He watched the raging battle unfold before him, an indistinguishable whirlwind of cloaked figures, each locked in a vicious dance of life and death. It was nearly impossible to tell allies from enemies as gravediggers and cousins clashed amidst the roaring flames and swirling smoke. Thorne, however, had little room for sympathy or worry over the bodies that fell. All he could think of was getting Ben out of this nightmare.
Grabbing Ben's arm, he pulled him forward, guiding him toward the exit he’d come through. But as they approached, his stomach dropped—the doorway was blocked, a massive, toppled column sealing off their only familiar way out. Panic clawed at him, threatening to tear away what little control he had left, but he gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stay focused.
Just then, a glimmer of hope caught his eye—a narrow opening on the far side of the room, hidden in the shadows beyond the arched stone columns. It was a slim chance, but a chance all the same. He turned to Ben, who was shaking visibly but met Thorne’s gaze with trust, holding back the terror in his eyes.
"This way," Thorne whispered, leading him toward the archway.
The path to their escape was a war zone. Gravediggers and cousins clashed in a brutal struggle, blades flashing and fists flying. Flames cast monstrous shadows on the walls, warping every face, every movement into something otherworldly and terrifying. But his escape artist skill buzzed to life, guiding his steps, alerting him to the safest route through the chaos. He spotted a narrow gap between two collapsing bookshelves, a slim path that led to relative shelter on the other side.
"Stay low," Thorne muttered, pulling Ben along as they maneuvered through the maze of destruction. They ducked and squeezed through the narrow opening, feeling the searing heat from nearby fires licking at their skin, the acrid smoke stinging their eyes. His Escape Artist skill guided him, heightening his awareness to even the slightest dangers—shifting debris, hidden gaps, falling beams.
A notification blinked in his vision:
Skill Level Up: Escape Artist!
They crawled through the haze, moving with desperate speed. Thorne kept Ben close, guiding him around smoldering beams and past brutal skirmishes, his pulse thundering as they passed both friends and foes lying lifeless on the ground. The sight chilled him to the core. There was no stopping to check if they were truly gone or only injured. Survival left no room for hesitation.
The fire intensified, filling the air with blistering heat and suffocating smoke, making it nearly impossible to breathe. Thorne felt his body weakening, his vision darkening at the edges from sheer exhaustion. Every step he took seemed to drain more of his energy, but he refused to slow down. They had come too far.
Navigating through the debris, Thorne led Ben past obstacles that loomed like shadows in the smoky fog. Dodging falling beams and sidestepping burning remnants, they pressed on, with Thorne’s skill guiding them through the danger. His instincts were sharp, but even they were no guarantee against the constant threats that flared around them.
Just as they neared the archway, a gasp escaped Ben’s lips—a sound so strangled and raw that Thorne whipped around instantly. A gravedigger appeared out of nowhere, his mouth twisted into a smirk, eyes gleaming with cold malice as he twirled his shortsword with lethal precision. Thorne’s heart plummeted. He could feel his own strength waning, knowing he didn’t have enough left in him to face another fight.
Then, out of nowhere, an arrow whistled through the thick, smoky air, striking the gravedigger square in the chest. The man staggered, shock and pain flashing across his face before he collapsed, his weapon clattering to the floor beside him. Thorne stared, bewildered, then quickly scanned the room, hoping to spot the archer. But amidst the chaotic battle, it was impossible to identify the source. The cousins and gravediggers continued their deadly clash, oblivious to Thorne and Ben.
He took it as a sign of fortune, and with no time to spare, he tightened his grip on Ben’s arm. “Come on, don’t look back!” he urged, steering Ben around the fallen gravedigger and towards the escape they so desperately needed.
Another notification flashed in his vision:
Skill Level Up: Escape Artist!
Ignoring the ache in his limbs and the stabbing pain of his wounds, Thorne guided Ben through the chaos, slipping through the shadows and avoiding the burning wreckage. The flames were spreading faster, consuming everything they touched, and he knew they had only minutes left before the entire chamber would be engulfed. Their steps quickened, lungs burning as they pushed forward, driven by nothing more than survival and a slim hope.
The path to the archway was a chaotic maze of flames, fallen bodies, and smoldering debris. Thorne’s Escape Artist skill pulsed in his mind, guiding his steps with an almost instinctual precision, steering him through gaps and around obstacles that others might have stumbled over or missed. But the toll was beginning to show—his vision swam, his breaths came in painful, smoke-filled gasps, and every step felt like he was dragging the weight of a mountain.
