Chapter 20Adrian
Chapter
Twenty
ADRIAN
18 Years Old
The library is silent, save for the faint scratch of my quill against parchment. The soft glow of arcane lamps bathes the room in a cold, sterile light, illuminating the towering shelves lined with tomes older than I am. This place is my sanctuary, my battlefield, and my inheritance. It smells of parchment and ancient ink, with an undercurrent of something metallic—power.
“Adrian.” My father’s voice cuts through the quiet like a blade, sharp and deliberate. I don’t look up. He’s a man who values precision, and to acknowledge him too soon would signal weakness. Instead, I finish the line of the spell I’ve been copying, set the quill down, and fold my hands neatly on the desk.
“Yes, Father?”
When I turn, his figure fills the doorway. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, with a face carved from granite. His dark eyes miss nothing. My mother stands just behind him, her expression as impassive as ever. Together, they are the architects of my life, the ones who have shaped me into what I am—and what I must become.
“Come with me,” my father says, his tone leaving no room for argument.
I rise without question, my movements measured. My mother steps aside as I pass, her eyes flicking over me like she’s assessing a piece of fine machinery. She doesn’t smile. She rarely does. But her silence carries weight—a kind of approval that only comes when I’ve met their exacting standards.
We walk in silence through the halls of the estate, the sound of our footsteps swallowed by thick carpets and heavy air. My father leads me to the study, a grand room dominated by a massive table etched with runes. The air here is colder, heavier, crackling faintly with residual energy from countless rituals.
Standing by the table is Garrett. My... friend, though even the word feels ill-fitting. He’s more of an ally, a peer. Someone I’ve shared long nights of study with, someone who has trusted me more than I deserve. His blond hair is slightly disheveled, his posture less rigid than mine. He doesn’t belong here—not in this room, not in this moment. And yet, here he is.
My stomach tightens, though I keep my expression neutral.
“Father?” I ask, my voice steady, even as unease coils in my chest.
“You’ve reached the age where decisions must be made,” my father begins, his voice heavy with purpose. “You’ve proven yourself capable in the arcane arts, a tactician without equal. But strategy is meaningless without resolve.”
I nod once, waiting for him to continue. Garrett looks between us, confusion etched on his face.
“A choice lies before you,” my father says, his dark eyes locking onto mine. “Garrett has served this family well, but his usefulness has come to an end. You will decide his fate.”
The words hit like a physical blow, though I don’t let it show. My gaze flicks to Garrett, who pales visibly. “What... what are you talking about?” he stammers, his voice breaking the heavy silence. “Adrian?”
I don’t answer him. My father continues, his tone unyielding. “He’s been accused of leaking family secrets to a rival bloodline. Whether or not it’s true is irrelevant. The appearance of loyalty is as important as loyalty itself. A message must be sent.”
Garrett’s breathing quickens, his fear palpable. “That’s not true! Adrian, you know me! I would never?—”
“Silence,” my father commands, and Garrett’s voice dies in his throat. He turns back to me. “This is your test, Adrian. Resolve this matter in a way that ensures our family’s reputation remains untarnished.”
I swallow hard, my mind racing. The accusation is baseless; I know that. Garrett isn’t capable of betrayal, and my father likely knows it, too. This isn’t about Garrett. It’s about me. About whether I can make the hard choices, the ones that sacrifice the individual for the greater good.
I could defend him. I could refuse. But I know what that would mean. Failure. Disgrace. A stain on my legacy that would never wash away.
“Adrian, please,” Garrett whispers, his voice trembling. “You know me.”
My hands curl into fists at my sides. I force myself to meet his gaze, to see the fear and betrayal in his eyes. He doesn’t deserve this. But it doesn’t matter. My father is watching, waiting, and I know what he wants.
“You’ve made your decision, then?” my father asks, his tone calm, expectant.
“Yes,” I say, my voice cold and detached. I turn back to Garrett, who looks at me like I’ve just struck him. “I’m sorry.”
The ritual is swift, efficient. I choose a spell that leaves no mark, no evidence, just a quiet collapse as Garrett crumples to the floor, lifeless. The silence that follows is suffocating. My father nods, a faint glimmer of approval in his eyes.
“Well done,” he says, his tone measured. “You’ve proven your resolve.”
My mother steps forward, placing a hand briefly on my shoulder. Her touch is light, almost imperceptible, but I feel its weight. “You’ve done what was necessary,” she says softly. “Remember that.”
I stare at Garrett’s body, the emptiness in his eyes. Necessary. The word echoes in my mind, cold and hollow.
Adrian’s Backstory: The Cost of Logic
The library is silent, save for the faint scratch of my quill against parchment. The soft glow of arcane lamps bathes the room in a cold, sterile light, illuminating the towering shelves lined with tomes older than I am. This place is my sanctuary, my battlefield, and my inheritance. It smells of parchment and ancient ink, with an undercurrent of something metallic—power.
