Blackwood Isle — 2005
[1/3]
The Atlantic had been restless all day, throwing itself against the cliffs in booming surges that made the windows of Blackwood Manor tremble. By nightfall the storm had gathered into a wall of black cloud that blotted out the horizon and brought with it the metallic scent of rain. The great house, perched on the very edge of the Isle like a ship frozen in stone, groaned under the first lashings of wind.
Ten-year-old Theodore Michael Blackwood sat cross-legged on a faded Persian rug in the cavernous library, trying to ignore the noises the storm dragged from the walls. A brass puzzle box rested in his lap — six heavy plates of engraved metal that slid and locked in strange patterns. His father had given it to him for his birthday: "Unlock it and you'll know you're a true Blackwood." Theo's nimble fingers searched for hidden seams, head bent in fierce concentration.
The library was his favourite place in the world: an ocean of leather-bound volumes stretching two floors high; a vaulted ceiling painted with angels and knights; the smoky smell of beeswax and old parchment; the fireplace where logs smouldered red. Suits of armour flanked the main door. Above the mantel a huge oil portrait showed long-dead Blackwood crusaders kneeling before a golden object half hidden in shadow.
Normally the manor at night felt safe. But tonight everything was off. His tutor had cut Latin lessons short. Dinner had been hurried. Servants moved in tense silence. Somewhere down the western wing, his parents' voices rose and fell — too low for him to hear words but sharp enough to make his stomach knot.
He twisted the puzzle box until a panel clicked and slid. Satisfaction flared — then a single phrase floated down the corridor, caught and carried by a draft.
"…they've found us."
Theo's head snapped up. The rest of the conversation vanished under the groan of wind, but those three words stayed like ice. He had heard "the Veil" once in one of Father's half-serious stories: cloaked monks, secret relics. It had sounded like a fairy tale.
Another noise came — not storm, but something breaking. Glass. Far below. Then an ancient iron bell, long decorative and silent, clanged to life. The deep clang echoed through every stone corridor. Boots followed, sharp on marble floors.
Theo froze.
The library door burst open. His mother swept in — Lady Eleanor Blackwood, tall and dark-haired, rain glittering on her gown. Fear sharpened her normally gentle face. "Theo! Quickly."
He scrambled up, still clutching the puzzle box. Behind her came his father — Lord Michael Blackwood, coat half-fastened over a nightshirt, sword-cane unsheathed in one hand, an old flintlock pistol in the other. He moved with a deadly calm Theo had never seen.
"They're here," Michael said. "The Veil."
Eleanor's fingers tightened on Theo's shoulder. "Now."
Theo wanted to ask questions, but something in their faces silenced him. They moved swiftly through the library to a panelled wall between bookcases. Eleanor pressed a carved raven emblem. A click sounded and a tall shelf swung inward to reveal a narrow spiral stair plunging down into darkness. Cold air smelling of earth and sea drifted up.
She crouched, gripping Theo's face. "Darling, go. Follow the tunnels to the dock. Stay hidden no matter what you hear. Do you understand?"
Theo's chest hurt but he nodded. His father dropped to one knee, strong hands on his small shoulders. "You remember the way. You're cleverer than any of them. Live. Learn. One day… take back what's ours."
Eleanor kissed his forehead. Then, with a firm push, they sent him into the black.
The panel swung almost shut, leaving a hair-thin seam of light. Theo couldn't help but look back.
Masked men flooded into the library — black combat rigs beneath hooded cloaks, faces hidden, each throat hung with a gold sigil. They moved like soldiers but murmured Latin prayers as they spread out.
His father stood before the ancient vault door, sword raised. His mother raised the pistol.
"You will not have it," Michael said.
Gunfire erupted, deafening even through the wood. Eleanor's pistol cracked, smoke curling. One intruder dropped. Others surged. A flash-bang flared white and Theo reeled back, half blinded. He heard Father grunt, Mother cry out in fury.
A burning brand arced and struck the drapes. Velvet went up in a roar of fire. Heat and smoke flooded the seam.
Theo clamped both hands over his mouth, heart a drum. Through haze he saw Father cut one man down before a bullet spun him back. Mother dragged him toward the vault, firing until the pistol clicked dry.
The ceiling groaned, ancient timbers splitting. Then a deafening crash — fire, beam, and stone — and the crack of light vanished.
Theo turned and ran.
The spiral stair seemed to fall forever. Theo stumbled down it in the dark, one hand scraping cold stone, the other clamped around the brass puzzle box. Smoke crept after him, thin and acrid. His breath came ragged; his heart thudded so loudly he thought the hooded men would hear it through the walls.
