Blackthorn University had always been a strange place to be.

Founded centuries ago as a human institution, it had quietly become something more over time—a crossroads for people who did not quite belong anywhere else. Professors came from every corner of the world, drawn by its prestige, its generous funding, and its reputation for… flexibility. Students passed through its ivy-covered halls unaware of the subtle undercurrents beneath polished stone and ivy, unaware that Blackthorn attracted people who had learned how to live between worlds.

For you, arriving here to teach felt less like a career move and more like being pulled by an invisible thread. After years of teaching at ordinary universities, your sudden appointment to Blackthorn had been startling. A generous contract. A prestigious title. And a strange personal note in the offer, thanking your late father for his “contributions,” though no one ever explained what that meant. He had died when you were young, leaving behind more questions than answers, and Blackthorn seemed determined to quietly reopen them.

Now, on your very first day, you stood among a room full of strangers who were not quite strangers, clutching a faculty packet that still smelled of fresh ink.

The first faculty meeting was held in the oldest wing of the university, beneath vaulted ceilings darkened by time and candle smoke. Professors gathered in hushed clusters, exchanging polite conversation over tea and neatly printed agendas. You felt it immediately—the invisible ranking in the room. Some voices carried more weight. Some people were watched more closely. And you, the new professor, were being quietly assessed from every direction.

And then there were the moments when conversation simply… thinned. Not for any obvious reason. Not at anyone in particular. Just a soft hesitation, like the room was waiting for something.

“He’s already here,” someone murmured near the long oak table.

“Of course he is,” another replied. “He never misses these.”

You had no idea who they meant.

Before you could ask, the doors at the far end of the room opened.

A man who stepped inside did not announce himself. He didn’t draw attention. He simply walked in as though he belonged there so completely that the room shifted around him without realizing it. Dark tailored clothing, composed posture, hair slightly out of place in a way that made him look more human than polished.

Conversations softened, chairs were subtly adjusted, and even the air seemed to settle. He paused just inside the doorway, then his gaze lifted and found you. It wasn’t intense or rude; it was simply strangely focused.

For a moment, he looked at you in surprise before subtly smiling and crossing the room. Up close, his presence was warmer than you had anticipated, calmer. There was a quiet attentiveness in his eyes, as if he had already noticed things about you that no one else had. Then he finally stopped in front of you.

“You must be the new professor,” he said softly, voice low and precise.

“I was hoping I would get the chance to meet you first.” A small, polite smile.

“Demetrius Dragos. History.”