“Do I really want to know how long it’ll take to clear your debt? Sure,” Seth replied casually, shrugging his shoulders. “Why, is it going to be some big, shocking—”

“Twenty-three years, at the current rate.”

Seth swore as he nearly fumbled the bamboo crate he was carrying. “Fog! Seriously?!”

“My pay covers housing, food, and clothing first,” Rylan intoned, carefully keeping his voice steady. “What’s left to be subtracted from my debt isn’t all that much.”

Right now, he was making five silver florins and two bronze quarters per sixty-day season. However, his living expenses over that period amounted to four silver florins and four copper bits—half a bronze quarter. That left him with only a single silver florin, one measly bronze quarter, and four copper bits going towards his debt.

With six seasons in a year, that amounted to a whopping total of eight silver florins and two bronze quarters, which hardly made a dent in his remaining debt of just over two hundred florins.

What hadn’t helped either, was the sum of twenty-five florins that had been added to his debt to pay for the anklet he’d been fitted with after he tried to run about a year ago. That had set him back at least three years.

“That’s messed up,” Seth finally said.

Rylan grunted. They’d just passed the barracks, so they were about halfway to the main building, which housed both the kitchen and the pantry. Could he perhaps convince Seth to run back with him to save time?

“But at least you live in comfort,” the lanky boy added with a shrug, proving that he really didn’t get it after all. “Honestly, your life would probably suck less if you weren’t trying so hard to pay it off quicker, you know? You gotta learn to enjoy the ride.”

Rylan sped up, the anklet pulling down his right foot with each step, Seth’s amused snort serving only to fuel the fire blossoming in the pit of his stomach.

“Whatever, man!” Seth called after him. “Have fun running yourself ragged for no good reason!”

Rylan ignored the lazy clodpoll. He knew what he wanted out of life, and it wasn’t this. One way or another, he would move to one of the free cities, get a job there, and support himself.

That’s what he’d been trying to accomplish when he ran. For all their faults, the Thistlethorns had fed him, clothed him, raised him, and he had no intention of repaying that with ingratitude. He’d just wanted to pay off his debt to them on his own terms, with employment of his own choosing. Preferably something that didn’t involve cooking.

And, of course, he’d hoped to track down his birth parents, get some answers at the very least.

However, he’d failed, and the odds of him getting away now seemed slimmer than ever, so he’d gone back to his original plan: pay off his debt as fast as possible. No matter how he sliced it, only by unlocking a Skill and thus becoming one of the revered Quinthar could he become debt-free in a somewhat sane timeframe.

Any Quinthar, even the ones with just a single, Emerald-Grade Skill, could find decent employment. They definitely didn’t scrub pots and pans or clean out fog condensers; that kind of work simply did not befit their station.

Getting a combat Skill would probably be best. Quint Cubes went for about a bronze quarter a pop and Ethereon supposedly rewarded several for the slaying of even weaker Malequints—the various mana-powered creatures that topped the food chain in the depths of the cloudsea. But frankly, he’d be happy with any Skill.

Not much was known about how people got Skills—at least, not publicly—but some things were common knowledge. One thing everyone knew was that to gain a Skill, you needed to meet its Attribute prerequisites. That was a problem, because Rylan didn’t know his Attributes, and never would unless he became a Quinthar and got access to his Status.

But that’s where his preparations came in.

If he didn’t know what Skill he qualified for, he would just have to try all of them.

Hence, practically every spare moment he’d found over the previous few years—and that went double for last year—had been spent practising everything he’d heard could manifest a Skill, often together with Zahra, though her drive wasn’t quite as high as his.

He’d done needlework until his fingers bled, run laps until he’d wanted to vomit, and a small, horizontal scar on his right cheekbone showed how close Zahra had gotten to poking his eye out when they’d tried fencing with sharp bamboo sticks.

That had been the end of that particular undertaking. Rylan had always felt he looked rather plain in general, but he was kind of fond of the light purple tint of his eyes. More importantly, it was one of the few clues to his ancestry, as the pigmentation was pretty uncommon.

Of course, even without fencing, they’d still had plenty to practise.

About a year later, he’d broken his wrist doing tumbles; that had been a miserable summer. His options for Skills had been so limited he’d even resorted to working on his singing—until Zahra had begged him to stop.

But after it had healed, they’d been right back at it, shooting dull bamboo arrows with simple self-made bows, juggling with handcrafted cones, and throwing knives they’d ‘borrowed’ from the kitchen.

