A low groan escapes Corvus, a ragged sound that snags Elias Thorne’s attention. The boy stirs against Kael’s broad back, his blue hair matted with grime, one odd-colored eye fluttering open. He is a tangle of bruised limbs, far too small, yet alive. Elias feels the faint thrum of residual Aetherium in his own blood, a phantom ache in his chest from the raw energy he’d channeled into Corvus’s broken body. The journey across the city’s grim industrial outskirts was short, but long enough for the volatile essence to mend the boy’s severest wounds.
His recovery is unnervingly swift. Kael, holding Corvus with surprising gentleness, glances back in surprise. Elara, the sister, walks beside them, her small hand clutching the hem of Kael’s tunic, her gaze flicking between her brother’s stirring form and Elias. Her eyes, wide and apprehensive, hold a flicker of something more than childlike wonder. A piercing clarity, almost recognition.
Elias feels no surprise. He has been silently feeding Corvus a steady, controlled stream of Aetherium since their departure from the labor exchange, pushing his own limits to maintain the flow for over thirty minutes. The raw power he commands, unrefined and direct, surpasses the palliative charms of any low-tier Aetherium Healer. Corvus’s rapid resurgence is simply a consequence, a validation of Elias’s methods.
What truly concerns him is Elara. Her perception is unsettling. Kael, a seasoned enforcer hardened by years in Veridia’s grimy underbelly, senses nothing unusual, perceiving Elias’s touch as mere first-aid. How can such a young child intuit the subtle energies at play? *A coincidence*, Elias dismisses it, a flicker of his grim resolve hardening his jaw. He offers Corvus a practiced, disarming smile.
“Awake, Corvus? Good. You’ve left the troubles of your former master behind.”
The response is immediate, a blur of motion. A small, desperate fist connects with the air where Elias’s face had been moments before. The speed is shocking for a boy so frail, so starved. Elias dodges, his body reacting with an almost preternatural grace, a whisper of Aetherium tingling his nerves. Kael, without a word, pivots, his large hand clamping down on Corvus’s arm, twisting it behind his back with practiced efficiency.
“Ugh! St-Stop! Let me go!” Corvus struggles, a furious, trapped animal.
Kael turns to Elias, awaiting instruction. “What do we do with him, employer?”
Elias sighs, a sound of weary patience. He gestures, a subtle nod. Kael releases Corvus, stepping back just enough to give the boy space. And, just as Elias expects, Corvus launches himself again, a tiny, rage-fueled projectile aimed squarely at Elias. A cold satisfaction settles in Elias’s chest. *Untamed. Unpredictable.* The temporal echo of the Noble Slayer, Corvus’s future self, flashes in his mind – a powerful, devastating force, but one without direction. Control is paramount.
“Stubborn, or merely foolish?” Elias mutters, his voice low. He grips Corvus by the nape of his neck, lifting the boy until their eyes meet, raw fury clashing with cold, calculating intent. “Child, do you not grasp your situation? Do I resemble those syndicate thugs who kept you indentured?”
Aetherium, raw and potent, flares in Elias’s crimson eyes, a visible manifestation of his controlled rage. It is not just murderous intent, but the sheer, overwhelming *presence* of channeled power, a force that hums with latent destruction. Even Kael, standing behind him, flinches, his hardened features momentarily softening with surprise. For Corvus, it is an unbearable weight. He groans, his small face draining of color, eyes wide with stark terror.
“Brother, ple-please, mercy…” Elara clings to Elias’s leg, her voice a reedy sob.
Elias ignores her, his gaze locked on Corvus’s paling face. “Spirit is admirable, but discernment is survival.” His voice is a low growl, each word a stone. “Only death awaits a dog that cannot recognize its master, boy.”
He releases Corvus, letting the boy crumple to the cobbled street, coughing. “Consider this your final warning, Corvus. Follow my words, and your sister’s safety is guaranteed. But if such an incident occurs again…”
The Aetherium in Elias’s eyes intensifies, a silent threat that drills into Corvus’s very soul. “Not only you, but your sister too, will be… disposed of.”
Elias casually plucks a small, rough Aetherium shard from the ground. With a barely perceptible flex of his hand, infused with latent energy, he crushes it. The crystal splinters into glittering dust, a silent, deadly demonstration. Corvus watches, his breath catching, the color draining from his face entirely. Slowly, imperceptibly, he nods.
Believing the lesson to have found its mark, Elias then offers the lure. “I intend to train you. I will have you instructed in the martial disciplines of a Veridian Warden, and in time, you will become one.”
Corvus’s head snaps up, his odd-colored eyes, one crimson, one blue, widening dramatically. “Me… a Warden? You mean me?”
The surprise is not Corvus’s alone. Kael, having overheard, cannot hide his shock. Grak, the artificer-dwarf trudging along with their meager belongings, stops dead, his jaw slack. The notion of transforming a newly acquired indentured child into a Veridian Warden, an elite member of the city’s protectors and a recognized social tier, is outrageous, almost unthinkable.
Elias meets Corvus’s gaze, his own unwavering. “Yes. As you may know, a Veridian Warden holds a rank of considerable standing. Such status would naturally free you from your indentured bonds.”