As they stumbled forward, Thorne spotted a narrow, half-obscured path leading towards the archway. The doorway was blocked by fallen beams and rocks, but it was their only hope. He glanced at Ben, whose face was streaked with soot and wide-eyed with fear but who met his gaze with a steady nod. They had no choice but to push on.
"Hold on, Ben," he managed, his voice cracking through the haze of smoke in his lungs. "We’re almost there."
Thorne knelt and began clearing a passage through the debris, his hands raw and bleeding as he moved chunks of rock aside, his fingers gripping the rough edges despite the sharp pain. Each movement was agony, but he forced himself to keep going, his focus narrowed to this single task of survival. Ben crouched beside him, darting nervous glances around, ready to react to any sudden threat.
Finally, he cleared a narrow passage wide enough for them to squeeze through. The flames cast an eerie, flickering glow on the stone walls, making the entire room feel like some nightmarish realm of shadows. For a moment, Thorne allowed himself a sigh of relief as he dislodged the last chunk of rock that freed enough space for them.
"Go, Ben," he urged, his voice barely a whisper. He gave Ben a small, encouraging push through the opening, watching as the boy wriggled through the narrow gap. When Ben was safely on the other side, Thorne took a deep breath, ignoring the searing pain in his chest, and pushed himself through after him.
On the other side, the sounds of the raging battle and the glow of the flames faded, replaced by the unsettling quiet of the dim corridor beyond. Thorne took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to clear the acrid smoke from his lungs. He looked at Ben, who stood trembling but unscathed beside him, eyes wide and haunted.
"We’re not safe yet," Thorne croaked, his throat raw. He took Ben’s arm, helping him to his feet. "We need to keep moving. Find somewhere safe."
Ben gave a small nod, his face etched with exhaustion and a glimmer of relief. They stumbled together through the dimly lit corridor, the remnants of battle sounds fading further behind with each step. Doors lined the elven walls, remnants of some forgotten age, but Thorne ignored them all, his focus set on finding a way out. His steps were shaky, his knees buckling every few paces, but he refused to let himself collapse. Not yet.
As they shuffled through the corridor, the silence was broken only by their echoing footsteps, contrasting sharply with the chaos they’d just left. They passed more pockets of conflict—gravediggers and cousins locked in desperate struggles, fallen bodies strewn across the ground like grim markers. Thorne forced himself to look away, his thoughts fixated solely on getting Ben to safety.
But his strength was nearly gone. Every step sent fresh waves of pain through his exhausted muscles, and his vision blurred at the edges, darkening ominously as his energy waned. Yet he pressed on, clinging to sheer willpower, ignoring his own injuries as he guided Ben forward.
Finally, they spotted a half-collapsed doorway up ahead. Through the gap, Thorne glimpsed the cool night air and the shadowed, empty street beyond. Summoning the last of his strength, he guided Ben towards it, pushing through with a final burst of energy. They emerged from the hideout, the night air like a balm against their scorched skin.
Thorne’s knees buckled the moment they stepped outside, his body drained of every last ounce of strength. He staggered, nearly collapsing, but Ben was there, steadying him, his small hands gripping Thorne’s arm with surprising strength.
They had made it out.
As soon as Thorne felt a wave of relief wash over him, he heard the unmistakable twang of a bowstring. Every instinct screamed at him, and he shouted, diving at Ben and pulling him to the ground just as an arrow whizzed past his head. Heart pounding, Thorne’s wide eyes darted around, taking in the moonlit street with its eerie, deadly silence.
Bodies lay strewn across the cobblestones, all pierced with arrows. The metallic scent of blood mingled with the smoke and the crisp night air, turning his stomach. Panic tightened its grip as his ears picked up the sound of another bowstring being drawn, this time closer.
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Thorne tried to move, but his battered body felt like lead. His limbs, aching and weak, refused to obey. Is this it? he thought, a wave of despair crashing over him as he braced for the worst. Just then, a figure stepped out from the shadows, frantically waving their arms.
"It's Thorne! It's Thorne and Ben! Lower your bows!" The voice cut through the tension, loud and urgent.
Thorne squinted, struggling to focus. It was Darius. Relief hit him like a flood, loosening the tight knot of fear in his chest.
“Thank the gods,” he muttered, his voice barely a whisper.
Darius jogged over, signaling to the hidden archers to stand down. "Are you two alright?" he asked, his face etched with concern. In the dim light, his usually broad and sturdy shoulders seemed to carry an even heavier weight.
Thorne nodded, though his head felt heavy and his breaths were shallow. "Barely," he managed. "We have to get out of here." He winced as he forced himself to stand, his legs trembling under the strain.
