THE AETHERBORN

Thorne jolted awake, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. The room was pitch black, the moonlight barely able to pierce the thick gloom that enveloped him. His breath came in short gasps, but he couldn’t understand why he was so scared. Something had startled him awake, something loud, but his mind was too foggy to grasp what it was.

As the haze in his mind slowly cleared, a deep, thundering sound reached his ears—growing louder with each passing second. The noise was familiar, but his tired brain couldn’t place it. Why does this make me feel so afraid?

Then, beneath the booming sound, he caught the hurried mutters of a voice he recognized. His mother’s voice. A moment later, he heard her frantically moving around the house, rummaging through their belongings with a sense of urgency that made his blood run cold.

The door to his room burst open, and there she stood, her hair wild, her eyes wide with pure, unfiltered terror. Thorne stared at her, his mind sluggish, trying to make sense of what was happening. The thundering grew louder—closer—and suddenly, everything clicked into place.

Hoofbeats.

Nobody in their small village could afford a horse. Horses belonged to royalty, knights, and the privileged. Thorne had heard about them in stories, had dreamed of seeing one in person. He remembered when he’d mentioned his wish to one of the village children, only to be laughed at. “Only knights and the king’s people have horses,” they had said.

Then came the day when the knights arrived, riding into the village square, their horses magnificent and their armor gleaming under the sun. The royal crest of the red sun was emblazoned on their shields, and Thorne had been awestruck. But that awe had quickly turned to horror.

He could still hear the village elder’s scream—the man who had always had a sweet in his pocket for Thorne. The knights had spoken a few flowery words, their faces impassive, before they cut him down. It hadn’t been a clean kill. The elder’s cries had echoed through the village, the sound dragging on for what felt like an eternity before Thorne’s mother had pulled him away.

Now, the sound of hooves filled the night again, and the memories of that day clawed their way back to the surface. His mother grabbed him, shaking him from his daze. “Come, quickly!” she hissed, her voice sharp with urgency.

Thorne stumbled out of bed, his body moving on instinct as his mind raced to make sense of what was happening. He could hear his father’s low whispers to Bea in the next room, but his attention was fixed on the pounding of the horses, drawing closer and closer until they were nearly at their door.

His mother dragged him down the narrow corridor lined with barrels and crates filled with herbs. With a grunt, she pried two wooden boards loose from the wall, revealing a small, hidden hollow.

“In here,” she whispered harshly, motioning for him to slip inside.

Thorne, his mind swirling with fear and confusion, obeyed without question. The hollow was cramped, his shoulders pressed tightly against the stone walls. He could barely breathe, but the terror in his mother’s eyes kept him rooted in place.

His mother reached for the pendant around her neck. As soon as she removed it, her true form emerged—her radiant beauty lighting up the dark corridor. She slipped the pendant over Thorne’s neck, and he felt a rush of aether envelop him, making the air around him hum with energy.

“Listen to me, Thorne. Listen carefully,” she whispered, her voice low and fierce. Her luminous eyes, filled with grief and determination, locked onto his. “You will stay here. Whatever you hear, whatever you feel, you are not to leave this place. Do you understand?”

Thorne nodded, his throat too tight to speak. The sound of boots crunching against the dirt outside sent a shiver through him.

“You will not leave until you’re absolutely sure no one is left,” his mother continued, her voice trembling as the soldiers’ footsteps neared the door. “Once it’s safe, you will leave through the back door—the back door only.”

Her hands gripped his shoulders tightly, and he saw the tears welling up in her eyes. “Do not leave through the front, no matter what you see or hear. Once you leave you will follow the trail to Alvar! You must not dully! You must go as fast as you can, run as fast as you can! Do you hear me?” Thorne nodded when he realized his mother was waiting for an answer.

“Do you understand me?” she hissed, her eyes wide with desperation.

Thorne nodded again, the weight of her words settling over him like a lead blanket. He could feel something wet on his cheeks—tear. Am I crying?

His mother choked back a sob, brushing the tears from his face before pressing a kiss to his forehead.

“Be strong, my son,” she whispered, tears pooling in her eyes, threatening to spill down her cheeks, her voice breaking. “And never reveal to anyone what you truly are.”

She hurriedly replaced the boards, sealing him inside the tiny hollow. Thorne’s heart thundered in his chest as he crouched there, his body trembling with fear. What’s happening? Why are they here?

The loud banging on the door shattered the tense silence.

“In the name of His Grace, King Leopold the Third, and by order of Chancellor Artroudy, we command you to open this door at once!” a voice bellowed, filled with authority.

The pounding grew more intense, and then, with a deafening crash, the door splintered apart. The king’s men stormed into their home.

“She’s an Oldbone! Get her!” the grating voice shouted, filled with cruel certainty.