“Adrian.” My father’s voice cuts through the quiet like a blade, sharp and deliberate. I don’t look up. He’s a man who values precision, and to acknowledge him too soon would signal weakness. Instead, I finish the line of the spell I’ve been copying, set the quill down, and fold my hands neatly on the desk.
“Yes, Father?”
When I turn, his figure fills the doorway. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, with a face carved from granite. His dark eyes miss nothing. My mother stands just behind him, her expression as impassive as ever. Together, they are the architects of my life, the ones who have shaped me into what I am—and what I must become.
“Come with me,” my father says, his tone leaving no room for argument.
I rise without question, my movements measured. My mother steps aside as I pass, her eyes flicking over me like she’s assessing a piece of fine machinery. She doesn’t smile. She rarely does. But her silence carries weight—a kind of approval that only comes when I’ve met their exacting standards.
We walk in silence through the halls of the estate, the sound of our footsteps swallowed by thick carpets and heavy air. My father leads me to the study, a grand room dominated by a massive table etched with runes. The air here is colder, heavier, crackling faintly with residual energy from countless rituals.
Standing by the table is Garrett. My... friend, though even the word feels ill-fitting. He’s more of an ally, a peer. Someone I’ve shared long nights of study with, someone who has trusted me more than I deserve. His blond hair is slightly disheveled, his posture less rigid than mine. He doesn’t belong here—not in this room, not in this moment. And yet, here he is.
My stomach tightens, though I keep my expression neutral.
“Father?” I ask, my voice steady, even as unease coils in my chest.
“You’ve reached the age where decisions must be made,” my father begins, his voice heavy with purpose. “You’ve proven yourself capable in the arcane arts, a tactician without equal. But strategy is meaningless without resolve.”
I nod once, waiting for him to continue. Garrett looks between us, confusion etched on his face.
“A choice lies before you,” my father says, his dark eyes locking onto mine. “Garrett has served this family well, but his usefulness has come to an end. You will decide his fate.”
The words hit like a physical blow, though I don’t let it show. My gaze flicks to Garrett, who pales visibly. “What... what are you talking about?” he stammers, his voice breaking the heavy silence. “Adrian?”
I don’t answer him. My father continues, his tone unyielding. “He’s been accused of leaking family secrets to a rival bloodline. Whether or not it’s true is irrelevant. The appearance of loyalty is as important as loyalty itself. A message must be sent.”
Garrett’s breathing quickens, his fear palpable. “That’s not true! Adrian, you know me! I would never?—”
“Silence,” my father commands, and Garrett’s voice dies in his throat. He turns back to me. “This is your test, Adrian. Resolve this matter in a way that ensures our family’s reputation remains untarnished.”
I swallow hard, my mind racing. The accusation is baseless; I know that. Garrett isn’t capable of betrayal, and my father likely knows it, too. This isn’t about Garrett. It’s about me. About whether I can make the hard choices, the ones that sacrifice the individual for the greater good.
I could defend him. I could refuse. But I know what that would mean. Failure. Disgrace. A stain on my legacy that would never wash away.
“Adrian, please,” Garrett whispers, his voice trembling. “You know me.”
My hands curl into fists at my sides. I force myself to meet his gaze, to see the fear and betrayal in his eyes. He doesn’t deserve this. But it doesn’t matter. My father is watching, waiting, and I know what he wants.
“You’ve made your decision, then?” my father asks, his tone calm, expectant.
“Yes,” I say, my voice cold and detached. I turn back to Garrett, who looks at me like I’ve just struck him. “I’m sorry.”
The ritual is swift, efficient. I choose a spell that leaves no mark, no evidence, just a quiet collapse as Garrett crumples to the floor, lifeless. The silence that follows is suffocating. My father nods, a faint glimmer of approval in his eyes.
“Well done,” he says, his tone measured. “You’ve proven your resolve.”
My mother steps forward, placing a hand briefly on my shoulder. Her touch is light, almost imperceptible, but I feel its weight. “You’ve done what was necessary,” she says softly. “Remember that.”
I stare at Garrett’s body, the emptiness in his eyes. Necessary. The word echoes in my mind, cold and hollow.
The days that follow are a blur of whispers and praise. My father tells the rest of the family that Garrett was a traitor, that his execution was swift and just. No one questions it. No one questions me. I am the blade of the Thorne family now, sharp and unfeeling.
But late at night, when the house is silent and the shadows stretch long across my room, I feel the weight of what I’ve done pressing down on me. I tell myself it was the logical choice, the right choice. And yet, the guilt lingers, buried deep where no one can see it.
