him against it. But the urge was too strong, the need too deep. With a tentative finger, he touched a yellow mote, feeling it vibrate against his skin. He nudged it gently, sending it wobbling toward a cluster of similarly colored motes. A small smile tugged at his lips as he repeated the process with a pale blue mote, guiding it to its own group.

The aether responded eagerly, almost joyfully, as he sorted the colorful chaos into a semblance of order. On his left, the warm hues of yellow, gold, red, and brown glowed softly, like a small sun. In front of him, the cool, dark colors of white, gray, black, purple, and indigo formed a gentle swirl. To his right, the vibrant greens, blues, and pinks shimmered like a meadow in bloom.

A frown creased his brow as he noticed the subtle variations in each color. He could see it now, the distinct shades within each group, the minute differences that made each mote unique. He debated for a moment, considering the meticulous task of reorganizing them by shade when a chuckle escaped his lips.

The blue motes had gathered into a teardrop shape, their tiny forms clustered together in a perfect outline. Mischief sparkled in his eyes as he imagined what else he could do. Would Sid even notice if he played around a bit? The blue motes quivered in anticipation, almost as if they could sense his thoughts.

He didn’t need to think twice. As he activated his skill, primal manipulation, a thrill of power coursed through him, filling him with a sense of contentment that was almost overwhelming. This wasn’t like his other skills. This was different. It was as if he was tapping into something fundamental, something that was part of his very being.

The motes around him stilled for a moment, then surged forward, eager to heed his call. He focused on the blue motes, his eyes gleaming with excitement. He imagined them coming together, forming one large, cohesive blob. He could see it in his mind’s eye, a single, unified mote, larger and more tangible than any he had ever created.

With a flick of his fingers, the motes obeyed, converging at a single point. He watched, awe and wonder mingling on his face as the motes fused, the small teardrop shape growing and solidifying until it hung in the air above the sleeping Sid, shimmering and translucent.

His concentration wavered for a split second, the sheer reality of what he had done startling him. The massive teardrop wobbled, then lost its form entirely, crashing down at Sid’s feet with a loud, wet splash.

The sound echoed in the stillness, and Thorne felt an immediate drain on his body, the energy leeching away as if he had run for miles. His head spun and his vision blurred for a moment.

“What in the great whore’s white titties was that?” Sid bellowed, his voice echoing through the warehouse like a thunderclap. He spun around, his eyes blazing with fury, scanning the area for any signs of what had just happened. When his gaze landed on Thorne’s wide-eyed face, those eyes turned into cold, steely slits. His lips pressed together in a thin, tight line that spoke volumes of his barely contained rage.

“Uncle was clear. I am not to harm you. But the next time you pull something like that again, I will gut you and throw you into the sea for the beasts to gobble you up! You hear me?” Sid’s voice roared, vibrating with a dangerous intensity that made Thorne’s blood run cold.

Thorne nodded frantically, his mouth too dry to form any words. Any thoughts of defending himself evaporated under the sheer force of Sid’s glare. The man looked like a coiled viper, ready to strike, and Thorne knew that one wrong move could set him off again.

The silence that followed was thick and suffocating, stretching out for what felt like an eternity. Sid eventually broke it with a grunt, pushing himself up from the ground. He dusted his pants off with exaggerated motions, his face twisting in disgust at the damp patches.

The man looked around, his expression sour as he fished a small bottle out of his pocket. The sharp scent of cheap alcohol filled the air as he took a deep swig, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand in a careless swipe.

“Oi, I needed that,” he muttered, more to himself than to Thorne. His voice was rough and gravelly, a lingering trace of his previous anger still audible. He narrowed his eyes at the boy, his gaze sharp and evaluating. “Now, for some reason, your uncle wants me to train you in daggers. I’ve no idea what he sees in you, and honestly, I don’t really care. What I care about is that I’m wastin’ my time teaching an annoying brat!” His eyes roved over Thorne’s small frame, taking in every inch of him with a look of disdain, as if trying to find some hidden quality that justified his presence.

“This is a waste of time,” Sid muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. His fingers dug into his pockets, searching for something. Thorne barely had time to react before Sid tossed a knife at him with a casual flick of his wrist.

Thorne’s reflexes kicked in, his hand snapping up to catch the knife midair. He almost fumbled, but managed to secure it just in time. The unexpected action seemed to earn him a faint, grudging grunt of approval from Sid.

Bringing the knife closer to his face, Thorne’s stomach churned as a rancid smell hit him. The blade was coated in rust and patches of an unidentifiable, crusty substance that reeked with a gut-wrenching stench. His eyes watered, and he gagged involuntarily, loosening his grip on the handle, his fingers touching the wood as little as possible.

“What’s with the sour face, shortie?” Sid sneered, his lips curling into a vicious grin. “Don’t you like my toenail knife?”

“Toenail knife?” Thorne echoed, his voice small and tinged with dread. He stared at the knife in his hand with a horrified fascination, as if it were some grotesque, cursed artifact.

Sid nodded, his grin stretching wider, revealing two rows of yellowed, rotting teeth that looked like they could crumble to dust at any moment. “Aye, the knife I use to clean my toenails. I don’t use it too often, but it does the job.” His words dripped with malicious glee, his eyes gleaming as he watched Thorne’s reaction.

“Toenails?” Thorne’s voice wavered with revulsion. The idea of holding a blade that had scraped along Sid’s dirty, infected feet made his stomach twist in knots.

Sid frowned, his expression turning mockingly offended. “Yeah, toenails. I’ve got a different knife for me fingernails. I’m not an animal, ya know!” He said it with such seriousness that, for a moment, Thorne almost believed he was genuinely insulted.

Thorne’s mouth opened, a retort or perhaps just a protest ready on his lips, but the overwhelming urge to retch forced him to clamp it shut again. He swallowed hard, his throat burning from the taste of bile.

“Now enough chit-chat.” All traces of amusement vanished from Sid’s face, his eyes narrowing as his body tensed, every muscle coiled and ready. The sudden shift was jarring, the playful menace replaced by something far more dangerous. “Get ready!”

The words were like a whip crack in the stillness, snapping Thorne into action. He discarded any reservations he had about the repulsive knife and tightened his grip on the hilt, the foul smell forgotten as adrenaline coursed through his veins. His senses sharpened, his mind clearing as he faced the man in front of him.

“Attack!” Sid barked, his voice ringing with command.