“Scion Thorne,” Kael’s voice was a soft murmur, barely disturbing the dust motes dancing in the shafts of light filtering through the stained-glass window. He extended a steaming cup, its ceramic warm against Elias’s clammy fingers. “Here.”
Elias gripped it, the heat a small anchor. “Yes, thank you, Kael. You may leave now. See that no one enters this room today. No one.” The command, though firm, felt alien on his tongue.
Kael hesitated, a slight furrow appearing between his young brows. “Scion Thorne… must I repeat myself?”
“No,” Elias grated, a phantom ache blooming behind his eyes. “It just… felt strange. To be thanked.”
A raw sigh rasped from Elias’s throat, thick with self-condemnation. *Haah…* The sound was a ghost of his past, an echo of the petulance that had defined his youth. *It is all my fault, indeed.* He knew the household staff whispered, their opinions a fragile currency. Changing his demeanor, even slightly, felt like pulling teeth, each small courtesy a fresh laceration on the scar tissue of his conscience. Every time he became aware of a past cruelty, a neglected kindness, the guilt clawed, sharp and insistent.
Kael, ever vigilant, stepped forward, his expression etched with concern. “Scion Thorne, are you truly well? You’re not still suffering from that headache, are you?”
Elias felt the polished wood of his quill pen creak under the unconscious pressure of his grip. The memory of Lysander’s brutalized face, superimposed over Kael’s earnest youth, flashed in his mind, sharp as a physical blow. He nearly snapped the shaft.
“Ah! I’m fine! Leave, right now!” The shout ripped from him, an uncontrolled burst of the raw Aetherium thrumming beneath his skin, vibrating through the floorboards. Yet, Kael’s expression brightened, a subtle easing of his worried lines.
“Yes, yes, understood. Please rest, Scion Thorne.” Kael bowed, the simple gesture a stark reminder of the social chasm between them. The door clicked shut, leaving Elias alone.
—*Judging by the shouting, he seems normal. Go on and see to the tasks.*—
The faint, muffled voices of servants beyond the thick oak door once again ignited the persistent throbbing behind his eyes, a dull drumbeat against the inside of his skull. The headache was real, a physical manifestation of the temporal shift, a constant pressure like deep-sea currents swirling in his brain. But he couldn’t afford the luxury to wallow in such trivialities now, not when the specter of Veridia’s impending doom loomed so vividly.
The throbbing in his skull was a dull nuisance against the crushing weight of his imperative. What was immediately important, what demanded every ounce of his focus, was clear as the hum of an Aether-lamp in the deepening twilight of his mind. He had to record everything he could remember, every horrific detail of the future’s grim tapestry, before the fragile threads of memory frayed and vanished, leaving him blind. Before the temporal echo faded. Before the past consumed the future.
*I must save them! I must, at all costs!* The thought was a searing brand in his mind, fueled by the cold fire of his guilt. And to save them, to save his family, to save Veridia from the coming cataclysm, he needed an arsenal of knowledge. While the echoes of the future remained sharp, vibrant, and terrifyingly real, he had to organize the key events, distill them into a coherent chronicle of sorrow.
Among those, the most crucial stood out, stark as a bone against dark earth. The Aetherium Claim War. A decade from now. A decade. The calamity that had not only shattered his family, extinguishing Lysander’s light, but had also brought the entire Veridian Directorate to its knees. A war triggered by the emergence of Aldus Malcor, the youngest Aetherium Savant from the wavering Malcor noble house, a name now synonymous with betrayal and ruin in Elias’s memory. He had to plan with the singular, unyielding goal of preventing that. Ten years. It felt like both an eternity and a breath.
*At the very least, I need to grow the power to influence this city, this Directorate, until then.* The raw Aetherium thrummed, a frantic pulse in his fingertips. He had to seize control, claw his way to a position of leverage. And so, he needed to transmute each impending trial, each looming threat to the Thorne family, into an opportunity for growth, for fortification, for power. A crucible to forge a new future.
*The Veridian Claim War that will happen in a year.* A shiver of premonition traced its way down his spine, cold and certain. The first trial, the first hurdle to overcome, was this sudden, unexpected eruption of conflict. Originally, it had halved the Thorne’s influence, bled their resources dry, and left them vulnerable. It wasn’t until Aldus Malcor fully embraced his Savant abilities that the true dark times had descended. This was an imminent crisis, a mere twelve months away. A year to avert a tragedy that had once seemed inevitable.
Having knowledge of the future was an unparalleled advantage, a tactical weapon of untold power. A raw current of Aetherium, sparked by desperate hope, surged through Elias’s veins as his quill scratched furiously across the parchment. His hand, guided by the phantom agony of memories, moved with a feverish intensity, charting a course through the rapids of fate.
