October 31st, 1969. Samhain.
The ancient festival when the line between the living and the dead grew thin. The night when the magic surged at its highest.
On this night, as the full moon hung high in the sky and bathed the world in silver light, something stirred at the edge of the Scottish Highlands.
The air above the Dreadmore Mansion, the clouds roared and the winds howled. The magical energy surrounding the mansion spiked to an unnatural degree. The magical wards sitting silently for centuries triggered as if the world was protesting the birth of an abomination.
The unnatural scene was only noticed by the four presences present in the manor at the moment.
The two midwives who had been urgently summoned from Saint Mungo's. They were struggling to assist the lady of the manor, Nyx Dreadmore (née Rosier), whose suffering intensified as the birth continued. The magical energy she had to sustain her child was draining her, and it was clear that no ordinary witch could survive the process of birthing such an overwhelmingly powerful child.
The old butler who had served the family for decades stood silently, listening to the cries of the lady. Knowing how much strain sustaining the child was putting on her, as for months she had been growing weaker. No amount of medicine or spells worked. The specialists spoke in hushed tones of a child so powerful that even the womb of its mother struggled to contain it.
"Lady Nyx," one of the midwives gasped, "the child... his magic is overwhelming. We may not make it."
Nyx, her face pale from exhaustion, turned her gaze to the butler, who had served the family for as long as she could remember. "It's... it's the last gift of love between me and Alaric," she whispered weakly. "We will not... abandon him."
The butler nodded solemnly.
She had been warned that carrying him might cost her life, but she refused to let go of the hope that their love would live on through their child.
As Nyx labored, the already ridiculous amount of energy somehow intensified even more. As the clock struck midnight, the child was born, whose very cry shook the magical energy present inside the room. The glasses of the window shook and cracked. A child born with an unholy amount of potential was born.
The lady Nyx was barely clinging to life, too weak to speak as she longingly stared at her child, not even being able to name him properly.
The old butler, hands trembling, took the newborn from the midwives. As he held the child, a chill ran down his spine—not from the cold, but from the power of waves coming out of this child as if he was affecting the environment itself.
"Thorne," he whispered solemnly. "For the path ahead will be filled with pain—lined with thorns from the past and from those who will rise against you."
"Thorne Edric Dreadmore."A name to bear the weight of the Dreadmore legacy.
A name to carve a legend through the dark.
Nyx stirred weakly, her eyes barely open. She tried to lift her hand toward the child, reaching out with all the strength she had left. But her arm trembled, fell short.
Watching this, the butler stepped forward, kneeling beside her bed and gently lowering the child into her arms.
Her finger gently drifted towards the child's face, barely grazing his cheek. Watching him trying to tightly hold her finger, a single tear rolled down her cheek.
"My sweet Thorne," she whispered sorrowfully. "Forgive me… for leaving you in such a cold world."
As if sensing her sorrow, the child opened his eyes—dark as midnight—and locked onto hers.
He let out a soft, heart-wrenching cry.
Nyx tried to lift her hand again, tried to offer one final gesture of motherly love… but her strength gave out.
Her hand fell limp beside him.
The butler stood still, silent at her side."My lady," he whispered, bowing his head, "you have fought so bravely. Rest now. You have given everything for this child."