THE AETHERBORN

“Attack!”

Thorne hesitated, then lunged forward, his hand gripping the knife awkwardly. The blade felt foreign in his grasp, and his movements were slow, hesitant. Sid sidestepped effortlessly, a blur of motion, and Thorne’s clumsy thrust met only empty air.

“What in the forgotten bastard son’s pimple was that?” Sid barked, his voice laced with contempt. He glared at Thorne, his eyes flashing with irritation.

Thorne looked at him, bewildered and breathless. He had held back, not wanting to reveal his true speed or strength. After all, most eight-year-olds couldn’t even outrun a horse, let alone wield a knife like a seasoned fighter.

Sid’s lips curled into a sneer. “You don’t announce your moves like some amateur brawler!” he snapped. “You’re not a guard, waving around a sword, or some foolish knight charging into battle. You’re wielding a knife! You need to be quick, sharp, and unpredictable. Aim to inflict the most damage in the least time, and vanish before they even realize they’ve been cut. Here, watch!”

With that, Sid blurred into motion, disappearing from Thorne’s view only to reappear behind him in an instant. Thorne spun around, his heart racing, but not fast enough. A sharp, stinging pain flared in his arm as the knife fell from his grasp. Sid’s breath was hot against his ear. “And that’s how it’s done,” he whispered, his voice a mockery of gentleness, before slicing Thorne’s ribs with a flick of his wrist. “That’s for the water stunt, brat.”

Thorne gritted his teeth, a sharp intake of breath escaping his lips as he clutched his side. He glared at Sid, his eyes burning with frustration and pain.

“Again,” Sid ordered, stepping back, his eyes glinting with a sadistic glee that sent a shiver down Thorne’s spine.

What followed was hours of torment. Each time Thorne lunged or slashed, Sid countered with ruthless efficiency, each missed strike punished with a fresh cut or a barrage of cruel insults. Thorne’s body ached from head to toe, his muscles trembling with fatigue, but the man showed no mercy. His voice was a relentless drill, tearing into Thorne’s self-esteem as much as his blade tore into his flesh.

“You call that an attack?” Sid snarled, landing another blow that sent Thorne staggering. “My grandmother swings harder than that, and she’s been dead for years!”

By the end of the session, Thorne was a wreck. His already bruised body was now covered in dozens of small, stinging cuts. Blood oozed from shallow wounds, staining his clothes and making every movement a fresh agony. He felt like a broken puppet, his strings cut, barely able to stand.

“That’s enough,” Sid declared finally, sheathing his blade with a look of disgust. “You’re hopeless. I don’t know what Uncle sees in you.”

Thorne bit back a retort, his jaw clenched so tightly it hurt. After hours of “training,” he hadn’t landed a single hit on Sid, let alone unlocked the daggers skill. His frustration simmered beneath the surface, mingling with the dull, throbbing ache of his injuries. The taste of failure was bitter on his tongue.

Sid grabbed a bottle from a nearby crate, the harsh scent of alcohol filling the air as he uncorked it and took a long swig. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked at Thorne with disdain. “I’m off for a drink.” He turned to leave but paused, glancing over his shoulder with a twisted grin. “Tomorrow, same time. We’re not done yet.”

Thorne felt a chill run down his spine as he watched Sid swagger out of the warehouse. It was clear now—the man was enjoying this, relishing the chance to vent his anger and frustrations on someone weaker. Thorne was nothing more than a convenient target, a punching bag for Sid’s cruelty.

He sagged against a crate, every part of him aching, the sharp sting of each cut reminding him of his failure. He had to survive this “training,” had to endure without giving Sid an excuse to do something worse.

*

“So, how was your first day of training?” Uncle asked, his knife cutting into a hearty chicken pie, steam rising from the flaky crust. A heap of onions sat on the side, the sharp scent filling the small attic room.

Thorne bit his lip, swallowing the urge to complain about being paired with a madman. The memory of Sid’s “training” was still fresh in his mind, each cut and bruise throbbing as a painful reminder. When he’d returned home, Gilly had taken one look at him, cursed like one of the sailors below, and sat him down to dress his wounds with a foul-smelling poultice.

The stench had been unbearable, but the relief it provided was immediate and undeniable. “It was...” Thorne searched for the right word, something that wouldn’t make Uncle question him too much. “Interesting...” He let the word hang in the air, hoping it would suffice.

Uncle’s brow lifted in mild curiosity. “Interesting, you say?” He cut a generous slice of the pie and placed it on Thorne’s plate, adding a small mountain of chopped onions on the side.

Thorne hesitated, poking at the pie with his fork. “Maybe...” He glanced at Uncle’s impassive face and took a deep breath. “Maybe you could find me another trainer?”

Uncle waved his hand dismissively, as if brushing away a trivial complaint. “Nonsense. Sid is the best rogue in the lower districts. He’s proved himself time and again. There’s no one better suited to teach you.”

