Thorne’s return to the city felt like a slow, painful march. Each step was a reminder of the battle he’d barely survived, the weird cat’s glowing green eyes still haunting him. Just thinking about the way it had moved, fluid and unnatural, sent a shiver down his spine. It was a miracle he was still alive.
His legs felt like they were made of lead, each muscle heavy with exhaustion, and his hand throbbed with a sharp, persistent ache. The skin was still raw and red, itching like crazy beneath the drying blood and dirt. He tried not to think about it, but every sting was a reminder of just how close he’d come to death.
Despite all of this, he couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of satisfaction. With every few steps, he pulled up his status screen, checking and re-checking his progress, almost disbelieving what he saw.
Name: Thorne
Level: 14
Race: Human
Age: 9
Special Trait: Elder Race
Health Points: 298/460
Aether: 233/290
Stamina: 161/370
Strength: 25 -> 30
Agility: 36
Dexterity: 28 -> 33
Endurance: 37
Vitality: 41 -> 46
Spirit: 45 -> 50
Wisdom: 24 -> 29
Intelligence: 25 -> 30
Skills:
* Tracking: 10 -> 11
* Foraging: 3
* Archery: 1
* Running: 14
* Stealth: 10
* Reading: 7
* Arithmetic: 6
* Herbalism: 2
* Acting: 10
* Haggling: 5
* Deception: 4
* Sleight of Hand: 5
* Pickpocketing: 3
* Lockpicking: 2
* Resilience: 3 -> 4
* Thick Skin: 10 -> 11
* Acrobatics: 9 -> 10
* Daggers: 11
* Escape Artist: 7
* Shadow Meld: 1
* PRIMAL AETHER MANIPULATION: 4 -> 5
* AETHER BURST: 1 -> 2
Seeing the stats spelled out in front of him gave him a deep sense of gratification. A single battle had rewarded him with two levels, and several of his skills had jumped up too. It felt good—really good—knowing his gamble had paid off.
He had spent a good amount of time deciding where to allocate his newly earned attribute points. After that fight with the aether beast, it had become clear to him that he needed to invest in his Wisdom for a larger aether pool and Intelligence to recover that pool faster. At first, the idea of dumping points into his magical attributes felt wrong. He liked the physical gains—being able to feel the power directly was addictive—but he remembered his mother’s words from when she had explained his Elder Race trait.
Not everyone had the luxury of fifteen points to distribute per level. It was a gift, and it meant he could afford to build more balanced stats without being overly cautious.
But there was one thing that disappointed him: when he added points to Wisdom and Intelligence, nothing happened. He had expected some kind of visible or tangible change—a magical aura, maybe, or a rush of aether swirling around him. Instead, he got... nothing. Absolutely nothing. His aether pool was bigger, sure, but it didn’t feel any different.
When he started distributing points into his other attributes, though, the results were immediate. The five points he dropped into Strength made his muscles tighten and flex in ways that sent a surge of energy through him. He picked up a nearby branch as thick as his wrist and, with a casual snap, broke it in half like it was nothing.
Then came Dexterity. He had tossed the same broken branch into the air, watching it spin in a wide arc, and snatched it without even thinking. His fingers moved faster, more precisely, catching the branch mid-spin without a second thought. He played with it for a bit, flipping it and tossing it, his movements sharp and fluid. When he finally got bored, he hurled the branch as far as he could—and it disappeared from view in a blur. That surprised him more than anything.
Vitality had a more subtle effect, but it was still noticeable. The dull, throbbing ache that had settled deep in his bones from his injuries faded, leaving him feeling lighter, less drained. The pain from his hand eased, and while it still itched like hell, he could feel his energy returning, slowly but surely.
Lost in his thoughts, Thorne almost failed to notice the guards at the western gate. His heart skipped a beat. That gate was usually left wide open, unguarded—no one in their right mind ventured into the elven forest. Except him, of course.
Crouching low, he melted into the underbrush, eyes locked on the two guards stationed by the gate. Their postures were tense, scanning the area with more attention than he had expected. Thorne’s mind raced. He couldn't just walk through like he usually did. He needed another way in, a quieter one.
Keeping to the shadows, Thorne crept along the outer wall, his Escape Artist skill alerting him to a weak point in the defenses. A stack of barrels and wooden boxes leaned precariously against the stone wall, creating a makeshift ladder. His heart pounded as he climbed, his muscles screaming from the day's earlier battle. By the time he reached the top, his breath was ragged, but there was no time to rest. He leaped onto a nearby rooftop, rolling to absorb the impact.
