Adrian had learned long ago that silence was more useful than words. Words could be twisted, recorded, used against you. But silence—silence let you observe. Let you calculate.
And Adrian Blackwood was always calculating.
He stood at the edge of the ballroom, shadows clinging to the folds of his coat like they belonged there, watching the nobles circle one another like predators in pearls. They smiled. They flattered. They lied with practiced ease.
He had no patience for any of it.
His eyes scanned the room, not for threats though there were many but for something else.
Someone else.
And then, she arrived.
He had been warned ahead of time. Given her name. Lila Hart. Daughter of Baron Hart. Barely notable. A minor noble from a family clinging to relevance like dust on old velvet.
She shouldn't have stood out.
But when she entered the ballroom, the air changed.
Like someone had opened a window in a room that had been sealed too long.
Adrian didn't believe in fate. He believed in power, cause and effect, blood and steel. But this—this was something else. When their eyes met, it was as though the world paused. Not a blink. Not a gasp. Just... stillness.
And he saw something impossible.
She flinched.
Not like a startled noblewoman caught in a glance.
But like someone who recognized him. Like someone who'd seen a shadow coming before it even fell.
Adrian's jaw tensed.
He had spent the last three years bleeding in the north. Fighting rebels, traitors, beasts made of old magic and rage. He had watched men turn to dust from a single spell. He had felt things in the cold—a presence that whispered through the bones of the mountains. Things ancient and patient.
And when he returned to Elarion, he brought back more than scars.
He brought back knowing.
A sense.
A pull toward things that didn't belong.
Lila Hart didn't belong.
Not because she was out of place.
But because she fit too well.
Like a coin forged to look identical until it weighed just a fraction too light.
He watched her retreat from the ballroom, arm-in-arm with the Greaves boy. That part didn't matter. What mattered was the way she moved—measured, alert, not at all like the soft, simpering noble daughter he'd expected.
She was wearing a mask.
And Adrian had made a life out of breaking masks.
He left the ballroom without a word, stepping through the arched hall into the manor's east wing. Past the library. Past the gallery. Toward the observatory, where the Blackwood archives were kept.
His footsteps echoed on polished stone.
The halls of House Blackwood held many secrets—most were buried deep beneath the manor, protected by old magic and blood-bound wards. But some were more subtle. Some lived in books and mirrors and names.
He opened the archive doors with a wave of his hand. They obeyed him instantly, the wards woven into the handles recognizing the magic in his blood.
Inside, a thousand scrolls and tomes lay catalogued in silence.
He walked to the Book of Lines, a family heirloom enchanted to record the movements of magic within the noble bloodlines. It shimmered faintly as he touched the spine.
The ink shifted, forming names, trees of heritage, rivers of magic.
He found her.
Lila Hart.
Unremarkable. No talent. No power. No deviation from the Hart line.
Yet...
The page shimmered again.
A glitch.
Adrian narrowed his eyes.
The ink around her name trembled—only faintly—but enough to catch his attention. It was reacting to something. Something not from this world.
He placed his palm over the page and whispered a command in the Old Tongue.
The ink flared gold.
Then faded.
The book resisted further revelation.
Adrian frowned.
No bloodline magic. No corruption. No signs of enchantment.
But the world itself had marked her.
And that made her dangerous.
Hours later, he returned to his chambers, the sound of the distant party dimmed behind thick walls.
He stood at the window, watching the silverthorn vines sway in the breeze. Below, the moonlight bathed the conservatory in pale glow, and he could make out two figures walking between the flowers.
Lila Hart and Greaves.
She stopped suddenly.
Looked around.
Her hand went to her side, hovering over something invisible—no weapon, but a reflexive motion. Like someone used to danger. A soldier's habit, not a noblewoman's.
Who are you really, Lady Hart?
And more importantly—
Why do you feel like a storm waiting to happen?
He turned from the window.
The answers would come.
And when they did, Adrian intended to be ready.