They’d gotten a massive telling-off when Zahra’s father had found out about that. As head chef, he was very protective of the kitchen’s knives—and even more so his own, which no one else was allowed to use—so he’d naturally confiscated the borrowed property immediately.

It was a real shame, cause Rylan felt he’d been getting pretty good at throwing them.

“Hah!” a feminine voice shouted, interrupting his stewing with a flash of light and a clang of metal on metal. On a small court to the left of his path, Lord Bryce Thistlethorn was sparring with his firstborn and heir.

Helen was in her early thirties, and gave off an almost primal, predatory vibe as she weaved the tip of her spear in an ever-changing pattern, her boots somehow barely crunching the crushed shell underfoot as she circled her father.

Her silver-blue hair was tied back in a ponytail with a worn leather strap. Her gambeson—much like the surcoat Lord Thistlethorn wore over his cuirass—was a deep crimson; the greater Thorn family’s traditional colouring. Both garments were emblazoned with numerous depictions of their branch’s coat of arms as well—a stylised blue thistle flower.

Lord Thistlethorn kept his sword and shield raised towards her as she circled, waiting for her strike with the stoic calm of a weathered cliff, his own silvery-blue hair and beard impeccably trimmed and groomed as always.

Rylan couldn’t help but slow down, his irritation momentarily forgotten as Helen lunged forward again with her spear. A shimmering white glow came to life around her hands, rapidly extended up along the shaft of the weapon—made of actual wood—and reached the steel spearhead only at the very culmination of her thrust.

Despite the impressive display of her Spear-Fighting Skill, Lord Thistlethorn used his shield to slap the attack aside with seemingly little effort. If he was using a Skill as well, Rylan couldn’t tell.

The man then proceeded to move forward with speed belying his age, and several clashes of his sword against her spear later, he had his blade pressed against her neck. Or more precisely, against the shimmering, barely visible layer of white light surrounding her skin. Her Mana Shell, Ethereon’s gift of protection to his mighty Quinthar.

“You’re still overextending, Hel,” Lord Thistlethorn spoke in a deep voice, “You have to consider your...”

He trailed off as his eyes fell on Rylan. What little Rylan could see of the bushy silver-blue eyebrows beneath his helmet knitted together ever so slightly.

This was the second time today he’d made the mistake of not looking busy, but before he could heft his two crates a little higher and start moving again, Helen turned her head and spotted him.

“Hey Ryles!” she exclaimed, a smile lighting up her face as she pushed Lord Thistlethorn’s sword aside with her bare hand. “Whatcha got there, anything good?”

Rylan glanced uncertainly at Lord Thistlethorn as his daughter sauntered up to him, wiping some sweat off her brow with the back of her hand. While he was used to her familiar tone, hearing it in front of Lord Thistlethorn felt weird, his presence stifling.

“Ehm, I haven’t actually checked yet,” Rylan replied honestly, nodding down at the bamboo crate’s lid. “But it smells like crab.”

She pulled a face.

Despite himself, Rylan smiled, his shoulders losing some of their tension. Seeing her make that face reminded him of simpler times, when she’d tried to insist that Rylan call her his older sister, and he’d teasingly kept referring to her as Aunt Helen, due to the large age difference.

Just last week, she’d approached him with a conspiratorial grin, just to press a sugary treat in his hand—actual honeyed nuts—like she’d used to when he was little. Rylan had rolled his eyes and said he wasn’t a child anymore, but she’d just winked and left.

They had been just as delicious as he remembered.

She cocked her head to the side. “Why do you have a green stain on your forehead?”

“Oh! I bumped my head on the bottom of the trade vessel just now. I guess some algae must’ve rubbed off on me...”

She frowned, leaning in closer. “You hit your head?” Her free hand twitched upward as if she were about to reach out.

It was too much, too familiar, especially under Lord Thistlethorn’s heavy gaze. No matter how he looked up to her, and despite how she treated him, he was her family’s property, not her little brother or nephew. That had just been a silly child’s fantasy.

Just like getting the Singing Voice Skill. Helen actually had that Skill, which, in hindsight, was probably the only reason he’d sincerely tried to gain it as well.

The heat of embarrassment filled his body and he stepped back, lowering his eyes. “It’s nothing. I barely felt it... milady.”

She winced and opened her mouth, but Lord Thistlethorn interrupted, clearing his throat. “Let the boy get back to his chores, Hel. I’m sure he’s eager to get them over with.”

