THE AETHERBORN

Thorne spun around, heart thudding in his chest, and saw Sid emerging from the shadows like a ghost. Clad in black leather armor, his cloak's hood was drawn up, and a mask covered most of his face. Sid pushed the mask down to his chin, revealing a stern, unreadable expression. Just as Thorne opened his mouth to speak, two figures landed silently behind Sid, moving with the grace of predators. They appeared so suddenly that Thorne instinctively took a step back, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten.

"Why are you here?" Sid demanded, his voice sharp, his eyes narrowing as they bore into Thorne. There was something different in the way he was looking at him, like he was seeing him for the first time. Thorne swallowed hard, his heart pounding again, but this time not from fear of the guards. Had Sid seen him use his aether skills? Did he know? The thought sent a chill down Thorne’s spine. His body was running on fumes, his mind sluggish, barely able to keep up.

"I... I wanted to see Uncle," Thorne managed, his voice hoarse from fatigue.

"Are you stupid?" Sid snapped, the harshness in his tone cutting deep. "Do you have no sense? Didn’t you see what’s happening out there?"

Thorne flinched at the words but couldn’t muster the energy to respond. Sid’s gaze softened slightly as he took in Thorne’s ragged state, the exhaustion etched on his young face. He sighed, a flicker of something like pity passing over his face. "Fine. Head to Uncle's house. It’s only a few blocks away. Stick to the side streets and avoid the main road," Sid instructed, his voice firm but less harsh now.

Thorne nodded, too tired to argue, and started walking away. He felt Sid’s gaze on his back, burning into him, until he rounded a corner. His legs moved on autopilot, his mind foggy, barely registering the darkened streets as he walked. Every so often, his Escape Artist skill kicked in, nudging him toward the quieter alleys, keeping him out of harm's way as he trudged through the city.

Before long, Thorne found himself standing in front of an old wooden door. He knocked softly, wincing at the sudden sound in the stillness of the night. A muffled voice from inside demanded to know who was there.

"It’s Thorne," he said, but when there was no immediate response, he gritted his teeth and added, "It’s the street rat."

The door creaked open, revealing the face of a girl he vaguely remembered. She ushered him inside quickly, barring the door behind him with nervous hands.

The air inside was thick with tension, and the house was dimly lit by a few flickering candles. The girl, looking at him with a mix of curiosity and concern, whispered, "What are you doing here?"

Thorne’s eyes scanned the room, trying to shake off the exhaustion weighing him down. "I need to see Uncle," he said, his voice rough, every word a struggle.

Without waiting for her to answer, Thorne stumbled into the kitchen. His limbs felt like lead, and the fog in his mind only thickened. The girl tried to guide him to a chair, but Thorne barely registered her presence. "I need to find Uncle," he muttered again, almost to himself.

Before the girl could respond, Matilda, the cook, bustled over, her brow furrowed with concern. "In the state you’re in?" she huffed, her voice both stern and gentle. "You can barely walk, let alone talk to the master." She guided him to a sturdier chair, her grip surprisingly strong for someone her size. Thorne sank into it, feeling like he might collapse at any second.

Matilda disappeared for a moment and returned with a steaming cup of milk and a bowl of broth. She placed them in front of him, her hands quick but careful. "Eat, boy," she said, her voice softening. "You look like death warmed over."

Thorne ate without tasting the food, his movements mechanical. He felt like a puppet whose strings had been cut, barely hanging on. Matilda hovered over him, wiping his face with a damp cloth, asking him questions, but he couldn’t focus on her words. His vision blurred, his head drooping lower and lower until he finally gave in to the exhaustion and drifted into a deep sleep.

The clang of metal startled him awake. For a split second, he thought he was still in the streets, surrounded by fighting and fire. He jerked upright, nearly tumbling out of the chair. Matilda, noticing his startled movement, turned with an apologetic smile. "Sorry, dear, but I’ve got breakfast to prepare. The pots are already boiling, and the other women are hard at work."

Thorne rubbed his eyes, the fog of sleep still heavy. "Can I see my uncle now?" he asked, his voice rough and groggy.

Matilda’s expression softened, but there was a flicker of pity in her eyes. "The master is busy, lad. With what happened last night... well, he’ll be busy for a long while yet." Seeing the disappointment flicker across Thorne’s face, she added with a small smile, "Why don’t you help us in the kitchen? Keep your hands busy and your mind off things."