Because this is who I am now. This is who I’ve been groomed to be. And I can never let them see me falter.
The silence of Garrett’s absence lingers like a stain. It’s in the spaces he used to fill: the chair across from mine in the study, the sparring circle where we’d test our magic late into the night, the sarcastic quips that used to break through my carefully measured calm. Now, the absence is absolute, and I feel it most keenly in the library.
But the family moves on. We always do. Thornes are architects of power and strategy, and sentiment has no place in our plans. My father makes no mention of Garrett after the night of the ritual, and my mother treats it as though it never happened.
The academy fills the void.
The Blackthorne Academy for Warlocks stands as a monument to our family’s influence. It’s a sprawling complex of towering spires and arcane laboratories, its walls etched with runes that hum with contained power. Warlocks from allied families send their sons here to train, to learn the art of the arcane under the tutelage of Blackthorne instructors. My father oversees it all, ensuring the academy’s reputation remains as untarnished as the family name.
I’ve been part of the academy since I could walk, learning spells before I could read and studying strategy while other children played. But now, with Garrett gone, my responsibilities shift. My father insists I take on a more active role in the academy’s operations. “You will oversee the initiates,” he says one evening, handing me a stack of scrolls outlining their ranks, skills, and weaknesses. “They must see you as a leader. Someone they can follow. Someone they fear.”
The initiates are young, their magic raw and unpolished. They look at me with a mix of awe and terror, whispering my name in hushed tones as though I’m a myth come to life. To them, I’m the perfect Blackthorne heir—the one who does what needs to be done, no matter the cost.
But I see their flaws, their vulnerabilities. I see the hesitations in their casting, the cracks in their confidence. And I see myself in them—once eager, once trusting, before I learned what loyalty really meant.
The academy is more than a training ground. It’s a tool, a network of influence that extends the Thorne name far beyond the estate. Every graduate leaves with a debt to our family, a connection that binds them to us. My father ensures they remember who gave them their power, who shaped them into what they are.
One night, as I review the initiates’ progress in my quarters, my father enters without knocking. He’s holding a letter, the wax seal already broken, his expression unreadable.
“The Order has summoned us,” he says, setting the letter on my desk. The insignia of the Order gleams faintly in the lamplight—a sigil of balance and control, a constant reminder of their reach. “They’ve invited us to send a representative for this year’s Hunt.”
I look up at him, frowning. “Why me?”
“Because you are the future of this family,” he replies, his tone leaving no room for doubt. “And because you understand what it means to lead. The Hunt is not just a game, Adrian. It’s an opportunity to prove our family’s strength and to forge alliances that will secure our place for generations.”
The Hunt. I’ve heard the stories—warlocks chasing prey through the woods, wielding power without restraint, claiming souls to strengthen their magic. It’s chaos disguised as tradition, brutality wrapped in ceremony.
“And if I refuse?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
My father leans forward, his dark eyes boring into mine. “You won’t.”
The forest is alive with power, the air thick with magic and the scent of damp earth. The prey scatter as the warlocks advance, their screams piercing the night. I watch from a distance, my heart steady, my mind calculating.
The other warlocks revel in the chaos, their magic wild and untamed. Lucien is a storm, his fire lighting up the darkness, his laughter echoing through the trees. Damien moves with precision, his power controlled and deliberate. But I... I wait. I watch.
The Hunt isn’t about strength; it’s about strategy. And strategy is where I thrive.
When I finally make my move, it’s swift and decisive. My prey doesn’t see me coming. I corner her against the edge of a ravine, my magic coiling around her like a vice. She’s trembling, her eyes wide with terror, but I feel nothing. No thrill, no satisfaction. Just the quiet hum of power as I take what I need.
The Hunts become routine, an annual tradition that I approach like any other challenge. I study my opponents, learn their weaknesses, and exploit them with precision. The prey are tools, no different from the students at the academy or the pawns on a chessboard.
But in the quiet moments after the Hunt, when the forest is still and the firelight fades, I feel the weight of it all pressing down on me. The power I take doesn’t fill the emptiness inside me. The victories don’t quiet the guilt that lingers from Garrett, or the choices I’ve made since.
My father calls it progress. My mother calls it legacy. I call it survival.
The academy continues to grow, its halls filled with warlocks who look to me for guidance. They see the perfect heir, the prodigy who never falters. But they don’t see the cracks. They don’t see the boy who learned too young that trust is a weakness and that loyalty comes at a price.
As I stand on the edge of another Hunt, the prey scattered before me like chess pieces waiting to be moved, I wonder if this will ever be enough. If I will ever feel anything beyond the cold logic that has defined my life.
And deep down, I know the answer. It’s not about feeling. It’s about winning. And I can’t afford to lose.
Not now. Not ever.