He had been in these passages before — long afternoons when Father played guide and explorer. Every Blackwood must know the bones of the house, he'd said. Lanterns lit, they'd traced the smugglers' marks, the crusader graffiti, the Latin prayers etched by hands long dead. Theo could remember every turn perfectly. His memory was a thing adults whispered about — "near eidetic," tutors said with awe.
Now those memories saved him.
At each junction he saw the ghost of Father's hand pointing: this way leads to the chapel, this to the vaults, this to the sea. He took the sea path, stumbling on worn steps slick with damp. The air grew colder, salt replacing smoke. Far above, thunder cracked and shook dust loose to patter down his neck.
He whispered the Latin mottos as he ran — scraps he had memorised like spells: Fortitudo et Fides. Strength and Faith. Custos Mentis. Guardian of the Mind. Each word steadied his shaking legs.
The tunnel widened suddenly into a lower service hall built for smugglers centuries ago. Ancient rails rusted underfoot; crates mouldered in alcoves. In one niche a crumbling fresco showed a black raven guarding a shining disk — the Sigil — while hooded figures reached for it. He had stared at it before with childish fascination. Tonight the painted raven looked alive, warning him on.
Another explosion rumbled somewhere far behind — deep enough to make the stone floor tremble. The manor must be tearing itself apart under fire and heat. He thought of Mother's gentle voice at prayers, Father's hand guiding his fencing stance. For an instant he wanted to turn back. He was only ten. But Father had said live.
He ran harder.
A rush of cold air announced the tunnel's end. He burst into the sea cavern — a wide natural chamber where the cliffs opened to black Atlantic water. Rain blew in sideways through an arched gate. Lightning backlit the surf outside, showing the small motor launch tied to the ancient stone quay.
He skidded to it, nearly falling on wet rock, and fumbled with the mooring knot. His small fingers shook but memory guided them. He'd learned this, too: Father laughing, teaching him to handle lines and starter cords.
The knot came free. He shoved the boat out, jumped awkwardly in, almost tipping. Salt spray stung his eyes. He yanked the choke, pulled the cord once — sputter. Second time — cough. Third — the little engine roared awake, loud in the cavern.
At that moment another boom rolled through the tunnel behind him, throwing sparks and smoke out the arch. In the red-lit haze a single figure appeared — tall, hooded, gold sigil gleaming at his throat. He did not chase. He only raised a gloved hand, palm out, a gesture Theo could not read — salute or promise — before the smoke swallowed him.
Fear turned to something harder. Theo shoved the throttle forward. The launch lurched into the open sea.
The Atlantic was alive and furious. Waves slammed the bow sideways; spray drenched him in icy sheets. He hunched over the tiller, puzzle box jammed under his coat, muscles straining to hold a straight course toward the faint mainland lights.
Once a breaker lifted the boat and slammed it down so hard his teeth clacked. He almost lost the tiller. He forced himself to remember Father's voice: always into the wave, boy — never let it take your beam. He turned the bow just in time, heart hammering.
Lightning split the sky. For an instant the world turned white: black cliffs behind, the manor a silhouette of fire and collapsing roofs. Windows burst outward, sparks flung into rain. The sight seared itself into Theo's mind — perfect and terrible. He would never forget it.
Then the dark swallowed everything but the weak glow of harbour lights ahead.
Wind howled. Rain blurred his vision. Once the engine coughed and nearly died; he slapped the choke down like Father had taught and it caught again. He didn't cry. He didn't call for help. He was a Blackwood, and Blackwoods survived.
A new light speared through the storm: white and steady, sweeping until it found him.
Another boat emerged from the squall — long, sleek, black as a hunting bird. Its bow punched waves apart; engines roared. A voice rang over wind:
"Theodore!"
He blinked water from his eyes. On the prow stood Lady Alexandra Blackwood — Father's elder sister, a figure of whispered stories and cool glances at family dinners. Tonight she was fierce and soaked, long coat whipping, silver streaks in her dark hair glinting with spray. Two estate sailors wrestled the helm behind her.
She flung a line expertly; a sailor caught Theo's bow and hauled the boats close. Strong arms reached down and lifted him from his little launch like a sack of grain. He landed hard on the cutter's deck and then Alexandra was there, kneeling, cloak wrapping him in sudden warmth.
"It's all right, darling. I've got you." Her voice was rough but steady. She looked past him toward the cliff — the manor's outline now a ragged glow of flame and smoke. Her jaw trembled but she didn't cry. "Michael… Eleanor…"
Theo clung to her. Rain soaked them both; the smell of salt and smoke clung to his hair. For a moment he was a child again, shaking in his aunt's arms.
Then the memory of Father's command cut through: Live. Learn. Take back what's ours.
He straightened slightly, though he said nothing.
Alexandra pulled back enough to look at what he gripped. The brass puzzle box was wet but unbroken. One panel had slid open, revealing a tiny golden raven and beneath it, etched Latin words: CUSTOS MENTIS.
