THE AETHERBORN

Thorne crouched on the rooftop of a building across the street from the Thornfield estate, the cool night air brushing against his face. The darkness clung to him like a second skin, his only true ally tonight. His heart pounded steadily, an uneasy mix of fear and excitement churning in his chest. Failure wasn't an option—not this time. Uncle’s counting on me, he reminded himself, tightening his grip on the cold stone beneath him. He couldn’t afford to let him down.

The Thornfield estate loomed before him, its age and grandeur accented by the soft silver light of the moon. Ivy crept up the weathered stone walls like claws, and flickers of torchlight from the guards’ patrols added an eerie glow to the grounds. Thorne had studied the place for hours, memorizing the rhythm of the guards’ movements—how they turned at certain corners, when they paused to chat or grow lax in their watchfulness.

Now or never. With a steadying breath, Thorne moved. He descended the side of the building with practiced grace, his fingers and feet finding purchase on the rough stone and ledges as if they were made for him. He landed on the ground with barely a sound, slipping into the nearest shadow like a wraith. His small frame allowed him to glide through the darkness, invisible to any who might glance his way.

The wrought-iron gate stood ahead, a barrier for most but not for Thorne. He had seen earlier that it wasn’t locked; the guards here were overconfident, believing their presence alone was enough to keep intruders at bay. Thorne squeezed through the bars with ease, his body nimble and flexible, and he was in.

The garden spread out before him, open and exposed. The paths, lined with statues and shrubs, offered little cover. Thorne crouched low, his mind racing as he planned his route. Wait for it. He watched the nearest guard complete his round, his back turned. Now.

Thorne dashed from one statue to the next, each movement swift and precise. His heart hammered in his chest, but his body responded automatically, honed by the countless hours of training under Sid’s brutal hand. Almost there. He froze behind a marble statue of a weeping angel as the crunch of gravel underfoot alerted him to a guard’s approach. Thorne pressed himself tightly against the cold stone, holding his breath as the guard passed, oblivious to the small boy hiding mere feet away.

Once the coast was clear, Thorne continued, his path leading him to the side of the manor. He gazed up at the towering stone walls, his eyes tracing the outline of a narrow ledge just beneath a row of second-story windows. That’s my way in. Without hesitation, Thorne began his ascent. His fingers gripped the uneven stone, his body moving with the ease of a seasoned climber, his acrobatics skill showing its worth. The ledge wasn’t wide, but it was enough. He edged along it, his back pressed against the wall, heart racing.

One of the windows was slightly ajar, and Thorne paused, listening. Silence. He pushed it open a little farther and slipped inside, landing softly on the wooden floor of a dimly lit hallway. The flickering candlelight cast long, dancing shadows on the walls. Thorne moved cautiously, every step deliberate. The manor was quiet, but the quiet could be deceiving.

His first task was to find a safe place to gather his bearings. He needed to locate Lady Elara’s quarters, but the maze of hallways seemed endless. He peeked into several rooms, all empty save for a few servants sleeping soundly. Thorne avoided those rooms like the plague, unwilling to risk waking anyone.

As he crept through the manor, his confidence grew. He was inside, undetected. His training had prepared him well for moments like this. Still, his senses were on high alert. Every creak of the floorboards, every flicker of candlelight felt amplified in the eerie silence.

Then, something strange happened.

His skin tingled, and the air felt charged. Thorne blinked, then switched to his aether vision. Faint markings glowed on the walls, shimmering with unfamiliar patterns of aether. They pulsed rhythmically, like a heartbeat, making his skin itch as he moved closer. The symbols were foreign to him, but whatever their purpose, they radiated power. Focus on the mission, he reminded himself, pulling his attention away from the odd markings. There wasn’t time to investigate.

As Thorne rounded a corner, he nearly collided with a maid carrying a tray of food. His heart leapt into his throat, but he reacted quickly, flattening himself against the wall and holding his breath. The maid, oblivious to his presence, passed by humming a tune. That was too close.

He continued on, eventually reaching a grand staircase. Upstairs—that's where the family quarters will be. Thorne ascended the stairs carefully, keeping to the edge where the steps wouldn’t creak. When he reached the top, the atmosphere shifted. The hallway was far more opulent, the walls lined with elaborate portraits and tapestries, and the plush carpet muffling his footsteps.