The man wasn’t wrong, but the dismissive tone still made some tiny childish part of Rylan cringe in on itself.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Helen stood in front of him a moment longer, then glanced down at his right ankle and sighed, her shoulders slumping a little. “Right... Don’t work too hard, all right? You gotta take care of yourself.”

Then she lifted her spear, turned around, and got back into a fighting stance.

Rylan hefted his crates and hurried on after Seth, who had passed him by in the meantime. He kept his gaze level as he overtook the lanky boy once more, ignoring his snickers.

The fire in his belly, momentarily forgotten, blazed anew.

Just twelve to thirteen trips up and down, then I can show Ethereon what I’ve got...

image [https://www.hcmillsofficial.com/CloudDividerGrey/]

By the time Rylan was done his clothes had mostly dried, so when he returned to his room to grab his assorted equipment, he didn’t bother changing.

He did take off his shoes to avoid dirtying the woven mistweed mat that covered the cold stone floor, then quickly darted in to grab the bulging sack from where it was propped up against his bamboo dresser.

In his haste, he failed to spot the handle of one of his hand-crafted juggling clubs poking out of the side, and it got between his legs, sending him sprawling onto his futon.

His room was cozy and his furniture sparse, but at least he didn’t have to share with anyone, so there was no one to witness his pratfall. One small mercy.

He hurriedly extricated himself from his blankets and scooted to the door where he pulled his shoes back on. Getting back to his feet, he paused for a quick glance in the polished bronze mirror next to his door.

Seeing the mess that were his flaxen locks, he sighed and started to straighten it out. However, he gave up after about three seconds of minimal effort, unable to be bothered.

Miss Amberleaf would berate him for looking unpresentable again if she spotted him, but that was easily avoided, simply by avoiding her.

So with the sack slung over his shoulder, he took the back exit out of the large stone building and sped to the small bamboo forest nestled in between the servants’ quarters and the outer wall.

He used to do his Skill training outside of the compound as much as inside, but that was before his attempt to run. The guards knew not to let him out now, and even if they did, the anklet would activate if he got too far from the estate.

He couldn’t quite tell how it worked, as the outermost layer of the anklet was nothing but a solid casing of bare steel, but from the engraved logo he knew it was the real deal: modern mana-powered runegear produced by the Thorn family itself.

Of course, as Rylan wasn’t a Quinthar, it couldn’t drain his mana to power itself, and thus had to be powered by a Quint Cube. He’d seen it get inserted into a small cubical recess lined with copper-coloured runes before they put it on the first time. Other than that, he strongly suspected it contained deepmetal, as upon activation, the anklet would grow heavier and heavier, until he could no longer even lift his foot.

The one time he’d pushed his luck while out on an errand, the guards who’d found him had needed a wheelbarrow to get him back so the Thistlethorns could unlock it and turn it off. And add the cost for the fresh Cube to his debt.

Rylan quickly weaved his way through the fast-growing stalks towards the little clearing in the centre, where Zahra was already waiting for him, sitting in the grass in her livery.

She glanced up from her needlework, brushed some brown curls aside with russet-coloured fingers, and grinned. “Took you long enough. I thought you had the afternoon off?”

“I did,” Rylan replied with a sigh. “Ava felt otherwise.”

Zahra winced, sympathy in her silvery-grey eyes.

“How’s your project coming along?” Rylan asked as he put down his sack and started his warm-up, stretching out his sore fingers and rotating his tired shoulders.

Zahra excitedly held up the half-finished garment she was making for Loukas, the young guard she was courting. “I think it’s getting somewhere!”

Rylan looked over the patchwork cloth, pieced together from swatches in all kinds of colours, but failed to spot any kind of pattern in it. “If you say so...”

Zahra narrowed her eyes at him, sitting up a little straighter. “You know I’m in possession of needles, and know where you sleep, right? You want to try that again?”

Rylan laughed as he drew his bow from the sack and danced out of her reach, just in case. “Of course, my apologies. I meant to say it looks amazing!”

Zahra nodded primly. “That’s more like it. Just you wait; he’s going to love it!”

Rylan was sure he would. Especially after Zahra’s mother, Miss Brightwind, put the last hand to it and fixed any mistakes Zahra might’ve made. But he wisely didn’t mention this.

“You’re right. Who knows, he might propose on the spot!”

Some red crept up on Zahra’s cheeks, further darkening her skin. Being pasty and pale himself, Rylan had always been a little jealous of her complexion. Personally, he couldn’t get a tan to save his life.

