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Brief
Isabella Kensington – Freshman Year at Blackthorn Academy
Full Name: Isabella Madeleine Kensington
Nickname(s): Bella (only by those close to her), Kensington (by those who admire or envy her)
Age: 18 (freshman year)
Ethnicity: British-American
Accent & Speech: She doesn’t sound overly formal, but you can tell she’s refined. There’s a natural elegance in the way she speaks—confident, effortless, never forced. She doesn’t overuse slang, but she’s not stiff either. When she talks, people listen, not because she demands it, but because there’s something about her that makes you want to.
Appearance (Freshman Year)
Height: 5’7” (she’ll grow another inch by sophomore year)
Build: A knockout in the kind of way that isn’t in-your-face—just enough curves to turn heads, long legs, toned but not overly athletic. There’s a natural grace in the way she moves, effortless, like she doesn’t even realize the effect she has.
Skin: Smooth, fair, and flawless, but not in the artificial way—just well taken care of. She hasn’t yet learned the weight of stress, the sleepless nights, the toll of power plays.
Eyes: Hazel, shifting between warm brown and flecks of green, full of curiosity. They don’t have the unreadable depth they’ll gain later, but they already see more than people think.
Hair: Chestnut brown, thick and naturally wavy, reaching just below her chest. She wears it loose most days, not yet strategic about the image she presents.
Title: The Art of Falling Behind
At Blackthorn Academy, power is not inherited—it is taken. Students here are more than just heirs to empires; they are hunters in a world that rewards the ruthless. Reputation is a currency, alliances are fleeting, and those who hesitate are devoured.
Isabella Kensington is Blackthorn’s academic princess, a vision of effortless beauty wrapped in quiet grace. She moves through the school as though untouched by the chaos beneath its polished surface—admired, desired, envied, yet somehow above it all. Many mistake her lightness for naivety, her charm for simplicity. But Isabella’s rise to the top was no accident. She does not fight for power; she bends it to her will, subtly, decisively, in ways no one sees coming.
Then there is Alexander Whitmore, the ghost of Blackthorn. His family name alone is a force—his brothers before him were titans, carving their legacies in dominance and precision. But Alexander is different. Where they ruled through force, he moves like a shadow, present yet untouchable, never quite where you expect him to be. He doesn’t fight for attention, nor does he demand respect. And yet, it is given—because those who underestimate him don’t make the same mistake twice. He speaks only when necessary, disappears when it suits him, and when he strikes, it is absolute.
Blackthorn, however, is just the surface. Beneath the academy’s marble halls lies The Order of the Black Rose—a secret society that has dictated the world beyond these walls for centuries. Its members do not simply inherit power; they wield it, shape it, and, when necessary, destroy those who stand in their way. Isabella and Alexander were born into it. But where others see legacy, they see something far more dangerous.
Because Alexander understands something about Isabella that no one else does—that her light is an illusion, a carefully curated mask that hides something far sharper. And Isabella, for all her soft smiles and elegant composure, recognizes in Alexander the same quiet ruthlessness she keeps buried beneath her skin.
They are not rivals. Nor are they allies. They are two forces, orbiting the same throne, each waiting for the other to make the first move.
But power is a dangerous thing. And when the game finally turns against them—when the betrayals begin, when the weight of their names demands sacrifice—the question will not be who holds Blackthorn’s throne.
It will be who survives it.
Isabella Kensington – Freshman Year at Blackthorn Academy
Full Name: Isabella Madeleine Kensington
Nickname(s): Bella (only by those close to her), Kensington (by those who admire or envy her)
Age: 18 (freshman year)
Ethnicity: British-American
Accent & Speech: She doesn’t sound overly formal, but you can tell she’s refined. There’s a natural elegance in the way she speaks—confident, effortless, never forced. She doesn’t overuse slang, but she’s not stiff either. When she talks, people listen, not because she demands it, but because there’s something about her that makes you want to.
Appearance (Freshman Year)
Height: 5’7” (she’ll grow another inch by sophomore year)
Build: A knockout in the kind of way that isn’t in-your-face—just enough curves to turn heads, long legs, toned but not overly athletic. There’s a natural grace in the way she moves, effortless, like she doesn’t even realize the effect she has.
Skin: Smooth, fair, and flawless, but not in the artificial way—just well taken care of. She hasn’t yet learned the weight of stress, the sleepless nights, the toll of power plays.
Eyes: Hazel, shifting between warm brown and flecks of green, full of curiosity. They don’t have the unreadable depth they’ll gain later, but they already see more than people think.
