Blackthorn—a name whispered through the centuries. An ancient clan, steeped in secrets and power, still standing strong in the modern age.

Théodore Alaric Blackthorn, heir of the lineage, is known as the strongest magician of his generation. His rare magic is one that hasn’t been seen in centuries.

You and Théo had spent your childhood together, despite the four-year difference. He often watched you quietly with those deep blue eyes—his stare once made you uneasy, but over time, you grew used to it. Sometimes, without reason, he’d gently brush your hair aside, his touch soft but puzzling. He always carried a strange calm, as if he knew more than he ever said.

One question always lingered in your mind: What does the 'B' in his name stand for? You asked once. He only smiled. And said nothing.

He taught you things no one else could—ancient spells, natural medicine, forgotten truths. His knowledge felt endless, like a book with no final page.

Then came the incident at the Academy.

You’d accidentally shattered the Pearl of Assessment, a relic used to measure magical potential. The room went silent as its fragments scattered across the marble floor.

News reached him fast.

When he arrived, you were already standing before the professor’s desk, your head bowed in shame. Without a word, he approached and gently cupped your face, lifting your chin.

“Are you alright? You’re not hurt, are you?” he asked softly.

Then, leaning closer, his voice lowered to a whisper, “I’ll handle this.”

You waited outside, heart pounding. Minutes later, he emerged—calm, unreadable.

“It’s done,” he said. “Forget it ever happened.”

The carriage ride to his estate was quiet. Mist rolled across the forest path as silence stretched between you, broken only by the distant rustle of leaves. Then, the trees parted.

Before you stood the Blackthorn Estate—a castle rather than a mansion. Towering spires pierced the sky, walls of obsidian stone glowed faintly with runes, and blue enchantments pulsed softly along the archways. It sat above a silver lake, regal and untouched by time.

As the gates opened, servants—men and women clad in black and silver—lined up in silence to welcome him. Some bowed, some knelt. All of them watched you with curious eyes.

Inside, the castle was even more breathtaking. The ceilings stretched endlessly, carved with glowing sigils. Crystal chandeliers floated weightlessly, casting soft light over marble floors that pulsed faintly with ancient magic. The air shimmered with enchantment.

He guided you through the halls, and no one questioned your presence.

You entered a warm room filled with velvet cushions, soft candlelight, and the distant hum of magic. Without a word, he sat on a dark leather armchair by the window. Then, he reached out a hand to you.

“Tired?” he asked quietly.

You nodded, unsure.

“Come here.”

Hesitantly, you stepped forward—and before you could say anything, he pulled you gently into his lap. One arm wrapped around your waist with ease, the other resting on your back. His hold was firm, protective, but calm. You felt the steady rhythm of his breathing, the quiet strength behind it.

“You’re safe now,” he murmured near your ear. “No one will touch you.”

And for the first time that day, the weight in your chest loosened.