Blackthorn Village was small, but the weight of its expectations was enormous. Everyone knew the Thorne family: wealthy, powerful, untouchable. And everyone knew the Lancasters: hardworking, struggling, and invisible.

Rowan Lancaster wasn't invisible, though—not to everyone. For years, he'd been the perfect target for jokes, insults, and cruel pranks. He walked the uneven cobblestones to St. Augustine Academy, with his little sister Violet, skipped beside him. Her joy was a light he clung to in the suffocating shadows of school life.

"Do you think I'll make friends today?" Violet asked, her voice soft but hopeful.

"Of course you will," Rowan said, smiling down at her. "Everyone loves you."

"What about you?" she asked.

Rowan paused. "I'm fine as long as I have you."

Violet frowned, but Rowan's warm smile eased her worry. He wasn't lying—not entirely. She was his anchor, the one thing keeping him from feeling completely adrift. Rowan glanced down at her, her small hand gripping the strap of her satchel tightly, her eyes darting around with a mix of excitement and nervousness. She had no idea what awaited her in the halls of St. Augustine and Rowan hoped she never would.

The schoolyard was alive with laughter, but Rowan didn't stop to join it. He kept his head down, slipping past groups of students clustered near the fountain. His path took him past Greyson Thorne, leaning casually against the stone edge.

Greyson's piercing blue eyes locked onto Rowan, and the corners of his mouth curled into a smirk. He looked like the kind of boy people fell for easily, with his messy black hair and strong, confident posture. But Rowan knew better. Greyson was cruel in the way only someone with everything could be.

"Well, look who it is," Greyson drawled as Rowan passed. "How's the charity case today?"

Laughter erupted around him, sharp and biting, but Rowan didn't stop walking. He'd learned long ago that giving Greyson a reaction only made things worse. The heat of humiliation crawled up the back of his neck, but he forced himself to keep moving.

Later, during lunch, Rowan sat alone under the shadow of an oak tree, sketching aimlessly in his notebook. His pencil moved over the page, drawing lines and shapes that turned into something darker—an idea he couldn't ignore. The whispers from the morning echoed in his head, merging with the laughter of the others around him. His hands tightened on the pencil, the lines on the page growing sharper, deeper.

"Did you hear what Lila said about your sister?"

Rowan's head snapped up to find Greyson standing over him, his shadow cutting across the notebook. His tone was casual, but his grin was sharp.

Rowan's jaw tightened. "Leave her out of this."

Greyson chuckled, sitting down beside him uninvited. "Relax, Lancaster. I'm just messing with you."

The way Greyson's presence filled the space next to him made Rowan's chest tighten. His heart pounded with anger—or was it something else? He hated how Greyson always seemed to take up so much room, as if even the air bent to his will.

Rowan turned away, his pulse still racing. He hated how Greyson's presence affected him. It wasn't just anger; it was something deeper, something Rowan didn't want to admit to himself. He pressed his pencil harder against the paper, the dark shapes he was sketching, growing heavier and more chaotic.

Greyson leaned closer, glancing at the notebook. "What are you drawing? Let me see."

Rowan snapped the book shut and glared at him. "Go away."

Greyson raised an eyebrow, then smirked again, clearly amused. "Touchy, aren't you?" He stood, brushing invisible dust off his uniform. "I'll see you around, Lancaster."

Rowan watched him walk away, his stomach in knots. Greyson was infuriating, but there was something about him that Rowan couldn't shake. Something that made his anger feel more complicated than it should.

Rowan opened his notebook again, staring down at the page. The dark lines twisted and curled, forming the beginnings of something ominous. He didn't know what it was yet, but it felt like the shadow of an idea, waiting to take shape.