Ben, still trembling from the close call, clung to Thorne’s arm, supporting him as best he could. Darius stepped in, draping one of Thorne's arms over his shoulders and bearing most of his weight. Together, they moved down the darkened street, away from the hideout, leaving the smoldering ruin behind them.
Darius guided them to a side alley where Eliza and Rafe were waiting anxiously. As Thorne took in the scene, he noticed two older cousins stationed at the mouth of the alley, bows drawn and eyes locked onto the hideout’s entrance. Another pair mirrored them at the opposite end, their concentration sharp, expressions steely as they watched for any sign of pursuit.
In the shadows, the small group huddled close, breaths visible in the cool air, a mixture of exhaustion and tension weighing on them. Darius eased Thorne down against the wall, where Ben quickly settled beside him. Thorne closed his eyes for a moment, letting himself simply breathe as relief mingled with the ache of fatigue.
Darius crouched down beside him. “We need to stay here for a while. The others are keeping watch,” he murmured, nodding toward the archers who stood guard at each end of the alley.
Thorne nodded, still piecing together the events that had led them here. He looked up at Darius, a frown pulling at his brow. “What’s going on, Darius? Why are so many cousins here?” He hesitated, the memory of Uncle’s harsh words filling his mind. “Last I heard, Uncle wanted nothing to do with the gravediggers’ business.”
Darius shrugged, glancing around the alley to ensure no one was within earshot before meeting Thorne’s gaze. “I don’t know all the details myself. We were out here, keeping an eye on things like we promised, and then the older cousins showed up.” He paused, expression conflicted. “They didn’t say much, just that they’d been sent to wipe out the gravediggers. Seems like Uncle had a sudden change of heart.”
Eliza, her wide, fearful eyes still darting between the hideout and Thorne, chimed in. “I overheard a bit. They mentioned something about Uncle finally having enough of the gravediggers’ troublemaking. Maybe they crossed some line, and he finally snapped.”
Rafe, leaning casually against the wall with his arms crossed, gave a slight nod. “We don’t know much more than that, Thorne. They just told us they had orders to clean out the base. We figured it was best to stick together and help where we could.” He shrugged, though Thorne didn’t miss the flash of unease in his eyes.
A low murmur of agreement rippled through the group, a grim acceptance of their situation. One of the archers at the mouth of the alley turned his head just enough to acknowledge them, his gaze still trained on the hideout's entrance. "Yeah, word is Uncle decided it was time to put an end to their games. They’ve caused too many problems, and we’ve lost too many cousins already.”
Thorne frowned, trying to piece together the reasons behind his uncle’s sudden change in attitude. “But why now? What changed?” His tone held a faint edge of bitterness; he knew better than to think his uncle had done this for him. He had shed that illusion a long time ago.
Darius shook his head, his face unreadable. “I don’t know. Maybe something finally pushed him over the edge. All I know is we were given orders, and we’re following them.”
Eliza’s voice was a quivering thread in the tense silence. “It doesn’t matter why. What matters is we’re taking them down. They’ve terrorized us long enough.” Her voice held a hint of defiance, though her trembling hands betrayed her nerves.
Thorne let out a sigh, leaning his head back against the cold, rough wall behind him. His body felt like it had been wrung dry, every muscle at its breaking point, the adrenaline finally fading to reveal just how battered he was. Sharp, unrelenting pain shot through his chest with every breath, and his limbs felt leaden. Every inch of him was a mess of bruises, cuts, and exhaustion. Blood trickled down his side, warm and sticky, a painful reminder of how close he had come to not making it out at all.
He closed his eyes, letting the sounds of the ongoing battle fade into the background, a distant cacophony of shouts, cries, and the occasional twang of a bowstring. His mind was a blur, a chaotic swirl of exhaustion and relief.
He heard the faint rustle of movement as Darius and Rafe crept towards the edge of the alley to get a better view of the fight. Eliza huddled close to Ben, who had been unsettlingly silent ever since they’d joined the others. Thorne could feel Ben’s eyes flicker toward him now and then, but each glance was quick, as if Ben was afraid to really look at him. Thorne knew that expression too well: it was the look of someone who had seen something they couldn’t unsee.
In that silence, Thorne felt the weight of Ben’s unspoken questions pressing down on him. He knew that eventually, he’d have to explain—to try, at least, to make sense of what had happened, of the things he’d done. But now was not the time. Survival came first, and the guilt… he’d push it aside, for now. He couldn’t afford to let it consume him here.
Instead, he decided to take stock of himself. Despite the exhaustion clouding his mind, he needed to see what he’d gained from tonight’s ordeal. After everything he had endured—the countless skills, the brutal fight, and the strain of channeling aether—he needed to know it had meant something. He summoned his character sheet, his vision filling with rows of blinking notifications.