“He’d better,” she grumbled, “If he doesn’t ask me soon, I’m going to start casting a wider net.”

Rylan shook his head fondly. It was pure bluff and they both knew it. Zahra was sick to the stomach, walking on clouds for her ‘warrior.’ Thankfully, Loukas seemed to return her feelings—and was no longer as tongue-tied around her as he’d used to be.

“I bet he would’ve asked already,” Rylan teased, “if he didn’t shit his britches at the prospect of facing your father.”

Zahra scoffed. “My dad’s a total softie! I really don’t understand why people find him so intimidating.”

Rylan shook his head, but didn’t reply, knowing the argument to be futile. Instead, he nocked a simple bamboo arrow, lifted his bow in front of him, and took aim at the simple straw target Zahra had painted for him.

Zahra quietly continued her needlework as he prepared to launch into his routine of the past couple of days.

Because of course, he hadn’t just been patiently waiting for the day he knew for sure he was of age; he’d been demonstrating his abilities every day for a week or two now, hoping to be recognised by Ethereon just one day earlier.

Without success, so far.

But today would be different. It had to be. Today was the anniversary of when he’d been found, so it really wasn’t too farfetched for it to be his actual birthday, which would explain why Ethereon hadn’t paid any attention to him yet.

Some people said Ethereon was actually the Seventh Great Spirit and the true overlord of Zenith—the Great Spirit pantheon. Others claimed there were only six Great Spirits, and that Ethereon wasn’t a spirit at all but something else entirely. Rylan wasn’t sure what to believe, but he always figured it couldn’t hurt to start with a little prayer regardless.

“Blessed Ethereon, guide my hand today,” he whispered, his eyes closed.

Then he opened them, drew his bow, took aim, and released.

image [https://www.hcmillsofficial.com/CloudDividerGrey/]

About an hour later, after showing off his archery, tumbling, fencing, needlework, sword-fighting, sneaking, his ability with a slingshot, and even plain running, with a sinking feeling in his stomach, Rylan was demonstrating what he’d saved for last; his juggling.

There were more Skills he’d heard of, of course, but those either didn’t suit him, or required the kind of weapons and tools he couldn’t easily obtain.

He obviously couldn’t get his hands on something as extravagant as actual wooden juggling clubs either, so he’d improvised, making his own from split pieces of bamboo that he’d woven together, with clay and rocks added in the hollow interior for weight.

Right then, however, he wished he’d added a little less weight, as his arms were still heavy from lifting crates, and his sluggish fingers kept fumbling his clubs before he could get into a rhythm.

He stubbornly kept trying, but after about fifteen minutes, he missed another catch, and his heavy, self-made club dropped right onto his big toe.

Normally, the sight of him hopping around, swearing up a storm, would probably have sent Zahra into a fit of laughter. Today she was deathly silent, her eyes following him with a pity that stung Rylan almost as much as his toe.

When the throbbing lessened to a dull ache, he flopped down on his back in the grass and just stared up at the clear blue sky with teary eyes, feeling empty.

“It’s not fair,” he mumbled after a while.

Zahra hummed softly.

“It’s not fair!” he repeated, rolling over to punch the ground a few times, imagining Seth’s stupid face there as he did.

Zahra put down her needlework with a sigh. “We always knew it was a long shot. But it’s not like you can’t still get one, right? Maybe you just need a little more practice...”

“When?!” Rylan exclaimed. “When am I supposed to practise if I’m always doing stupid chores?!”

Zahra bit her lip. “You know,” she said after a moment. “There’s one thing you haven’t tried yet. I know you’re not going to like this, but... if you asked Soren, I bet he would help you.”

Rylan lifted his face off the ground and stared at her, incredulous. “Ask Soren for help?! Over my dead body.”

Zahra let out a sigh. “I’m just saying, he would. And he has a Skill now, so—”

“I’m not going to ask him for help,” Rylan bit out, his hands clenching into fists. “Soren Thistlethorn does not want me to be free. If he did, I wouldn’t be wearing this fogging anklet!”

Zahra pursed her lips, but didn’t contradict him.

Rylan got up and started pacing, the weight at his ankle pulling him down with every step feeling extra aggravating somehow. The mention of Soren getting his first Skill had soured his mood further. His former friend had become a Quinthar about half a season ago, on the very day he’d come of age. Every day longer it took Rylan was a day he was further behind.

And of course, his odds were only about one in a thousand in the first place. Meanwhile, apart from Lady Dionne——Soren and Helen’s mother—all of the Thistlethorns were Quinthar. That was four out of five: clearly not a coincidence.