Thorne sighed inwardly. He didn’t doubt Sid’s skill—he just didn’t want to be the man’s personal pincushion. Resigned, he dropped the matter, but couldn’t stop the pout that formed on his lips. Uncle chuckled at the expression but didn’t comment further.

They ate in silence, the only sounds in the attic the occasional clink of utensils and the muffled roar of the tavern below. Gilly entered quietly, carrying a pitcher of iced lemonade. Thorne eagerly reached for a glass, his throat dry from the day's ordeals. He drank deeply, savoring the cool sweetness as it washed away some of the lingering bitterness.

Uncle watched him thoughtfully. “I guess you didn’t have time to make the rounds in the market today,” he said, his tone casual, but Thorne knew better than to be fooled.

Thorne nodded absently, his mind more focused on the refreshing drink in his hands than the conversation. “No, Uncle, not today.”

“Hmm.” Uncle’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I want you to be alert in the coming days. I’ve heard whispers that a merchant from the capital will be docking any day now. We don’t get many of those around here, so it’s quite the surprise. Keep your ears open for any gossip about him. I’m sure word will spread the moment he sets foot in Alvar.”

Thorne nodded again, more focused now. Merchant, capital, gossip—simple enough. He could handle that. He took another gulp of lemonade, feeling the cool liquid calm his nerves.

Uncle’s gaze sharpened, and he leaned forward, his tone firm. “Are you listening, shortie?”

Thorne reluctantly put down his glass, his eyes turning solemn as he met Uncle’s gaze. “Of course, Uncle! I’ll find out everything there is to know the moment he arrives. Don’t you worry, I have these,” he said, tapping his ears with a mischievous grin.

Uncle’s stern expression softened into a pleased smile. “Good boy. Now, why do you think it’s so unusual to have a merchant from the capital here?”

Thorne’s brow furrowed in thought. He knew this wasn’t a simple question; Uncle never asked simple questions. He considered everything he knew about Alvar City and its peculiarities. “Well, Uncle,” he began slowly, “it’s unusual because Alvar City is so far from the capital, and we’re not really on the way to anywhere important for most merchants. We’re more of a fishing town, and maybe a stop before the Emerald Sands Kingdom, but not a place where big merchants from the capital would usually visit.”

Uncle nodded, encouraging him to continue.

“And,” Thorne added, tapping his fingers on the table as he gathered his thoughts, “the aether is low here. We can’t grow magical herbs or make magical items. Merchants from the capital are probably more interested in places where they can buy and sell magical goods. We don’t have much of that here, so there’s not much reason for them to come.”

“Very good,” Uncle said, his eyes gleaming with pride. “And what might this merchant be interested in, then?”

Thorne’s mind raced, considering the possibilities. “Maybe he’s interested in our fish? But that doesn’t make sense because they can get fish closer to the capital. Maybe he wants to trade with the Emerald Sands Kingdom and is stopping here first? That’s possible, but why come here instead of going straight to the islands?”

He bit his lip, his thoughts whirling. Then a new idea struck him, and his eyes widened. “Uncle, do you think he might be interested in something or someone in the Elven Forest? We’re close to the Elven Kingdom, and it’s rare for people to travel through here unless they’re looking for something special.”

Uncle’s smile widened, and he nodded approvingly. “Now you’re thinking, Thorne. There could be something—or someone—he’s after. And you’ll help me keep an eye out for any unusual activity or gossip that might give us more clues.”

Thorne’s chest swelled with pride at the praise, and he nodded eagerly. “I’ll be on the lookout, Uncle. I’ll find out everything I can.”

They continued their meal in a companionable silence. Gilly returned with a small dish of honey cakes, and Thorne’s eyes lit up at the sight. He dug into the sweet treat with relish, but his mind was already racing with thoughts of the mysterious merchant and the possible reasons for his visit to Alvar.

“Uncle,” he said between bites, his voice thoughtful, “do you think the merchant might be looking for something magical, even though the aether is low?”

Uncle raised an eyebrow. “What makes you think that?”

“Well,” Thorne said, choosing his words carefully, “just because the aether is low doesn’t mean there aren’t any magical things here. Maybe there’s something hidden or rare that the merchant heard about. Something only someone from the capital would know to look for.”

Uncle leaned back, his face thoughtful. “You’re getting sharper every day, shortie. Keep thinking like that, and you’ll be ahead of everyone else.”

Thorne beamed at the praise but continued to think, his mind churning with possibilities. “Also, if he’s from the capital, he might have special goods with him. Things we don’t usually see here. People will be very curious and talk about it a lot. Maybe he has something to trade that’s really valuable.”

Uncle nodded slowly, his gaze calculating. “That’s very astute, Thorne. Keep your eyes and ears open, and remember, sometimes the most valuable information comes from the most unexpected places.”