Hair: Chestnut brown, thick and naturally wavy, reaching just below her chest. She wears it loose most days, not yet strategic about the image she presents. Title: The Art of Falling Behind
At Blackthorn Academy, power is not inherited—it is taken. Students here are more than just heirs to empires; they are hunters in a world that rewards the ruthless. Reputation is a currency, alliances are fleeting, and those who hesitate are devoured.
Isabella Kensington is Blackthorn’s academic princess, a vision of effortless beauty wrapped in quiet grace. She moves through the school as though untouched by the chaos beneath its polished surface—admired, desired, envied, yet somehow above it all. Many mistake her lightness for naivety, her charm for simplicity. But Isabella’s rise to the top was no accident. She does not fight for power; she bends it to her will, subtly, decisively, in ways no one sees coming.
Then there is Alexander Whitmore, the ghost of Blackthorn. His family name alone is a force—his brothers before him were titans, carving their legacies in dominance and precision. But Alexander is different. Where they ruled through force, he moves like a shadow, present yet untouchable, never quite where you expect him to be. He doesn’t fight for attention, nor does he demand respect. And yet, it is given—because those who underestimate him don’t make the same mistake twice. He speaks only when necessary, disappears when it suits him, and when he strikes, it is absolute.
Blackthorn, however, is just the surface. Beneath the academy’s marble halls lies The Order of the Black Rose—a secret society that has dictated the world beyond these walls for centuries. Its members do not simply inherit power; they wield it, shape it, and, when necessary, destroy those who stand in their way. Isabella and Alexander were born into it. But where others see legacy, they see something far more dangerous.
Because Alexander understands something about Isabella that no one else does—that her light is an illusion, a carefully curated mask that hides something far sharper. And Isabella, for all her soft smiles and elegant composure, recognizes in Alexander the same quiet ruthlessness she keeps buried beneath her skin.
They are not rivals. Nor are they allies. They are two forces, orbiting the same throne, each waiting for the other to make the first move.
But power is a dangerous thing. And when the game finally turns against them—when the betrayals begin, when the weight of their names demands sacrifice—the question will not be who holds Blackthorn’s throne.
It will be who survives it.
Before the Fall
The first day at Blackthorn Academy was not an arrival. It was an unveiling.
The campus was older than the country itself, a fortress of towering spires and ivy-clad stone, where history bled through every cobblestone and the weight of legacy hung heavy in the air. Blackthorn was not a school. It was a proving ground, a battlefield disguised as academia, where bloodlines meant everything and the unworthy were discarded before they could even begin.
Isabella Kensington arrived in a way that was neither quiet nor ostentatious. She simply existed—as if Blackthorn had always belonged to her, and she was merely reclaiming her place.
She wasn’t an unknown. The Kensington name carried weight, but it was not the name. Not yet. She was beautiful in a way that didn’t seem fair, with sharp eyes that missed nothing and a presence that made people watch, even if they didn’t understand why. But beauty alone did not make rulers at Blackthorn. Influence did. Ruthlessness did. And Isabella? She had neither.
Not yet.
She stepped into the grand hall, where the old money elite had already begun their silent war. The sons and daughters of billionaires and aristocrats, the untouchables, the heirs to power that extended far beyond the academy’s gates. Julian Ashford was already holding court, a future king in waiting, surrounded by those eager to be part of his world. Charlotte Everstone, cold and brilliant, watched from the edges, calculating. And then there was Damien Aldridge, heir to a dynasty built on whispers and ruin, lounging like he already owned the school.
Isabella was nothing more than an observer. Just another girl with a name that meant something, but not enough.
And then there was Alexander Whitmore.
He did not arrive with fanfare. He did not claim his place among the gilded elite, nor did he command attention like his brothers had before him. He slipped through the cracks of Blackthorn’s foundations, a ghost before anyone knew to look for him. No one could decide if he was arrogant or indifferent. If he was dangerous or simply waiting.
But Isabella noticed him, even if she did not understand why.
Alexander leaned against the far wall, watching everything but engaging with nothing. His brothers had ruled with iron precision, sculpting their reputations with brutal efficiency. But Alexander was something else entirely—present, but not. Like he was part of the scene but untouched by it. Like he already knew how this game would end.
They did not speak. They did not even look at each other.
And yet, in that moment, something began.
A girl who did not yet know she would be queen. A boy who had no interest in ruling. A school that did not yet realize the storm that had just arrived.
And somewhere in the distance, beyond the murmured greetings and quiet battles, beyond the old money heirs and the whispered deals, the clock tower struck the hour.
Blackthorn Academy had no idea what was coming.
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