The venomous fury that had consumed the blue-haired boy’s expression rapidly shifts. A maelstrom of thoughts undoubtedly churns behind his eyes: *Trust these words? A Warden? Me?*
Elias grants him little time for deliberation. “If you faithfully follow my instructions and become a Warden, I will not only clear your name but also your sister’s. Furthermore…”
Corvus’s reply cuts him off, eager, desperate. It is the first truly robust sound Elias has heard from him, apart from his pained cries. Elias notes the speed of his response, how it immediately follows the mention of Elara’s welfare. Her clinging presence, small and vulnerable beside him, confirms Elias’s calculations. She is the anchor, the tether he needs to harness the unpredictable, dangerous power he sees in this child, a future Noble Slayer waiting to be forged.
“Good. Your sister will receive a basic education, including literacy and proper etiquette. But if you become lazy, or cause problems again…” The differently colored eyes blaze, a fierce, desperate fire. Elias nods, a faint, satisfied smile playing on his lips.
With a new asset acquired—a potential Aetherium conduit, a Warp-born in the making—alongside the skilled dwarf and his loyal enforcer, Elias’s stride is lighter, more purposeful. Yet, the journey back to Thorne Manor will take time. Corvus and Elara, stunted by years of neglect and meager nutrition, cannot endure a ride at full gallop. Elias will not compromise his schedule for long, but he offers a modicum of consideration, extending what would typically be a three-day journey into five.
*They’re holding up well*, he observes, a silent note in his mind. He has placed the siblings on Kael’s horse and Grak’s sturdy pony. The first day, they ride stiffly, sore from the unfamiliar bouncing. By the next, they adapt, their small bodies learning the rhythm. By the third, they endure even the challenging gallop. It is not just Corvus, whom Elias suspects possesses an innate talent for physical control due to his Warp-born nature, but Elara too, who manages with surprising resilience.
*Aetherium potential? A latent bloodline?* Elias muses, already contemplating a revised education plan for the siblings. As such thoughts churn, their small party approaches the Thorne ancestral estate.
The manor, once a formidable bastion against the wild Aetherium currents that sweep through the distant industrial peaks, now stands as a testament to the Thorne family’s decline. Its ancient stones, weathered by time and neglect, offer little more than a modest stronghold for Elias’s dwindling lineage. They pass under the crumbling archway, and faces, peeling with surprise, part before them like stagnant water. Many estate residents scurry away, avoiding proximity. Those caught too close immediately prostrate themselves, trembling at Elias’s sight.
His treatment, worse even than before his departure, draws a grim, bitter smile to Elias’s lips. It is the reception reserved for a tyrant, a monster deserving of scorn. Even Kael, usually a mask of stoicism, glances at Elias, a flicker of unease in his eyes. Corvus and Elara, riding silently, their faces darken in real-time, their wide eyes taking in the blatant fear.
Before anyone can voice the torrent of questions that must be building, Grak, oblivious to the undercurrents of fear, speaks up. “Master. To return home to such a reception, what in the deepest mines did you do out there?”
With a wry twist of his lips, Elias tunes his heightened hearing, sifting through the whispers echoing from the hushed courtyards.
“Aetherium fanatic…”
“I heard he tinkers with forbidden constructs.”
“Beyond the pale, either way.”
“Shaming the family name…”
“Why bring more mercenaries? More trouble…”
“And now indentured children. What is he planning…”
The rumors, he notes with a cold intellectual detachment, are spreading at an alarming, baffling rate. *How did they learn of my activities in Veridia’s deeper districts so quickly?* Every single whisper, he realizes, has bizarrely twisted the truth, plunging the already abysmal family reputation even deeper into the mire. He dismisses it aloud, his voice calm, resolute. “They are merely rumors. They hold no bearing on your duties, so do not trouble yourselves.”
Despite their obvious unease, Kael and Grak can only nod. Elias, however, feels a nagging presentiment, a subtle shift in the temporal echoes that suggest trouble. *This may become a significant hassle…*
That ominous premonition solidifies into reality as they step inside the manor’s dilapidated main hall. Steward Reginald, Elias’s long-suffering house manager, bursts into the room, his face contorted, breathless with haste. He shouts Elias’s name, fervent and accusatory.
Before Elias can even respond, Reginald screams, the sound close to a sob. “What have you been doing out there, Lord Thorne?!”
Elias had anticipated a reaction, but not this intensity. “What is this talk of spending over a hundred and fifty thousand gold on useless arcane components? The most absurd rumor! It must be a lie, a misinterpretation, yes? Tell me it is so!” Reginald presses on, without a breath, his appearance almost pitiful in his desperation. Elias remains unfazed.
Elias’s indifferent silence only deepens Reginald’s despair. “The rumors claim you’ve lost your mind! The High Lord demands your immediate return!” Reginald’s voice rises to a shriek. “Don’t you see? What are you seeing?! This is no time for such composure!” He sputters, frustrated. “Your speech is growing even more… concise!”
“You truly don’t seem to grasp the situa—”