“They know things we don’t,” Rylan muttered, not for the first time. “They have to!”

Zahra shrugged. “Maybe. It probably helps a lot that they can afford Enhancers.”

Rylan grunted. The precious gems—rewards from Ethereon to brave Quinthar who conquered its Dungeons—were the only confirmed way to permanently increase one’s Attributes for a non-Quinthar.

“That can’t be enough though,” he argued. “Not for all of them to get Skills.”

“Well, maybe they even bought Pearls of Inspiration.”

Rylan scoffed. “Yeah, right. Those are impossible to get. Why would anyone sell them?” Consuming a Pearl of Inspiration was supposed to put one into a special state that would guide them into obtaining a Skill. Even Quinthar would kill to obtain them. “Come on, think about it: how old is the greater Thorn family? They must have lists of Skill requirements by now. Not to mention ways to improve your chances of getting one.”

There were a ton of rumours about things you could do to draw Ethereon’s attention. Some people insisted the best way to obtain a Skill was to practise naked under the moons and stars, others claimed there were offerings one could perform, or that Skills had secret, additional requirements one needed to meet outside of just Attributes.

Many things Rylan had heard smelled of superstition, and thus he hadn’t been desperate enough to go out naked in the light of the moons.

Yet.

But the Thistlethorns were a branch from a truly ancient family. If anyone knew which things worked and which didn’t, it’d be them.

“If nothing else, they definitely know some secrets about Voice Skills,” he concluded.

Voice Skills were a somewhat peculiar category of Skills that applied mana to the voice to various effects. Everyone knew the relatively niche Skills were the Thistlethorn’s specialty. Especially the current head of the family, Countess Beatrice Thistlethorn—Helen and Soren’s paternal grandmother—was renowned for her supposedly lethal Voice Skills.

It had happened a long time ago, but Rylan would never forget the day he’d been cleaning a window, when she raised her voice somewhere inside the building. The stonework itself had trembled, and the window he’d been cleaning had outright shattered.

He still wondered what she’d been so mad about.

Zahra brushed a hand through her curls and shrugged. “Well, if you’re not going to ask Soren, then short of eavesdropping or snooping around, I don’t know how you’re going to find out what secrets they have.”

Rylan frowned at her. “Snooping around? What, you think they’ve got that kind of information just lying...”

He stopped in his tracks.

Zahra glanced up at him. “What? What is it?”

“The library. In the tower,” Rylan replied, his eyes wide.

Zahra stared at him, her face growing more concerned as his excitement grew. “You know the library is restricted, right? Heads of staff and Thistlethorns only.”

“Exactly,” he whispered heatedly. “Because they’ve got knowledge in there that they don’t want to see spread!”

“Or,” Zahra hissed back, “because books are precious and expensive! They don’t grow on clouds, you know?”

“It’s on the top floor. We could get to the roof through the fogtube, then climb down onto the balcony, then you could jimmy the lock!”

“Rylan, that’s crazy!”

Rylan knelt down in front of her and grasped her hands.

She looked at him wide-eyed as he started to plead.

“Please Zahra... I can’t take it anymore. I’m on my feet all day and by the time my chores are done, I’m too tired to think, let alone practise. If my efforts until now weren’t enough, then there’s no way I can impress Ethereon under these circumstances. And if I don’t do something, anything, I’m going to be forty before I’ve cleared this fogging debt. Please, help me; you know I can’t do this without you!”

Zahra blew out a breath. “You’re serious about this? You really want to break into—”

“Yes!”

She held his gaze for a moment longer, then bit her lip. “When would we do it?”

Rylan’s heart jumped for joy. “Now!” he blurted out.

“What? But—”

“No, it’s perfect!” he quickly interrupted. “Dinner preparations are about to start; almost everyone will be busy in the kitchen and we’re both free today! In fact...” He patted his pockets and excitedly fished out a key ring. “I’ve still got the keys to the tunnels! Ava told me handing them in could wait.”

Zahra glanced back and forth from the keys to his beaming face a few times, then groaned. “I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?”

However, the mischievous twinkle in her eyes and the smile tugging at her lips betrayed her excitement, a mirror to his own. Truth be told, Zahra had been a driving force in many of their childhood shenanigans.

“It’ll be just like old times,” Rylan promised, ignoring the little voice in the back of his head that said it wouldn’t, couldn’t be, because they’d still be missing their third partner in crime.

Soren Thistlethorn.