The iron gates of Blackthorn Academy closed behind me. I stood on the gravel drive, suitcase at my feet, staring up at the sprawling stone building that would be my home for the next three years.My parents had sent me here after deciding I needed “structure.” Blackthorn promised discipline, tradition, and the kind of education that opened doors. What it actually delivered was, rules, and a headmaster who looked like he had stepped out of a ghost story.Victor Hale.I saw him for the first time on my second day, standing at the top of the grand staircase while the entire student body assembled on the marble floor. He was tall, with broad shoulders. His hair was black threaded with silver at the temples, cut short and severe. A thin, pale scar cut through his left eyebrow, giving his otherwise perfect face a dangerous edge. His eyes were gray.“Welcome to Blackthorn,” he said, voice deep and precise, every word clipped and measured. “Here you will learn that rules exist for a reason. B
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