“Hoo… That should do it.” Elias leaned back, a sigh of relief escaping his lips, a gust of wind through a broken window. The scent of ink and parchment filled the air, a physical manifestation of his efforts. He had documented everything he could, every critical detail, every turning point, every forgotten prophecy, all in a cipher known only to him. It was a complex, interlocking set of ancient runic scripts and modern industrial codes, a unique dialect of desperation that had once served the Veridian Resistance decades into his personal future.
Even if someone else stumbled upon this document now, they would be clueless, staring at a jumble of symbols devoid of meaning. The information Elias had etched onto the page was, in a literal sense, the affairs of the future, a direct affront to the natural order. Should this document, this temporal blueprint, ever spread, initial suspicions about the source of such uncanny insight would begin to fester, growing like a volatile Aetherium crystal. And if it ever spread that he, Elias Thorne, had regressed to the past, had somehow bent the very fabric of time to his will, then the Aetherium Conclave, the continent’s most powerful and dogmatic force, would turn their full, devastating might against him. Their authority transcended the Veridian Directorate, their grip on arcane knowledge absolute.
He had witnessed, more than once, the Conclave’s brutal efficiency in dealing with heretics, with those who dared to commit what they deemed blasphemy against the Aetherial order. The moment he became entangled, not only he but his entire family, past and present, would not escape their wrath. Their judgment was swift, their methods merciless. Therefore, this was a secret he could not, would not, reveal even to Lysander, his closest ally, his reason for being.
He checked the densely written parchment once more, his gaze sweeping over the intricate symbols, ensuring there was no error, no accidental omission, no chance of leakage. The silence of the room was punctuated only by the faint hum of distant Aether-conduits and the frantic beat of his own heart. Only then, with the first, most dangerous task complete, did he turn to his second imperative.
In some respects, this was as critical as the information detailing Veridia’s impending doom. *The Aetherium Weave.* A tome, its phantom cover embroidered with a golden hawk and shimmering Aether-sigils, a book Elias had incinerated in his previous life before his final, desperate jump through time. The grand manual, titled ‘The Art of the Aetherium Weaver,’ was indeed a treasure beyond measure. It detailed the teachings of the Ancient Weaver, a hero from the early Age of Flux who had tamed the primordial Aether-beasts and ushered in the ‘Age of Men,’ a time when humanity first learned to harness raw Aetherium. A manual from that legendary figure, revered even as an Aether-God, was invaluable in the current Veridia, where an individual’s mastery over Aetherium could dictate social standing and wield immense political power.
The Veridian Directorate’s high command had celebrated, lauded it as a monumental achievement, upon hearing of the retrieval of such a manual from the subterranean Aether-vaults. The fledgling Veridian Resistance, in his fragmented memories of the future, had been prepared to sacrifice most of its elite operatives to secure it, understanding its potential to shift the balance of power. Elias Thorne had been its last owner, tasked with memorizing its contents for the resistance because of his fluency in ancient runic scripts, a skill that ultimately led him to his death, hunted for its knowledge.
*I must write it down before I forget.* The intricate movements, the precise channeling, the philosophy of Aetherium manipulation – it all lay dormant in his mind, a ticking clock before time’s entropy claimed it. If its content proved true, mastering it would unlock an ultimate technique, a raw, untamed power that even the Directorate’s most feared Aetherium Savants and seasoned Aetherium Architects would struggle to oppose.
*It’s possible. Absolutely.* In his previous life, his body had been past its prime, riddled with the scars of a long, brutal war, his spirit weary, his natural talent, if he ever possessed any, long since atrophied. But now, now things were different. He was young, not yet of age, his body a relatively unmarred vessel.
The raw, golden current of Aetherium, responsive to Elias’s grim will, began to hum within him, a low thrumming vibration starting in his core and flowing along the intricate network of his veins. This primal force, this inherent ability to channel raw Aetherium, a power he couldn’t have even dreamed of at this age in his previous life, now amplified his expectations, made the impossible feel within reach. Physical youth, an unburdened vessel, combined with the hard-won experience of channeling Aetherium from a lifetime of combat. If these two forces merged harmoniously, even with his deficient innate talent, he might just be able to master this ancient manual. No. He would certainly master it. The thought ignited a fierce, silent rage, a renewed purpose.
*Aldus, this time Lysander won’t have to struggle alone. Absolutely not.* An overwhelming surge of expectation for a changed future made his heart beat faster, each thump a promise, a vow.
After meticulously organizing all the critical matters, the secrets he must never forget, his immediate goal became starkly clear.
*What I need to focus on now is obvious.* The upcoming Veridian Claim War in a year’s time. He had to overcome this crisis first, secure the Thorne family’s survival, bolster their strength. It was the linchpin, the first gear in the vast, intricate cogwheel of his regret.
*I can do it. So, the first thing to do is…* Elias began fervently brainstorming ideas, his mind a whirlwind of strategies and contingencies, as if the Claim War was poised to erupt at any given moment, the thrum of Aetherium in his blood a constant reminder of the stakes.
***
Ten hours later.
