The envelope appeared on Rowan's desk sometime between midnight and dawn.
At least, that was the only explanation. He was certain it hadn't been there when he went to bed, yet now, in the dim morning light filtering through his tiny bedroom window, it sat in front of him like it had always belonged.
Black as ink, the envelope looked ancient, the edges slightly frayed, as if it had survived years of wear. A strange, waxy symbol was pressed into the seal - a spiral surrounded by thirteen tiny stars. It wasn't any crest Rowan recognized, not that he knew much about fancy things like wax seals or family sigils.
He frowned and ran a finger along the paper.
His skin burned.
Rowan yanked his hand back, but the damage was already done. Symbols—thin, twisting lines that glowed faintly like embers - spread across his palm. He sucked in a sharp breath, watching in horror as the light slithered up his wrist like living ink before vanishing beneath his skin.
The envelope slid open on its own.
Inside was a single sheet of parchment, covered in the same curling symbols. But somehow, the moment his eyes touched the words, they made sense.
RowanVale,
YouhavebeenacceptedtoBlackthornAcademy, thepremierschoolformagic. Yourtrainingbeginsimmediately. Youareexpectedtoarriveatsunset. Donotbelate.
P.S. TherehasneverbeenamistakeinBlackthorn'shistory.
Rowan blinked.
Magic? Academy? A mistake?
"Very funny," he muttered, tossing the letter aside. Clearly, someone was messing with him. Probably Lorna from the bakery - she was always reading those old folklore books and trying to convince him that strange things lurked in the city.
Except…
The words there has never been a mistake lingered in his mind, sending a shiver down his spine.
And then the window exploded.
A gust of wind slammed through the room, shattering the glass into glittering shards. The curtains twisted violently, as if trying to escape. Rowan stumbled backward, his heart pounding.
Then, just as suddenly as it started, it stopped.
The air stilled. Silence fell, except for the sound of his own rapid breathing.
Rowan looked down at his hands. They were trembling, but worse than that - his fingertips smoldered, wisps of black smoke curling from his skin.
His heart nearly stopped.
What the hell is happening to me?
Before he could even process it, the air shimmered - and a figure stepped out of thin air.
A man, dressed in deep blue robes embroidered with silver thread, stood in the center of Rowan's tiny room as if he had always been there. He had sharp features, dark eyes that gleamed like polished obsidian, and an expression of quiet amusement.
"Good. You opened it."
Rowan backed away instinctively, slamming into the desk. "Who the hell are you? How did you—"
"My name is Professor Aldric." The man clasped his hands behind his back, completely unconcerned with Rowan's terror. "And I'm here to escort you to Blackthorn Academy."
Rowan shook his head. "There's been a mistake. I don't—I don't have magic."
Professor Aldric arched a brow and gestured toward the still-smoking tips of Rowan's fingers.
Rowan looked down. The faint glow had already begun to fade, but there was no denying what he had seen. What had happened.
Magic.
The word settled in his chest like a weight.
"No," he whispered. "That's impossible."
Professor Aldric smiled faintly. "You'll find, Mr. Vale, that impossible is merely a matter of perspective."
And with a flick of his wrist, the world vanished.
The world snapped back into focus.
Rowan stumbled, his vision swimming. A second ago, he had been standing in his tiny bedroom - now, he was somewhere else entirely.
A towering castle stretched before him, its black stone walls wrapped in thick, creeping vines. High above, glowing lanterns floated on their own, casting flickering light over the massive iron gates. The words etched above them sent a chill through him:
Blackthorn Academy – Where Magic Thrives and Secrets Burn.
A dozen other students stood near the entrance, all dressed far better than Rowan in their fine coats and polished boots. They looked at him instantly - their eyes filled with curiosity, confusion, and something else. Something closer to suspicion.
"Who's he?" one of them muttered.
"He doesn't look like anyone important," said another.
Rowan stiffened, clenching his fists. He had grown up being overlooked, but something about the way they said it - like he wasn't supposed to be here—made his blood heat.
"Enough," Professor Aldric said, stepping forward. His voice cut through the whispers like a blade. "Inside. The Sorting begins now."
The Great Hall was unlike anything Rowan had ever seen. Dark banners hung from the high ceiling, each embroidered with an insignia representing one of the twelve Houses of Blackthorn.
At the front of the room, resting on a massive stone pedestal, was an ancient book bound in black leather. Faint, golden symbols shimmered across its surface. This, he realized, was the Sorting Tome - the artifact that would decide his fate.
One by one, the students stepped forward. They placed their hands on the book, and after a brief pause, the golden symbols shifted, glowing brighter as their House was revealed.
"House of Flames!" A boy smirked as red fire flickered in the air above him.
"House of Echoes!" A girl grinned as her reflection split into two, creating an illusion of herself.
Rowan swallowed hard. This is insane.
And then—it was his turn.
Professor Aldric gave him a nod. "Step forward, Mr. Vale."
Rowan hesitated before placing his hand on the book.
The effect was instantaneous.
The golden symbols didn't shift like before. They froze, then twisted violently, rearranging into something unreadable.
The hall fell silent.
A moment later—
CRACK.
The Sorting Tome shattered.
The banners above ripped from the ceiling, tossed by a sudden, unnatural wind. The torches flared wildly before plunging the room into darkness.
A single word burned itself into the air above Rowan, written in fire:
THIRTEENTH HOUSE.
Gasps erupted from the students. Someone screamed. A professor stumbled backward, eyes wide with horror.
Rowan's breath hitched. His hand was still on the book, and beneath his fingertips, the cover continued to burn—an unnatural, blue flame crawling across the leather.
"What—" He stepped back, his voice hoarse. "What just happened?"
Professor Aldric didn't answer.
The Headmaster rose slowly from his seat. His face, usually composed, was pale as death.
"This," he murmured, "should not be possible.