She touched the engraving gently. "Hold on to that, Theo. It's your legacy now."
The cutter swung away from the wrecked island, engines straining against wind and sea. Alexandra kept him wrapped in her cloak as crew secured his little boat to tow behind. Theo looked back once.
The manor was almost gone. Roofs had collapsed; fire licked from shattered windows into the rain. Somewhere inside, his parents had made their last stand. Somewhere, the hooded man with the raised hand still watched.
Theo turned his face forward, jaw set.
The cutter fought the storm for more than an hour before the mainland harbour came into view — a necklace of sodium lamps shining through the rain. Theo stayed huddled under Alexandra's coat, small fingers locked around the brass box. The sailors glanced at him but said nothing; their duke's sister sat beside the boy with a sword across her knees and a pistol tucked into her belt, eyes fixed on the black horizon as if daring pursuit.
Only when the boat nosed into the sheltered inlet did she speak. "They'll have been watching us for years," she said quietly, almost to herself. "Michael thought the wards would hold." She looked down at her nephew. "But you're alive. That matters more than walls."
Theo didn't answer. He felt hollow, scraped clean by fear and smoke and salt. His mind replayed every sound — Father's grunt as he was shot, Mother's scream, the thunder as the ceiling gave way. Each detail fixed itself with unnatural clarity. He would never be rid of it.
At the dock men in dark coats waited: estate guards, lawyers, the old chaplain. They surged forward when they saw Alexandra lift Theo ashore, but she cut them off with one raised hand.
"Secure the perimeter. No one to or from the island until I say. And silence — not a word to the press."
Someone tried to ask about Lord and Lady Blackwood; she silenced him with a look so sharp he recoiled. "Later."
She carried Theo herself through the rain to a waiting car. Inside, warmth and the smell of leather hit him like a wave. He shivered but didn't cry. Alexandra wrapped him in a dry blanket and sat close as the car pulled away toward the inland estate house.
"You're safe now," she said at last, softer. "I know it doesn't feel like it. But you are."
Theo looked up at her — pale face framed by damp hair, eyes red but fierce. "Why did they come?"
She hesitated. "Your father guarded something old. Something powerful. The Veil believes it should belong to them." She brushed his wet fringe aside with an uncharacteristically gentle hand. "Tonight they thought to claim it."
"Did they… get it?"
"No." Her voice went cold and certain. "But they took everything else." She sighed. "We'll talk more when you're stronger. For now you must rest."
Theo looked down at the box on his knees. His thumb traced the words again — Custos Mentis. Guardian of the Mind. His father's voice echoed: Live. Learn. Take back what's ours.
The car rocked through winding lanes. He stared out at hedgerows and stone walls sliding by, eyes dry now but burning with something new and hard. He didn't yet know what the Veil truly was, or what the Sigil could do. But he knew they had stolen his parents and his home. And he knew he would never forget.
The safe house was an old priory converted generations ago. Its thick walls smelled of incense and old oak. Firelight painted gold across the parlour when Alexandra led him in. Staff moved quietly — blankets, tea, a doctor with a gentle manner who checked Theo's lungs for smoke. He sat still for it all, silent and obedient, but when they tried to take the puzzle box to dry it he clutched it so fiercely they backed away.
Alexandra intervened. "Leave it," she said. "It's his."
Later she dismissed everyone and sat with him by the hearth. Rain rattled the shutters. The storm was moving on, leaving only its cold breath. She poured a small brandy for herself and stared into the fire for a long while before speaking.
"When I was your age," she said quietly, "my father told me our family had two duties: to guard what should never be misused… and to endure. No matter what comes, we endure."
Theo didn't look away from the flames. "Endure isn't enough," he said finally, voice hoarse but steady. "They killed them."
Alexandra's eyes flicked to him, surprised by the steel under the child's grief. Slowly she nodded. "Then we endure, and we remember. That's the beginning."
He turned the puzzle box, studying the tiny raven, the Latin motto. "I'll remember," he whispered. It sounded less like a child's promise than an oath.
She put a hand on his shoulder — awkward, for she was not a woman given to tenderness. "Sleep if you can. Tomorrow we plan."
But Theo didn't sleep for hours. He sat awake as the fire died, replaying every step of the night — the secret passages, the hooded man raising a hand, the way Father had stood before the vault. He memorised it all with the unnatural clarity that was already his gift. When dawn finally crept through the curtains, pale and cold, he was still awake.
He was no longer the carefree boy who had solved puzzles by the fire. Something had burned away with the manor.
In its place was resolve — raw, unshaped, but fierce:
He would live.
He would learn.
And one day, when he was strong enough, he would take back what was stolen and end the Order of the Veil.