The faint, sickly light of dawn was just beginning to seep through the tall windows, painting the room in shades of grey. Elias, having spent the entire night hunched over his desk, his complexion pale and drawn, slumped forward, his face buried in his hands. The final, brutal conclusion, reached after countless frantic calculations, after wrestling with headache and the crushing weight of temporal echoes, was clear and undeniable: “There’s nothing I can do…”
To win the Veridian Claim War, the objective was stark, brutally simple: strengthen the Thorne’s military power. And what was needed to achieve that was also agonizingly, frustratingly clear. “Strengthening the household guard or our meager standing forces, or enhancing and developing Aether-infused weaponry, perhaps even new Aether-engines…” He rattled off the immediate solutions, each a dead end.
But they all led to the same insurmountable obstacle. “Money, I need money.” It wasn’t just a mere problem of his current poor reputation, a shadow clinging to him like stale ozone. Even if his name had been pristine, if he had been a respected, solid heir, nothing would have fundamentally changed.
“…We were a famously penniless noble house. Damn it.” The realization was a bitter pill, a taste of ash on his tongue. The Thorne family’s coffers had always been notoriously shallow, their influence based on ancient lineage and loyalty, not liquid assets. He needed a way to earn money. And he needed a great deal of it, quickly, within the near future. Such a convenient, miraculous method…
“It couldn’t be possible…” He banged his head, a soft thud, against the cool wood of the desk. No matter how he racked his temporal-echoed brain, no viable solution presented itself. Just yesterday night, he had felt a surge of desperate hope, a burning ember against the frigid darkness of his past failures. He felt like reaching back in time, grabbing his yester-self by the collar, and punching him squarely in the jaw. *Fool.* If only he had regressed like five years, no, even just three years earlier… He was so desperate, so utterly bereft of options, that he even harbored the audacious wish for a greater miracle, for more time, for a longer rewind of the cursed cogwheel.
But he couldn’t continue to escape reality forever, couldn’t drown in what-ifs. *It can’t be helped. I have to prepare, even if I have to wring out every last resource we have, every last drop of Aetherium in the family’s old conduits.* His grim resolve hardened. Focusing on merely surviving the Claim War, on preserving forces rather than attempting an outright victory, seemed a more feasible, albeit deeply unsatisfying, path.
*Yes, it can’t be helped. First, I’ll recover my previous Aetherium channeling abilities, then change my reputation. Personal issues can wait until that incident three months from now… Hm? Wait a minute?* A thought flickered through his mind, a spark igniting in the ashes of his despair, a weak signal from a distant temporal echo. He stopped, quill poised over a fresh sheet of parchment. His eyes widened slightly. *Oh? That’s right, at that time…*
A way to potentially make a fortune, a brazen, risky gambit, suddenly coalesced in his mind, sharp and tempting. A true stroke of desperate fortune. But to execute this newfound idea, he had things to do *before* that, groundwork to lay, permissions to obtain.
“You seek an audience with the Scion Thorne? You are going intentionally?” Kael’s voice, though respectful, carried an unmistakable edge of surprise. Elias had somewhat anticipated it, but seeing the young attendant’s stunned expression made Elias remember even more clearly the frozen chasm that separated his father and himself at this point in his life. The cold, sterile distance.
But now, it was something unavoidable. Elias steadied his breath, the raw Aetherium in his veins humming with quiet tension, as he stepped out of the room, leaving the cluttered desk and the weight of the future behind. He focused on his memories from his previous life, on the echoes of the man he had been, the father he had failed.
His father, a strict and imposing figure, had been caring when Elias was a child, a steady, guiding hand. But as Elias grew, as he stumbled and fell, as his temperament soured and his reputation plunged, his father’s demeanor had become progressively colder, a glacier of disappointment. When Elias himself had become a wasted, dissolute heir, his father had been nothing but ice.
—*From now on, you are not my child.*—
His father had already given up hope on him long before those words, those searing brands, had been spoken aloud. When Elias had been found unconscious, a head injury from the recent, disastrous official duel leaving him broken and disgraced, his father hadn’t shown up at all. Not a single visit. Not a single word of concern. An extravagant, reckless son and a cold, unforgiving father. The vicious cycle of unexpressed emotions, of mutual blame, produced by their fractured relationship had lasted until the bitter moment Elias had been expelled from the Thorne manse, cast out into the unforgiving streets of Veridia.
Of course, in his past life, he had been too busy blaming his father for years after being thrown out, too consumed by self-pity and anger. It wasn’t until he had finally realized his own monumental faults, years later, and then heard of his father’s demise that he had truly regretted not seeking forgiveness sooner. Those years of regret, that burning ache of unsaid words, had spanned over two decades, a heavy chain around his heart.
—*How troubled must the parents be who cast out their child?*—
The question, heavy with newfound understanding, lingered in his heart, a constant, low thrum against his chest, a fresh wound. The echo of regret. It was time to finally face it, to face him. To rewrite this, too.