✓ | Curse Breaker ⋆ Julian Blackthorn [1]

o. LATE NIGHTS

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CHAPTER ZERO: LATE NIGHTS

❛she's made of fire.❜

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Before Summer

Julian allowed his hand to move freely against the blank canvas, his fingers keeping an airy grasp on the wooden paint brush that flew from side to side. Dipped in black, the hair of the brush left elegant dark waves on the empty space.

The Blackthorn boy didn't know why he chose to open his piece with such a strong, consuming color. He usually settled for brighter, fainter hues - barely visible yellow or diluted pink - hues that allowed him to work his way around, even if he made a mistake in his creative process. He preferred happier colors, too. They offered a more positive outlook on life; life that tended to collapse all its cruelty upon his tender shoulders. The cheery colors painted a picture that could easily fool an unknown passerby, telling him or her how his life was made of rainbows and sunshine. They managed to deceive a stranger into thinking that somehow everything was fine - fortunate even.

But Julian Blackthorn knew better. The only color that suited his life was black. It reeked of heaviness his heart was swarmed with as he glanced at his younger siblings, knowing that they saw him as a parent rather than a brother. They deserved better. They deserved someone who was old enough to offer them proper care, someone they could lean on. He deserved someone who would lift off the burden that was placed upon his back when their parents died. Of course, Julian never complained or voiced out his late night thoughts. He had promised to himself that he would never do so; it brought him immense joy to watch his siblings grow and experience happiness under his care. Besides, he wasn't doing everything on his own. He had Emma and Zoya around, willing to offer help when needed.

Zoya.

He knew there was another reason for him starting his drawing with black. It was the color of the darkest night - night that one could easily get lost into, if not careful enough. By chance, that same shade of darkness happened to match the color of Zoya Caldwell's hair.

Julian recalled the way her silky dark strands fell down her shoulders, like an obsidian ink spilled on a fresh parchment of paper. Perhaps he was trying to replicate the effortless way her hair framed her face, but his fingers trembled unreasonably. It was a tiny moment, barely noticeable one, but Julian felt it like an earthquake. It was as if the brush had a mind of its own, wishing to revolt against its master.