Lady Elara’s room has to be here. Thorne moved from door to door, checking inside when he could, but finding little more than guest rooms and storage. The longer it took, the more his nerves frayed. Time was slipping away, and the longer he stayed, the greater the risk of getting caught. He needed to find that letter—fast.

Thorne's path deeper into the manor was abruptly blocked by a large, ornate door. Pressing his ear against it, he strained to catch the murmurs beyond. Faint voices, a man and a woman, drifted through, their words laced with tension. Though the exact words were lost, the unmistakable tone of an argument cut through the air. What’s going on in there? Thorne’s curiosity flared. He needed to hear more—needed to know what they were discussing.

Slipping into a nearby room, he moved with stealthy precision, his instincts guiding him to a small balcony that overlooked the grand hall below. Crouching low behind the balustrade, Thorne peered down at the figures gathered beneath. Dressed in black, their faces obscured by cloaks, the group spoke in hurried whispers, urgency evident in their hushed conversation.

"...letter must be found...too important to lose..."

"...we have searched everywhere...Elara must have hidden it well..."

"...if it falls into the wrong hands..."

Thorne’s heart raced. The letter! They’re after the letter! He had to act fast—if these people were searching for it too, time was running out. His mind worked furiously, scanning the hall below for any means of getting closer to them without being spotted. That’s when he noticed the chandelier, its heavy iron chain anchored high above.

It’s risky, but it’s my best shot.

Without hesitation, Thorne climbed onto the edge of the balustrade, balancing precariously. He took a deep breath, steadying his nerves, and then leapt, grabbing hold of the chandelier’s chain. It swayed under his weight, but held firm. Slowly, he climbed down, his arms trembling from the strain, but he focused through the discomfort, inching closer to the conversation below.

"...Elara's quarters are the only place left. We must search there tonight, before anyone else finds it."

Thorne’s eyes widened. I have to get to Lady Elara’s quarters before they do. He held his position, waiting for the cloaked figures to leave the hall. As soon as they disappeared through a side door, Thorne swiftly climbed down the rest of the way, his mind racing.

Navigating the manor’s labyrinthine hallways, he felt the pressure mounting. Where are her quarters? He quickened his pace, turning corners and passing through dimly lit corridors. But as fate would have it, he nearly collided with a guard coming around the corner.

Damn it! Thorne froze, his foot catching on a loose floorboard. The resulting crack echoed like thunder in the stillness of the hall. The guard’s footsteps approached fast, drawn to the noise. Panic surged in Thorne’s chest. He darted into a shadowed alcove, pressing himself against the wall, but the guard was already closing in.

What now?!

In his desperation, Thorne reached out to the aether, willing the black motes to come to his aid. But something was wrong. The aether resisted, refusing to bend to his will. The motes hovered, shifting away from his control.

What’s wrong with you? You usually beg for my attention! Now, when I need you most, you decide to rebel?!

The footsteps grew louder. The guard was almost on him.

Come on!

At the very last moment, as if the aether heard his frantic plea, it responded. The black motes swirled around him, falling like a shadowy cloak, shrouding him from sight. Thorne felt a strange heat spread across his skin, an intense burning sensation that he had never experienced before. It made him grit his teeth in agony, but he held still, hoping—praying—the guard wouldn’t see him.

The guard stepped closer, his gaze sweeping the hallway. His eyes passed over the alcove where Thorne hid, yet, miraculously, he didn’t see him. The aether had rendered him invisible.

Thorne remained frozen, barely daring to breathe, his skin tingling painfully as the motes of aether seemed to fight against him. Finally, after a few tense moments, the guard, confused, shook his head and turned away. His footsteps faded into the distance.

Thorne let out a long, shaky breath, releasing the aether’s grip. As the black motes dissipated, the burning sensation vanished, leaving only exhaustion in its wake.

Then, a familiar ping echoed in his mind.

Skill Level Up: Stealth!

Congratulations! You have unlocked the skill: Shadow Meld!

