The night Adrian Blackwood entered the world, the heavens wept.Rain lashed against the grand windows of the Blackwood estate, thunder growled above, and a storm battered the sprawling mansion as if the skies themselves raged at the cruelty within.
Inside a dimly lit chamber, Evelyn Blackwood lay pale upon silken sheets, her chest rising with shallow, broken breaths. Once the jewel of high society, she was now reduced to a fragile ghost, her life ebbing away even as she clutched at the tiny spark she had just brought into the world.
By her bedside stood Isabella Harrington—her closest friend since childhood, and the woman who had betrayed her most. Isabella's lips curved in a smile that did not reach her eyes as she whispered false comforts. "Rest, Evelyn. You've done your part. The child is strong."
Strong? Evelyn's heart broke at the thought. Her son had been born into a nest of vipers. She had already seen Alexander, the man she once believed she loved, turn cold and calculating the moment their child cried out. His gaze, sharp as a blade, carried no warmth as he regarded the boy in the nurse's arms.
"A bastard," Alexander spat, his voice carrying across the chamber like a death knell. "You should never have existed."
The words struck Evelyn harder than any illness. Her vision blurred, not from fever, but from tears. Still, she turned her head toward the tiny bundle and whispered with what little strength remained:
"Adrian… live. Live stronger than them all."
But Alexander did not care. Nor did Isabella. They had plotted this moment carefully—feeding Evelyn pills to hasten her labor, ensuring her body would give out before she could recover.
Outside, in the storm, another battle raged.A loyal servant named Ethan Ward knelt in the mud before the patriarch's door, rain soaking his frail body as blood seeped from his battered knees. He had begged through the night, voice hoarse, pleading that the newborn not be cast out or killed for the sake of pride.
For hours, he endured the storm's wrath, unmoving, until even thunder grew weary. By dawn, the old Blackwood patriarch relented—not from compassion, but because whispers of a bastard child could tarnish the family name. "Let him live," the old man decreed. "But he will never be one of us."
And so, on a night of betrayal and storm, Adrian Blackwood was allowed to draw breath. Not out of love, but because mercy would have cost his family more than cruelty.
He would grow, not as a cherished son, but as a shadow.And shadows, when patient enough, learn how to swallow the light.