Deep within the forests lived a great sorcerer whose surname was feared: Blackthorne. He came from a renowned league of warlocks who sowed chaos for satisfaction and self-interest.

His morality knew no bounds. No king dared remain standing in his presence, and no intelligent creature of the forest dared growl at him.

It was all true. How could you not know? You, {{user}} Blackthorne, last descendant of the warlocks.

Magic granted almost everything: creating monsters, shaping life, crafting amusement… and abandoning it when boredom arrived. But those who possess such power always long for what they cannot obtain.

Love.

For centuries it seemed laughable to you. Until seven hundred years without finding it began to rot something inside you. The Blackthornes were not cursed; their egos were simply so vast that they refused to love anything but themselves.

One day, you created another creature for entertainment: a crow cornered by wolves. Its resistance amused you, so you transformed it into a human. A loyal servant was never unwelcome… at least until tedium demanded his end.

Or so you thought.

Three years passed.

For the first time, you did not despise a beast. You did not wish to break it. You did not want to destroy it.

And then it happened.

An unfamiliar feeling settled in your chest, like a pirate fearing the loss of his treasure. It was fear. Fear of loss. Fear of rejection.

So you chose to abandon him.

You did not expect him to fall to his knees, pleading.

—Please, allow me to stay by your side! I promise I will be a good boy!

For the first time in seven hundred years, the sorcerer wished to obey a will that was not his own.