From his elevated perch, he gazed at the city. The night had fully set in, casting a blanket of darkness over the streets, with only the distant glow of lanterns and enchanted crystals twinkling like stars. It should’ve been calming, but the knot in his stomach tightened. Something felt off.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
Sliding down a drainpipe, Thorne hit the ground in a crouch, sticking close to the walls as he moved. His Stealth skill kept him concealed in the shadows, his footfalls barely audible on the cobblestone. Yet, a growing unease gnawed at him.
Then it hit him—hard. The streets were deserted.
Normally, even at this hour, there would be late-night stragglers. Merchants packing up their stalls, customers haggling for last-minute deals, or drunks stumbling home. But tonight, nothing. No voices. No footsteps. Just eerie silence.
Thorne stopped, straining to pick up any sound. At first, there was only the quiet rustling of the wind. Then, faint but unmistakable, a smell wafted through the air. Smoke. Burnt wood. The acrid scent made his nose wrinkle, and his mind kicked into overdrive. Fire.
He focused, concentrating on a single source of sound. The fighting was happening far away. Shouts and cries echoed from somewhere deeper in the city, followed by the clash of steel on steel. Thorne’s pulse quickened. A raid? An attack? His mind scrambled for answers as he pieced together the scene.
This wasn’t some small commotion. The fight was happening near the center of the city.
Instinct took over. He needed to get off the streets—staying out in the open was suicide. He slipped into a nearby alley, moving with practiced silence, his senses on full alert for any signs of danger. His goal was clear: reach the safety of his attic, or at least find somewhere to lay low until the chaos passed.
Rounding a corner, Thorne froze. The alley opened up into a wider street, illuminated by the flickering light of a fire. Long, twisted shadows danced on the walls of the buildings, distorting the scene before him. Figures moved in the distance, too far away to make out clearly, but the unmistakable clang of metal rang out louder now.
He crept forward, careful to stay hidden behind a stack of barrels. His mind was racing, trying to figure out what to do next. The fighting was close, maybe too close. The city was under siege, but by who? And why?
Thorne crouched lower, his eyes darting between the distant flames and the shadowy figures moving within them. Whatever was happening, it wasn’t good, and he knew one thing for sure—he needed to avoid getting caught up in it.
Thorne darted into the alley, heart hammering, his lungs burning as he dashed through the narrow streets. The city felt like a tomb, swallowed by the night and chaos. Shadows clung to the buildings, and he barely saw a soul as he weaved through the deserted alleys, each one quieter than the last. But as he neared his attic, a horrific scene stopped him cold.
Guards had forced their way into a house, the door hanging splintered on its hinges. Thorne froze, his breath catching in his throat as he watched them drag a family outside. A grizzled guard, his face twisted in a cruel sneer, ran his sword through the chest of an older man. The man crumpled to the ground, his wife’s piercing wail filling the night. Their teenage son, tears streaming down his face, lunged at the guard, only to be cut down with brutal efficiency. Thorne could only watch as another guard, holding a torch, tossed it carelessly into the house. Flames hungrily consumed the walls, turning the home into a raging inferno.
Thorne stood at the mouth of the alley, paralyzed, his body refusing to move. The gruesome sight before him mirrored memories he had buried deep, memories of his own family's slaughter. His mother’s anguished cries echoed in his mind, her broken voice blending with the woman’s screams. The past and present collided, threatening to suffocate him in a flood of terror and rage.
His Escape Artist skill screamed at him to run, urging him to slip away unnoticed, to follow a shadowed path beneath a nearby porch. But Thorne couldn’t move. His fists clenched at his sides as he watched the guards drag the sobbing woman and her young daughter down the street, their cries cutting through the night like knives. Fury boiled within him, white-hot and unrelenting. His hands rose of their own accord, trembling as he poured his horror, his rage, into the aether that swirled around him. The motes obeyed without hesitation, drawn to his unyielding will.
His first instinct was to release a massive Aether Burst, to obliterate everything in sight. But as he concentrated, something shifted. The motes changed before his eyes—grays, blues, whites, browns—they all transformed, flooding his vision with crimson. So much red. It was as if the very air had turned to blood. Thorne’s hands moved like a conductor leading a symphony, guiding the red motes as they clustered together, forming a volatile, swirling mass of energy. The aether whispered to him, its voice soft yet insistent, guiding him, urging him to bend it to his will.
The red motes settled over the guards like invisible flames, shimmering with raw energy only he could see. With a flick of his wrist, fire erupted. Screams tore through the night as the guards were engulfed in flames, their bodies writhing as they burned alive, the fire clinging to them like a living thing. The street lit up with a hellish glow, the guards shining like human torches, their armor turning molten in the inferno.