Thorne blinked, disbelief washing over him. A new skill? His heart raced with excitement. He had unlocked something new—and something powerful. He could feel the knowledge of how the skill worked, as though it had always been a part of him, waiting to be awakened. Unlike his previous attempts to wield the ambient aether, Shadow Meld drew directly from his core, from his own reservoir of aether.

A grin spread across his face. No more crippling exhaustion every time I use aether. This is perfect.

When Thorne was certain the guard had left, he pressed on through the manor, the urgency of his mission overriding the strange tingling still prickling his skin. Focus, he reminded himself, pushing the disorienting sensation aside. His new skill had been a lifesaver, but the weird reaction of the aether made him uneasy. Still, there was no time to dwell on that now.

Finally, Thorne spotted a door with a crest etched into its wood—an ornate rose. Lady Elara’s quarters. His heart skipped a beat as he approached, testing the handle. Locked. Of course.

Good thing I came prepared.

He pulled out his set of lockpicks, his hands steady even though his pulse raced. The first few attempts were frustrating, and he cursed under his breath for neglecting his lockpicking skill. He was rusty, the clicks too hesitant. Come on, Thorne. You can’t mess this up now.

Finally, with a satisfying click, the lock gave way, and Thorne slipped inside. The room was grand, filled with opulence that was foreign to him. Rich tapestries adorned the walls, a large canopy bed draped in silk, and a vanity cluttered with ornate bottles and trinkets. Focus, he told himself. You’re not here to admire the scenery.

He began his search, methodically rifling through drawers, pulling open hidden compartments, lifting pillows, and checking beneath the bed. No sign of the letter. Time was slipping away, and the familiar sensation of dread crept up on him. Where is it?

Then, footsteps. Heavy, deliberate footsteps approaching the door.

Thorne’s breath hitched. He moved quickly, ducking behind a thick curtain, and activated his new skill. The strange, burning sensation enveloped him as the aether cloaked his form, blending him into the shadows. But as the power surged through him, he realized something unsettling—his aether points were draining fast, faster than he expected. This skill is eating up my reserves!

The door creaked open, and through the small gap in the curtain, Thorne saw the portly man he’d seen earlier. Lord Thornfield. He was accompanied by a guard. Thorne held his breath, willing himself to stay calm as the men began to search the room.

“That snake of a sister must have hidden that letter somewhere!" Lord Thornfield growled, his voice thick with fury. "I won’t let that whore destroy our house by allying herself with those backstabbing Ravencourts.”

Thorne’s pulse thundered in his ears as the two men tore through the room, tossing pillows, upending furniture, and pulling drawers from their chests. Every movement, every curse from Lord Thornfield, felt like a countdown to disaster. Thorne could feel his aether points ticking away, the energy draining from him like sand through an hourglass. His skin still tingled, burning under the strain of maintaining his invisibility. Hold on, just a little longer.

Lord Thornfield muttered angrily to himself, "That blasted sister of mine! Hiding things where no one can find them. This is insufferable."

The guard, more composed, finally spoke. "My lord, perhaps the letter is in her study. We haven’t searched there yet."

Lord Thornfield paused, his frustration barely contained. "You might be right. Let’s check there."

Thorne watched as the two men left, the door clicking shut behind them. He didn’t dare move until their footsteps faded completely. Then, with a slow, relieved breath, he let the aether fall away, the burning sensation ebbing as his invisibility faded.

His body sagged, the exhaustion hitting him like a wave. The room was a disaster, wrecked from their frenzied search. Thorne glanced around, knowing that if they couldn’t find the letter, it wasn’t likely he would either—at least, not by normal means. He was ready to leave, frustrated, when a thought struck him. What if she hid the letter with magic?

A spark of excitement flared in his chest. Maybe that’s why they couldn’t find it.

With renewed determination, he activated his aether vision and scanned the room. At first, nothing stood out—just the usual swirls of aether flowing through the space. But then his eyes caught something near the door—a small marking, similar to the others he’d seen throughout the manor, its faint glow almost undetectable. Thorne ignored it for now and kept looking.

And then he saw it—a tiny, shimmering spot on the floor near the bed, almost invisible to the naked eye. His aether vision showed the aether being pulled into the spot, siphoned away like water through a drain.

His heart leaped in triumph. Gotcha!