The other kitchen women exchanged skeptical glances, shaking their heads at the idea of a street boy helping, but Thorne, still numb from everything, shrugged and agreed. Soon, he found himself tasked with chopping a mountain of vegetables. His Daggers skill made the work quick and precise, and Matilda and the others couldn’t help but watch in awe as he sliced through the produce with effortless speed.

Every so often, the sounds of battle reached their ears—clashes of steel, shouts of men, and the distant roar of flames. Each time, the kitchen would fall into a tense silence. Matilda, the cooks, even Thorne would freeze, their eyes glued to the barred door and tightly shut window, listening, waiting. The fear in the air was thick, hanging over them like a storm. But eventually, as the sounds of violence faded into the distance, they would all release a collective sigh of relief, returning to their tasks with a forced calm.

Matilda glanced at Thorne, who worked diligently trying his hardest to pretend everything was alright. "You did well last night, boy," she said softly, her voice low enough that the others couldn't hear. "It's not easy surviving out there."

Thorne nodded in acknowledgment, not trusting himself to speak. He focused on chopping vegetables, the rhythmic sound of the knife against the board giving him something to anchor himself to. The warmth of the stove, the chatter of the women, the smell of freshly baked bread—it all created a strange sense of normalcy. For a moment, he could almost pretend the chaos outside was just a bad dream.

As the knife chopped through a thick carrot, Thorne's mind kept circling back to the same haunting thought: Was this my fault? He had delivered the letter to his uncle. That letter had felt heavy, filled with secrets, and now Lady Elara was dead. The city was burning. Had he sparked all of this? The question gnawed at him, tugging at his insides. He couldn't bear the thought of being left in the dark any longer. He needed answers—he needed to ask his uncle what the letter contained, what it all meant.

But escaping the kitchen was no easy task. Matilda watched him like a hawk, her sharp eyes catching every small movement he made. Every time he tried to edge closer to the door, she'd ask, "Everything alright, dear?" He couldn’t just walk out. He had to be careful, had to plan.

Then, fate seemed to offer him a way out. One of the younger cooks excused herself, darting out of the kitchen and returning a few moments later, looking visibly relieved. That’s when an idea struck Thorne like a bolt of lightning. He stifled a grin, instead turning toward Matilda with wide, innocent eyes and a sheepish smile.

"Matilda," he stammered, trying to sound as embarrassed as possible, "is there... um, a place I could go... to relieve myself?"

Her stern face softened, a knowing smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "Of course, dear. You've had quite the night. Mary," she called to one of the cooks, "show him to the bathroom."

Mary, a kind-faced girl not much older than Thorne, nodded and gestured for him to follow. She led him through a narrow corridor and down a set of stairs into a cool, damp hallway. The stone walls were lined with old wooden beams, and the air smelled faintly of mildew and earth. Somewhere in the distance, water dripped steadily, echoing through the quiet corridor.

"Right down there," Mary said, pointing to a small door at the end of the hallway. "I'll wait here and take you back once you're done."

Thorne nodded and slipped inside. The small room was dimly lit, a single flickering candle casting shadows that danced across the stone walls. The stench from the hole in the floor hit him immediately, and he wrinkled his nose in disgust. He quickly did his business, but instead of leaving, he sat on the edge of the wooden bench, waiting, thinking. He needed to buy more time.

After a few minutes, there was a soft knock on the door. "Are you alright in there?" Mary's voice called out.

Thorne cleared his throat, trying to sound strained. "Just... need a little more time," he replied.

There was a pause, followed by the sound of Mary tapping her foot impatiently. "What's taking so long?"

"Sorry," Thorne said, forcing some embarrassment into his voice. "Stomachache."

Mary sighed heavily. "Alright, but hurry up. I need to get back to the kitchen."

I will, I promise," Thorne replied.

A moment later, she asked, "Do you remember how to get back?"

"Yes, I do," Thorne assured her, smothering a grin.

"Fine. Come straight back when you’re done," she said, and Thorne heard her walking away.

Thorne listened intently as her footsteps receded down the hallway. He waited a moment longer, just to be sure, before cautiously opening the door and peeking out. The hallway was empty, the shadows still flickering along the walls. Quietly, he slipped out and began moving through the house, keeping to the edges of the corridors, his steps as light as he could manage. His Stealth skill took over, guiding his movements as he snuck through the maze of corridors.

His mind raced, his heart thudding in his chest. He had to find his uncle’s study, had to know the truth behind that letter. Was he responsible for all the death and destruction? Had he unknowingly lit the fuse on this powder keg?

After what felt like an eternity, Thorne finally found himself in front of his uncle’s study. He pressed his ear against the heavy wooden door, straining to hear any movement. Silence. Slowly, he twisted the handle and slipped inside.