Thorne’s blood turned to ice. He pressed his mother’s pendant to his chest, holding it like a lifeline as the chaos unfolded around him.

Metal clashed, wood creaked, and glass shattered. Thorne heard his father’s pained moan, followed by a sickening crash that echoed through the house. But it was his mother’s scream—a raw, agonized wail—that pierced the night and sent icy fear flooding through his veins.

He squeezed his eyes shut, his body trembling. He wished he could be anywhere else, far from this nightmare. Desperately, he tried to focus on anything else, reaching for something beyond the chaos. For a fleeting moment, he heard the distant croak of a frog and the hoot of an owl. But no matter how hard he tried to focus, the sounds from his home pulled him back—his mother’s weeping cries, the grunts of the soldiers, and the frantic hum of the aether around him, swirling and agitated, refusing to let him escape.

His mind drifted to happier times, desperate for comfort. He remembered hunting trips with his father, feeling safe even in the heart of the forest. He thought of afternoons spent with his mother in the garden, sipping lemonade while she taught him about herbs. And he remembered Bea, always taking the blame for their mischievous schemes, even though the ideas were always his.

But no matter how hard he clung to those memories, the present kept crashing back in—dragging him back into the nightmare.

A harsh voice cut through the chaos. “Damn it, Lykos! We needed her alive!”

Thorne’s heart sank, and a dull buzzing filled his ears. They killed her. His chest tightened with grief and fear. She’s dead. The thought echoed in his mind like a tolling bell, each repetition heavier than the last. His vision blurred with tears, his breath coming in ragged, quiet sobs. He cupped his hands over his mouth, desperate to stay silent.

She’s gone... His mother’s voice, her radiant form, the warmth of her presence—it was all slipping away. Tears poured down his face, and his body shook uncontrollably. He had to stay quiet. Don’t make a sound. Don’t let them hear you.

“Take out her core and load her up,” the voice commanded coldly. “Maybe the alchemists can still find a use for her. Now, find the boy. He’s here somewhere.”

The floor creaked under the soldiers’ heavy boots as they searched the house. Thorne held his breath, his heart racing so loudly that he was sure they could hear it. Every sound felt amplified in the suffocating darkness—the thud of footsteps, the scrape of metal, the crash of furniture being overturned.

Then came a new sound—Bea’s voice, filled with terror.

“I found her, Commander!” a soldier’s voice rang out, triumphant. Bea’s frightened sobs filled the air.

Thorne’s body jerked in response, the boards around him rattling. He froze, biting down on his lip to keep from making a sound.

“Are you an idiot, Lykos? We’re looking for a boy, not a girl. Take her with the mother. The rest of you, keep searching. The little brat’s got to be here somewhere.”

Bea’s cries echoed in his ears as she was dragged away. Thorne wanted to scream for her, to reach out with his senses and follow her, but the soldier was still searching nearby, his heavy boots stomping through the house.

Thorne’s tears ran dry, his fear so absolute that it numbed him. He heard the shuffle of boots, metal clanging against wood as the soldiers began tearing the house apart. The door to his room crashed open, slamming against the wall with a bang. Thorne’s breath hitched as he heard the soldier stomping through his room, overturning furniture, rifling through belongings.

The man left after a few moments, but Thorne’s relief was short-lived. The soldier moved closer, now tearing through the crates and barrels in the corridor. Thorne’s heart pounded so loudly he thought it would give him away. His body was rigid with fear, each heartbeat a deafening thud in his ears.

He closed his eyes again, as if by shutting out the world he could make himself invisible, make the nightmare go away. Please, Mother... help me. What do I do? You always know what to do.

He clutched his mother’s pendant tightly, his knuckles white with desperation. I wish I could disappear. I wish I could melt into the shadows and never be found. The thought took hold, filling him with an overwhelming desire to vanish.

Suddenly, a sharp sting rippled across his skin, and his eyes flew open. The familiar colors of aether, the swirling motes he had grown accustomed to seeing, were gone. In their place were dark, shadowy motes—motes that seemed to leech the very light from the air. They moved around him, blending seamlessly into the darkness, wrapping him in their protective embrace.

The soldier crept closer, the light from his torch casting flickering shadows on the walls. The aether around Thorne settled, wrapping him tightly in its dark cocoon. The man’s boots scraped against the floorboards, his heavy steps just inches away.

Thorne’s breath caught in his throat as the soldier lunged forward, ripping the boards in front of him with a resounding crack. The wooden planks splintered, exposing the hollow where Thorne crouched.

Thorne’s heart stopped. He held his breath, expecting the man’s eyes to lock onto him in an instant. But instead, the soldier’s gaze passed over him as though he weren’t there. Thorne stared, wide-eyed, his mind racing in disbelief. He can’t see me.

