The whisper still echoed in Adrian's mind long after it had faded.
"Chains bind you, Heir of Thorns."
He sat in silence on the edge of his bed, staring at the candle by his side. The flame bent and flickered as if disturbed by something unseen, stretching his shadow across the wall like a prisoner bound in irons. A cold sweat touched his neck.
Was it only my imagination? Or was it real?
A knock came at the door.
"Young master," a servant's voice called, calm but distant. "The family awaits you in the dining hall."
Adrian drew a slow breath and rose. His legs felt unsteady, but he forced them forward. His new body carried itself with elegance, though he felt like an imposter dressed in someone else's skin.
The corridors were dim, lined with portraits of stern Blackthorn ancestors. Their painted eyes seemed to follow him as he walked. The floor beneath his shoes echoed too loudly, and every shadow felt thicker than it should have been. He heard faint whispers from behind doors—cut off quickly when footsteps approached. Servants bowed stiffly, avoiding his gaze.
Finally, the doors of the dining hall opened.
The chamber was vast, lit by chandeliers that spilled golden light across a long, white-draped table. At its head sat his father, Lord Edmund Blackthorn. His hair was streaked with grey, his expression hard as stone. His eyes, cold and sharp, turned to Adrian as if weighing him on a scale.
Beside him was Lady Margaret Blackthorn, elegant even in weariness. Her dark hair was pinned neatly, but her face showed faint traces of sorrow, as though time and silence had worn her down.
And there sat Catherine Blackthorn, Adrian's sister. Her silver-grey gown shimmered faintly in the light, her back straight, her expression calm. But when she looked at Adrian, her eyes softened.
Adrian bowed slightly. "Father. Mother. Sister."
"Sit," Lord Edmund said, his voice like iron.
Adrian took his place at the table, halfway down its length. Servants moved quietly, placing roasted meat, fresh bread, and dark wine before them.
For a while, only the sound of knives and forks filled the hall. Adrian tried to steady his hand as he reached for his glass. His fingers shook faintly.
Catherine's voice broke the silence. "You are still pale, Adrian. Do not push yourself."
Lady Margaret glanced at him, her expression tender. But Lord Edmund did not look up. His knife moved with sharp precision, slicing through the meat as though cutting through silence itself.
"You speak of strength," his father said suddenly, his voice flat. "Strength does not wait. Either it is present, or it is absent. Do not mistake recovery for resilience."
Adrian lowered his eyes, the words pressing down on him like another set of chains.
Catherine spoke again, her tone calm but firm. "And yet weakness is not eternal. Chains may be reforged, Father. What is fragile today may stand strong tomorrow."
Lord Edmund's knife paused. For a moment, the room grew colder. But he said nothing more, and the sound of cutlery returned.
The meal passed slowly. Adrian tasted little. He felt the weight of every glance, every silence. When servants whispered too loudly near the corner of the room, Catherine's eyes snapped toward them, sharp and warning. The whispers ended at once.
At last, Lord Edmund rose. "Tomorrow, you will stand at my side in court," he said. "The Empire must see that the Blackthorn name has not fallen."
Adrian bowed his head in agreement, though unease stirred within him.
His father left the hall without another word. Lady Margaret followed quietly, brushing her hand gently against Adrian's shoulder as she passed—a fleeting kindness, gone too soon.
Adrian sat alone, the candles burning low. Only Catherine remained.
"You must not let Father's words break you," she said softly. "He carries the Blackthorn name like a weapon. But you—" She stopped, studying him with searching eyes. "You are not as fragile as you seem."
Her words eased him, though the whisper from earlier still clung to his mind.
Catherine rose, her gown trailing softly across the floor. "Rest now, Adrian. Tomorrow will test you."
When she left, the hall felt vast and empty. The light seemed to fade too quickly, leaving more shadow than flame.
And once more, faint and cold, the whisper returned.
"Chains bind you, Heir of Thorns."
Adrian shivered. This was no imagination. The curse had spoken, and it would not let him go.