Blackwood Book Mga Nobela at Kwento

And yet, she ran—slipping through his grasp before he could properly lay claim to her. And now, the past he had buried was clawing its way back to the surface. The moment Mrs. Ellis had uttered that name—Blackwood—something inside him had snapped. Adrian Blackwood. The Blackwoods were once a feared empire that thrived in the filth of the underworld, trafficking women and girls like cattle. But they had been all but annihilated by his own hands. Valerian had personally seen to their downfall, wiping out the roots so thoroughly that there should have been nothing left.

I rounded a corner, turned left down a tighter row, and— Stopped. There, nestled between two massive grimoires, was a book that didn’t belong. It was smaller, wrapped in black hide, no title. A circular crest gleamed faintly on the cover, a silver wolf’s head bisected by a black sword, the same we saw in the tunnel the other day. I knew that crest, its Blackwood sigil. My lungs tightened. My hand moved before my brain could catch up. I pulled the book free. Dust billowed, I coughed hard.. My heart beat faster.

I plugged it into the encrypted terminal and waited. The file unfolded like a crime scene. Photos. Reports. Signatures. Diagrams. Project: NYX Subject 03: Ivy Sinclair-Blackwood I sat there. Frozen. Staring at the name printed in sterile black ink. Blackwood. Not Sinclair. Blackwood. My chest ached like something sacred had been torn out by force. I clicked deeper into the files. Embryonic development notes. Neural adaptivity scores. Trauma-resistance calibration. They hadn’t raised me.

Draven didn’t say a word, just set his fork down with slow finality and called out, “It’s open.” The door creaked as it swung inward, and there she was. Ms. Blackwood. She walked in like she owned the place, heels tapping across the hardwood, her coat sliding off her shoulders with practiced ease. Her lipstick matched the wine-colored silk blouse clinging to her curves. Her eyes swept the room and landed on me. A flicker of something unreadable passed through them, before she dismissed me entirely. “Morning,” she said, her voice syrup-sweet as she moved toward him. “You look… stronger.”

The Blackwood was a name whispered in caution, the kind of place mothers warned their children about when the moon was high. Even standing at its edge, I could see why. The trees rose like ancient sentinels, their twisted trunks draped in moss that swayed in a wind I couldn’t feel. The light here was strange—filtered through a canopy so thick that the midday sun barely reached the ground. It was silent, too. Too silent. No birdsong, no rustle of small animals. Just the stillness of something watching.

The Blackwoods were the ones organising it this year, a prestigious duty that only served to fuel my stepmother's ego. ​It was, predictably, another avenue and opportunity for Vivienne Blackwoods to throw her weight around. She was everywhere, moving with theatrical purpose, ordering everyone and giving instructions to a host of hired help and socialites as if she was the undisputed matriarch of the Blackwoods clan. Her voice, sharp and high, grated on my nerves.

The "Author’s Study" was a sanctuary of woodsmoke and old leather, a space that existed in the "Negative Space" between the stories. The shelves that stretched into the infinite were packed with "Bound Histories"—thousands of volumes titled THE BLACKWOOD PACK: SECTOR 4. Silas and Lyra stood on a rug of woven starlight, their forms slowly regaining their "Biological Density" in the presence of the Source.

life beckoned. As I walked back to my apartment, carrying my laundry bag, I passed a newsstand. A glossy business magazine caught my eye. Lucian was on the cover. The headline read: THE BLACKWOOD BLACKOUT: INSIDE THE RAPID DECONSTRUCTION OF A BILLION-DOLLAR LEGACY.

About Ethan on a rock at the edge of a clearing in the northern forest watching me run with nothing calculated in his expression. I thought about what it meant to be worth the waiting. Then I stood and walked back down the mountain path toward the lit windows of the estate, and the silver light moved through my palms with the easy warmth of something entirely at home in the hands that carried it. Far south, in a darkened study in the Blackwood pack's main estate, Alexander Blackwood was sitting alone in the chair behind the desk where the armrest had cracked six weeks ago under the pressure of a decision he had not been strong enough to refuse.

About something being taken— From someone who thought they held everything. Lucian stepped forward beside me. His brow furrowed. His voice calm—but confused. “What book is this?” he asked. “And how valuable is it?” The gatekeeper turned to him. His expression grave. “It is one of Blackwood’s most treasured history and sorcery books,” he said slowly. A pause. Then His voice dropped. “And its theft has brought instability to the realm.”