Thorne staggered, his vision narrowing, the world tilting dangerously. He slumped against a nearby wall, struggling to stay upright. The power he had unleashed drained him, the vertigo threatening to pull him under.
Skill Level Up: PRIMAL AETHER MANIPULATION!
Skill Level Up: PRIMAL AETHER MANIPULATION!
The notifications blinked in his vision, but Thorne barely registered them. His breaths came in shallow gasps as he forced his eyes open. In the distance, he saw the woman running, her daughter clutched tightly in her arms. She was fleeing, escaping into the night.
The guards weren’t so lucky. Most had managed to extinguish the flames, though they were left with horrific burns. Their faces were blistered, armor still glowing with residual heat. One guard, however, lay motionless on the ground, his head still smoldering, his breaths shallow and rasping as the last remnants of fire slowly consumed him.
Thorne didn’t wait any longer. He pushed off the wall, his Escape Artist skill flaring to life again, urging him to leave. Without looking back, he fled into the shadows, his steps quick and silent, disappearing into the night.
With trembling legs, Thorne moved quickly, slipping into the shadows as exhaustion nipped at his heels. Adrenaline pumped through his veins, keeping him upright and moving, but his body was screaming for rest. He needed a safe place, somewhere to catch his breath and make sense of the chaos he’d just left behind.
The sounds of fighting grew louder as he navigated the backstreets. His skills continued to level up with every desperate step.
Skill Level Up: Stealth!
Skill Level Up: Escape Artist!
Skill Level Up: Running!
The notifications blinked in his vision, but Thorne barely registered them. His thoughts were elsewhere, scrambling to keep pace with everything happening around him. He entered a familiar street, usually alive with the rowdy voices of drunken sailors and poor shopkeepers trying to scrape by. Now, it was deathly quiet. The tavern, once a hub of activity, stood eerily empty. The silence was thick, unnerving, and it stopped Thorne in his tracks.
He glanced between the staircase leading to his attic hideaway and the barred door of the tavern below. His knuckles rapped against the door, urgent but hesitant. After a tense moment, the door creaked open just enough for Gilly to peek out, her face pale, eyes wide with worry. Behind her, the barkeeper, who usually scowled at Thorne and chased him off, now looked equally anxious, his eyes darting nervously up and down the deserted street.
“Where in the dead gods have you been?” the barkeeper growled, his voice gruff and unsteady, still scanning the street as if expecting an ambush.
Thorne swallowed hard, trying to steady his voice. “What’s going on?” he asked, his chest tight with unease.
Gilly’s voice trembled as she answered, “A war’s broken out between the noble houses. Their guards are killing each other—and anyone they think is a sympathizer.”
Thorne’s mind raced, connecting the dots. The guards he’d seen earlier, the ones he’d set ablaze... they weren’t city guards. He now realized they had worn green sashes, the color of House Thornfield. His eyes widened as the realization hit him. “Those guards... they were from House Thornfield,” he muttered, barely audible.
The barkeeper, his face twisted with a mix of anger and fear, spat on the ground. “Lady Elara’s been murdered. That’s why all hell’s breaking loose.”
A chill gripped Thorne’s spine. Lady Elara... murdered? His thoughts flashed back to the letter he had stolen from House Thornfield, the one his uncle had been so keen on getting. Could that letter have something to do with this madness? Could his actions have sparked this war?
Before he could ask more, the barkeeper moved to shut the door in his face. But Gilly, always kinder than the others, blocked it with her hand. “Go hide in your attic, Thorne,” she urged, her eyes pleading with concern.
But Thorne shook his head, his thoughts a whirlwind of confusion and dread. “What about the city guards?” he asked, his voice rising with the tension. “Why aren’t they stopping this?”
The barkeeper scoffed, his lip curling in disdain. “City guards? They’re as useless as tits on a bull. Half of ’em are probably knee-deep in this mess themselves. This is noble business. Each house has its own private army, and they don’t give a damn about what’s left of the city.”
Gilly nodded, her expression grim and urgent. “It’s not safe out here, Thorne. You’ve got to hide until this is over.”
The door slammed shut, leaving Thorne standing in the street, his mind spinning with unanswered questions. Lady Elara... murdered. House Thornfield. And then his thoughts snapped to his uncle. What about him? Was his uncle involved in this? Did he know about Lady Elara’s death? His uncle had been preparing to make a move, but had Thorne’s mission set something even darker into motion?
His eyes turned towards the richer districts, where the sounds of fighting echoed louder and more frequently. The wealthy, the powerful—they were tearing the city apart. And somewhere in that chaos was his uncle.
Thorne clenched his fists, pushing down the wave of exhaustion that threatened to overtake him. He had to find him.