As the text blurred before him, a flash of the dead gravedigger’s face crossed his mind, the empty stare burned into his memory. A cold dread surged up, gripping his chest. No, he told himself, forcibly tearing his thoughts away. Not now. Not here.
He forced himself to focus on the present. He needed to see the fruits of his struggle, to know that it had all been for something. The words blurred together, his mind struggling to process the information through the haze of pain and exhaustion.
Thorne’s eyes scanned over his character sheet, the notifications blinking insistently in his vision. But what should have felt like progress, like proof of survival and growth, felt hollow.
Name: Thorne
Level: 18
Race: Human
Age: 9
Special Trait: Elder Race
Health points: 194/510
Aether: 180/290
Stamina: 123/520
Strength: 30
Agility: 46
Dexterity: 43
Endurance: 52
Vitality: 51
Spirit: 55
Wisdom: 29
Intelligence: 30
Skills:
* Tracking: 11
* Foraging: 3
* Archery: 1
* Running: 20
* Stealth: 15 → 16
* Reading: 7
* Arithmetic: 6
* Herbalism: 2
* Acting: 13
* Haggling: 6
* Deception: 10
* Sleight of hand: 6
* Pickpocketing: 5
* Lockpicking: 2
* Resilience: 6 → 7
* Thick Skin: 20 → 21
* Acrobatics: 12 → 13
* Daggers: 14 → 15
* Escape Artist: 13 → 15
* Shadow Meld: 3 → 4
* Mindguard: 1
* Echoes of Truth: 3
* Unarmed Combat: 3
* Combat Reflexes: 3 → 5
* Hunter’s Insight: 1
* Stealth Strike: 1
* Cunning Trapper: 3
Aether Skills:
* Primal Aether Manipulation: 8
* Aether Burst: 3
* Aether Surge: 1 → 3
* Aetheric Grip: 1
The words blurred together as the hollow feeling in his chest grew, twisting his insides as he stared blankly at the sheet. His skills and stats had risen—proof of his survival, of what he’d fought through. He could almost see Sid’s smirk, hear him saying this was all just part of the journey. But the lifeless eyes of the gravedigger were still seared into his mind, and he felt anything but victorious. One more level… for taking a life.
Instead of pride, an ugly weight settled in his chest, like a stone pressing down on his lungs. He couldn’t shake the image of the gravedigger’s lifeless eyes, staring through him as if accusing him of something he couldn’t explain. The memory sat heavily in his mind, refusing to fade, and he could almost feel the man’s gaze boring into him.
A pang of nausea rose in his stomach. His breaths came in short, shallow bursts, and a cold sweat beaded on his forehead as the weight of his actions finally hit him. Blood was on his hands, and it was more than he could bear.
Eliza whispered his name softly. Her voice broke through the fog in his mind, and a hand shook his shoulder. He bolted upright, stumbling over to a shadowed corner of the alley, where he doubled over, retching until nothing was left. The sharp sting of bile burned his throat, the only thing breaking the oppressive silence that had surrounded him.
A hand rested gently on his back, rubbing in slow, calming circles. Thorne blinked, his vision swimming, and found himself staring into Ben’s steady gaze. He hadn’t even noticed the boy approach. Kindness and understanding reflected in Ben’s eyes, a depth of empathy that caught Thorne off-guard.
Thorne's heart clenched, his pulse racing in his ears. In that moment, he couldn’t hold back the sting of tears. He gasped for air, the grief, the guilt, and the exhaustion washing over him like a wave, each emotion crashing harder than the last. His vision blurred, and he felt his stomach lurch again, wracked by another wave of nausea.
Ben’s hand remained on his back, anchoring him. Even after Thorne finished retching, his friend's hand stayed, a grounding presence amidst the whirlwind of shame and confusion. The simple, reassuring weight was like a lifeline, reminding him that he wasn’t entirely alone in this mess, no matter how alone he felt inside.
Finally, after several long, silent moments, the nausea passed, leaving Thorne hollow and spent. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, swallowing the bitter taste that lingered. His body shook with the last remnants of adrenaline and shock, his mind still grappling with the enormity of what he’d done. Ben, without a word, handed him a small, worn cloth. Thorne accepted it with a trembling hand, using it to clean himself up, grateful for the quiet understanding that needed no words.
“Thank you,” Thorne whispered, his voice hoarse and raw. Ben nodded, his gaze steady, his silence offering Thorne more comfort than words ever could. There, in Ben's unwavering gaze, was something new—a promise that Thorne wasn’t as alone as he thought, a promise of support.
The promise was wordless, but to Thorne, it was everything.