For a moment, the aether around him flickered, growing agitated as his shock broke his concentration. But instinctively, Thorne reached out with his mind, willing the motes to settle again. Slowly, the darkness enveloped him once more, hiding him in its folds.

The soldier frowned, scanning the dark opening as though he sensed something was amiss. Thorne didn’t dare move. His lungs burned, his body trembling with the effort to remain still, but he forced himself to stay silent.

After several heart-stopping moments, the soldier shook his head and stood, kicking over the crates in frustration. The sound of wood splintering filled the air, but the man’s steps grew distant as he moved on.

Thorne let out a shaky breath, his heart racing as he slumped against the wall of the hollow. Relief washed over him, but it was short-lived. A surge of aether pulsed around him, and suddenly, words filled his vision.

Skill level up: Stealth!

Skill level up: Stealth!

Skill level up: Stealth!

Your Stealth has reached level 4!

Skill level up: Primal Aether Manipulation!

Your Primal Aether Manipulation has reached level 2!

Thorne forced himself to ignore the words floating before his eyes. His mind was too focused on the danger still lurking around him, his senses straining to track the guards’ movements. He didn’t dare let the aether protecting him slip away. But as the moments dragged on, a growing weakness began to creep through his body. The effort to maintain the shadowy veil sapped his strength, leaving his limbs heavy and his mind clouded with exhaustion.

The soldier loitered in the hallway for what felt like an eternity, his boots scuffing against the floor as he searched for any sign of the hidden boy. But after finding nothing, the man turned on his heel and walked back outside.

“Nothing, Commander,” the guard reported, his voice placid, indifferent, as though it made no difference whether or not they found Thorne.

"Where did that cursed child go? Could he have run while we were dealing with his parents?" the commander muttered, frustration lacing his words. He wasn’t really expecting an answer, but another soldier chimed in.

“Impossible, Commander. I’ve been circling the place before you even entered the house. If the boy had run, I would have seen him.”

The commander grunted, clearly dissatisfied. “Take Topher and scout the forest. Maybe his parents managed to help him get away before we got here. We’ll wait for you in the village. You have until first light.”

Thorne stayed motionless, his breath shallow as the men’s voices grew fainter. He listened intently as the sound of hooves thudded against the earth, carrying the soldiers back toward the village. Still, he didn’t dare move. He could hear two sets of footsteps lingering nearby—Topher and the other guard tasked with searching the forest. But then, as suddenly as they’d come, the footsteps faded into nothing.

He bit his lip, indecision clawing at him. His mother had been so clear—once he was sure he was alone, he was to leave immediately. To run. But... what if his dad was hurt? The thought gnawed at him, the small ember of hope burning brighter.

What if he could help?

With trembling hands, Thorne poked his head out of the small hollow. The house was eerily silent, no sign of the soldiers or anyone else. His heart pounded as he slipped out of his hiding place, standing frozen in the hallway. His mother’s instructions echoed in his mind: Leave through the back door. Run.

But his gaze shifted toward the door leading to the kitchen. What if his dad was still alive? His mother and Bea were gone, taken. But maybe... maybe his father was still here. Maybe he could help him.

His feet moved on their own, slow and hesitant, the broken remnants of his home crunching beneath his steps. His hands trembled at his sides, his eyes fixed on the floor, unwilling to look up. The remains of his mother’s herbs littered the ground, mixed with shards of wood and glass.

Before he knew it, he was standing in the middle of the kitchen.

The sight stopped him cold.

The room was unrecognizable. What had once been their cozy kitchen—where they shared meals, stories, and laughter—was now a scene of utter devastation. The table, which had once been the heart of their home, lay in splinters, reduced to nothing but kindling. Bea’s favorite book, the one she’d been reading just the other day, was torn apart, its pages scattered like fallen leaves. Their small bench, where they huddled together on cold nights, had been upturned and shoved into a corner.

His marbles—those beautiful, shiny marbles he’d left on the table just hours before—were gone, crushed into dust. Thorne crouched, his hand trembling as he picked up a small shard of glass. A faint streak of red still clung to the edge of the fragment, the last remnant of his favorite marble, the one Bea had brought for him.

“Awe,” he whispered, the word slipping out as the sharp glass bit into his skin. A small bead of blood welled up on his finger, but he barely noticed. The sting of the wound was nothing compared to the pain in his chest.

With a shaky breath, he tossed the broken shard aside, feeling tears welling up in his eyes. The sound of the glass hitting the ground never came. He looked up.

And his world shattered.

His body went cold, every muscle locking in place. His mind came to a grinding halt, unable to process the sight before him. His lips trembled, and the sob he had been holding back all night finally escaped, raw and broken.

“Dad?”