Thorne nodded eagerly, feeling a renewed sense of purpose. “I’ll keep that in mind, Uncle. I’ll listen to everything and tell you what I find.”

“Good boy,” Uncle said, ruffling Thorne’s hair affectionately.

*

Thorne woke to the first light of dawn streaming through the small window of the attic, casting a golden hue across the cramped space. He stretched gingerly, every muscle protesting from the relentless training session with Sid. With a weary sigh, he laced up his worn boots, the leather cracked and well past its prime, and made his way down the creaky stairs.

The early morning air was crisp and salty as he stepped outside. The cries of seagulls echoed through the quiet streets, the city of Alvar still awakening from its slumber. The cool breeze carried the familiar scent of the sea, a mix of salt and fish that clung to the air like an old friend.

Arriving at the warehouse, Thorne was taken aback to find it empty. There was sign of Sid’s presence, a scattered deck of cards, an empty bottle rolling on the floor, or the man's heavy snoring. Thorne looked around, a frown creasing his brow. Had there been a change in plans that he hadn’t been told about?

He waited for a while, his ears straining for any sign of Sid. After a few minutes, when it became clear that Sid wasn’t coming, Thorne decided not to waste his time and made his way towards the fish market.

The market was already bustling with activity, a chaotic symphony of shouts and haggling as fishermen proudly displayed their daily catches. The smell of fresh fish mingled with the more pungent odor of those that had been left out too long. Thorne navigated through the throng of people with practiced ease, his sharp eyes scanning the crowd for any opportunities to beg or pickpocket. His last few coins had been stolen by Jonah and his gang, and he desperately needed to replenish his funds.

Finding a spot near a particularly busy stall, Thorne sat down, adopting the forlorn look of a despondent street urchin. His small, dirt-smudged face and ragged clothes helped him blend seamlessly with the other children who roamed the market. He watched the bustling activity with a keen eye, ready to act if an opportunity presented itself.

As he sat, taking in the sights and sounds, a familiar, menacing voice cut through the din, sending a shiver down his spine.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Thorne,” Jonah sneered, his gang of cronies snickering behind him.

Thorne’s stomach tightened as he turned to face Jonah, the ten-year-old bully who had made his life miserable. Flanked by his usual lackeys, Jonah’s perpetual scowl was now twisted with a smug grin. Thorne forced himself to remain calm, his face a mask of indifference despite the turmoil inside.

“Hello, Jonah,” Thorne said quietly, rising to his feet. He kept his stance relaxed, though his muscles were coiled like a spring, ready to react if necessary.

Jonah stepped closer, his eyes gleaming with malice. “Begging for scraps again? Must be hard when your precious uncle isn’t around to protect you.”

Thorne felt his fists clench involuntarily, his nails digging into his palms. He opened his mouth to retort but stopped himself. He knew better than to rise to Jonah’s bait. But then Jonah’s next words struck like a knife to the gut.

“You know, Thorne, I heard your parents didn’t just die—they ran away. They couldn’t stand the sight of you and decided to leave you here to rot. Or maybe they got themselves killed because they were too stupid to survive. Either way, they’re probably better off without a useless runt like you dragging them down.”

A red haze clouded Thorne’s vision, the world around him blurring as rage bubbled up inside him. For the first time, he let go of the restraint he had always clung to, his stats enhanced body was free to act. Without thinking, he lunged at Jonah, his speed surprising even himself.

Jonah’s eyes widened in shock as Thorne’s fist connected with his stomach, the force of the blow knocking the wind out of him. The other boys reacted quickly, but Thorne was already moving, his enhanced reflexes guiding his movements. He ducked under a clumsy punch and delivered a swift kick to one boy’s shin, sending him toppling to the ground. Another boy charged at him, but Thorne sidestepped, driving his elbow into the boy’s ribs with a satisfying thud.

It was over in seconds. Jonah’s gang lay sprawled on the ground, groaning in pain. Only Ben remained standing, his eyes wide with shock. Thorne had always respected Ben for never joining in the bullying, and he felt no anger towards him now.

Jonah, still gasping for air, looked up at Thorne with a mix of fear and fury. “You’ll pay for this, Thorne,” he spat, clutching his stomach as he tried to stand.

Thorne stepped closer, his gaze icy. “Don’t ever talk about my parents again,” he said, his voice low and dangerous.

Jonah flinched at the intensity in Thorne’s eyes. He scrambled to his feet, his face pale, and motioned for his gang to follow. They limped away, casting fearful glances over their shoulders.

Thorne watched them go, his heart pounding in his chest. The adrenaline slowly faded, leaving him trembling from head to toe. He had finally stood up to Jonah, and while it was terrifying, it also felt... liberating.

Just as he was trying to calm his racing heart, a slow, mocking clap echoed behind him, followed by an oily voice that sent a shiver down his spine.

“Well, well, shortie. Maybe you’re not a lost cause after all.”