The study was dim, the thick curtains drawn tightly to block out the morning light. Bookshelves towered against the walls, filled with old, dusty tomes and rolled-up scrolls. The large desk in the center of the room was cluttered with papers, quills, and inkpots. Thorne’s eyes darted around, searching for any sign of his uncle. The room was empty, save for the suffocating silence.

"Thorne," a voice growled from the shadows, making him flinch. His uncle stepped into the dim light, face flushed red with fury. "What are you doing here?"

Thorne's throat tightened, the words he’d prepared shriveling in the heat of his uncle's anger. "I... I need to talk to you," he stammered, his voice barely audible.

His uncle's expression darkened further, and his fist slammed onto the desk. "You dare invade my office and waste my time with childish nonsense?" The veins on his neck bulged, the jagged scar running across his face appearing even sharper. "I have a thousand problems to deal with, and you think I have time for you?" His fists clenched, knuckles white, as if the very act of restraint was painful.

Thorne’s gaze dropped to the polished floor, fear prickling at the back of his neck. His body screamed for him to leave, to run, but he had to know. He forced the question out in a shaky whisper, "Did... did all those bad things happen because of the letter? Did you... did you kill Lady Elara?"

The room fell into a suffocating silence.

Then came the crash. His uncle had slammed his fist into the desk with enough force to rattle the entire room. Papers fluttered to the floor, and a heavy inkpot tumbled off the edge. Before Thorne could react, his uncle grabbed it and hurled it straight at him. Thorne froze, the inkpot sailing past his head and smashing against the wall behind him. Dark ink splattered everywhere, staining the room in sharp, violent strokes.

"You dare question me, boy?" his uncle roared, spittle flying from his lips. "You, a worthless child, think you can ask me—ME—such things?" His face was an unnatural shade of crimson, eyes wild with fury. "Not even nobles dare oppose me!” He roared, “who gave you the courage to speak to me like this? WHO?"

Thorne trembled, hands clenched into tiny fists, knuckles white as he fought to control the shaking. His uncle took a menacing step forward, looming over him. Thorne instinctively flinched, his body retreating. His uncle’s hand hovered near a small gem on his destroyed desk, and with a flicker of aether, the air around them shifted.

Footsteps echoed in the hall, growing louder, and then a hesitant knock sounded at the door.

"Enter!" his uncle barked, not taking his furious gaze off Thorne. The door creaked open, and the head maid, Arletta, stepped in. Her eyes barely flickered in surprise, though her eyebrow twitched at the sight of the chaos.

"He wormed his way into my office," his uncle said, voice sharp with contempt. "Take him away."

Arletta nodded curtly, her face cold as iron. Without hesitation, she grabbed Thorne by the back of his neck, her fingers digging into his skin, and dragged him from the room. He didn’t resist, his legs moving numbly as though the will to fight had drained from him completely. His mind felt blank, the words of his uncle echoing over and over.

The hallway felt endless, the oppressive atmosphere of his uncle’s wrath still clinging to him like a shroud. Arletta’s grip was unrelenting, her disapproval radiating off her in waves. She didn’t say a word, her boots clicking harshly against the floor as she led him back to the warmth of the kitchen.

The sharp contrast between the two places hit him like a physical blow. The kitchen was alive with the sounds of clattering pots, the bustle of workers moving about, the rich aroma of simmering stew and baking bread filling the air. But to Thorne, it felt distant, like another world entirely.

As Arletta spoke in hushed, angry tones to Matilda, Thorne stood in the center of the room, his mind spinning. Around him, the workers moved about, cooking, cleaning, doing their daily tasks as though the world outside hadn’t descended into chaos. But in Thorne’s chest, a storm raged. His uncle’s anger, the accusations, the unanswered questions gnawed at him like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

He couldn’t stay here. Not anymore.

Before he realized what he was doing, Thorne found himself moving toward the door. He barely registered Matilda’s voice calling after him. "Where are you going, deary?" she asked, concern lacing her words. "Wait—take some lunch with you."

Thorne shook his head, his hand already gripping the doorknob. He paused, something tugging at his thoughts, and turned to ask, "When did Uncle return from his trip?"

Matilda’s brow furrowed, and she exchanged a glance with Arletta. "It’s been days, love. He was only gone for a day."

Thorne's heart skipped a beat. A cold sensation washed over him, the pieces slowly falling into place, though he still didn’t know what picture they formed. He nodded once, more out of habit than understanding, and then slipped out the door.