Salem, Massachusetts — 1847
The storm rolled in before nightfall. Thunder cracked like gunfire across the treeline, and rain pelted the earth with sharp insistence. Deep in the woods, far from any road, a small cottage sat lit by candlelight, its walls old but strong — reinforced with salt, ash, and spellwork.
Inside, the cries of labor echoed through the air, each scream layered with pain and power.
Emily Bennett was dying and giving life all at once.
Blood soaked the bed sheets. Sweat clung to her skin. Her nails carved lines into the wooden frame as her body convulsed.
"You're almost there," whispered Edna Clarke, an old midwife with trembling hands and a deep understanding of magic.
Emily clenched her jaw. Her magic flared — the air sparked, the candles hissed — and then, with one final cry, she gave in.
A child was born. A boy. Dark skin, quiet eyes.
No crying.
No sound at all.
Emily reached for him, weak, her voice barely audible. "Let me see him."
Edna hesitated. The child still hadn't moved.
Then — he blinked. Once. Twice.
And every candle in the cottage exploded in flame.
Emily gasped, cradling him close, whispering ancient words under her breath. The storm outside seemed to still.
"He's a siphoner," Edna murmured, eyes wide with quiet fear.
"No," Emily said firmly, her voice raw but resolute. "He's my son."
She looked down at him and smiled softly through the pain.
"Malik."
Salem – 1855
The boy was wild. Smart. Curious. Dangerous.
By eight, Malik could drain the magic from crystals without touching them. By ten, he could pull energy from spells as they were cast. Most witches would have feared him.
Emily didn't.
She trained him. Day and night. Not to be powerful — but to be controlled.
"Feel the magic," she said one morning, as Malik hovered his hands over a charmed pendant. "Don't take it. Let it come to you."
He focused, jaw tight. The charm flickered, then dimmed completely. The spell was gone.
"I didn't force it," he said.
"You listened," she replied. "That's the first lesson. Magic is alive. Respect it."
They sat in silence for a long time. The forest outside their cabin was thick with fog.
"Why didn't you give me away?" Malik asked.
Emily blinked. "Where's that coming from?"
"The coven hates siphoners. You know they do."
Emily reached for his hand. "Because you're mine. You don't need to belong to them. You belong with me."
He looked down, unsure.
"They'll always fear what's different," she added gently. "But that doesn't mean you have to."
Salem – 1862
Malik was fifteen when he killed for the first time.
It wasn't planned. A group of traveling witch hunters had come into town. One of them recognized Emily. They followed her home through the woods. Malik felt it before she did — the sharp spark of danger that danced on the edge of instinct.
One of the men grabbed her by the throat. The others laughed.
Malik didn't.
He didn't speak.
He didn't scream.
He touched the enchanted iron blade one of them carried — and siphoned it dry in seconds. His hands glowed with stolen power. His eyes turned black.
The forest lit up.
When it was over, they were ash.
Emily found him in the trees afterward, curled against a mossy log, shaking.
"I didn't know what else to do," he whispered.
Emily pulled him into her arms. "You did what you had to."
"But it felt… good."
She held him tighter.
"That's what scares me."
Salem – 1864
The war was creeping north.
The Salem witches were on edge, their circle smaller than ever, their magic growing thin. Rumors spread like disease — about vampires hiding among soldiers, about spirits walking in daylight, about a dark-haired woman named Katerina Petrova moving south.
Emily packed that night.
"We're leaving," she said, her tone final.
Malik stood in the doorway, now seventeen, lean and tall, a spark of power humming beneath his skin. "Where?"
"A town called Mystic Falls. Quiet. Protected. There's a girl I need to find."
Malik raised a brow. "A girl?"
Emily closed her bag. "Katherine. She's more dangerous than you can imagine. And I owe her more than I care to admit."
Malik didn't ask more.
He just nodded. "Then let's go."
Salem, Massachusetts — 1847
The storm rolled in before nightfall. Thunder cracked like gunfire across the treeline, and rain pelted the earth with sharp insistence. Deep in the woods, far from any road, a small cottage sat lit by candlelight, its walls old but strong — reinforced with salt, ash, and spellwork.
Inside, the cries of labor echoed through the air, each scream layered with pain and power.
Emily Bennett was dying and giving life all at once.
Blood soaked the bed sheets. Sweat clung to her skin. Her nails carved lines into the wooden frame as her body convulsed.
"You're almost there," whispered Edna Clarke, an old midwife with trembling hands and a deep understanding of magic.
Emily clenched her jaw. Her magic flared — the air sparked, the candles hissed — and then, with one final cry, she gave in.
A child was born. A boy. Dark skin, quiet eyes.
No crying.
No sound at all.
Emily reached for him, weak, her voice barely audible. "Let me see him."
Edna hesitated. The child still hadn't moved.
Then — he blinked. Once. Twice.
And every candle in the cottage exploded in flame.
Emily gasped, cradling him close, whispering ancient words under her breath. The storm outside seemed to still.
"He's a siphoner," Edna murmured, eyes wide with quiet fear.
"No," Emily said firmly, her voice raw but resolute. "He's my son."
She looked down at him and smiled softly through the pain.
"Malik."
Salem – 1855
The boy was wild. Smart. Curious. Dangerous.
By eight, Malik could drain the magic from crystals without touching them. By ten, he could pull energy from spells as they were cast. Most witches would have feared him.
Emily didn't.
She trained him. Day and night. Not to be powerful — but to be controlled.
"Feel the magic," she said one morning, as Malik hovered his hands over a charmed pendant. "Don't take it. Let it come to you."
He focused, jaw tight. The charm flickered, then dimmed completely. The spell was gone.
"I didn't force it," he said.
"You listened," she replied. "That's the first lesson. Magic is alive. Respect it."
They sat in silence for a long time. The forest outside their cabin was thick with fog.
"Why didn't you give me away?" Malik asked.
Emily blinked. "Where's that coming from?"
"The coven hates siphoners. You know they do."
Emily reached for his hand. "Because you're mine. You don't need to belong to them. You belong with me."
He looked down, unsure.
"They'll always fear what's different," she added gently. "But that doesn't mean you have to."
Salem – 1862
Malik was fifteen when he killed for the first time.
It wasn't planned. A group of traveling witch hunters had come into town. One of them recognized Emily. They followed her home through the woods. Malik felt it before she did — the sharp spark of danger that danced on the edge of instinct.
One of the men grabbed her by the throat. The others laughed.
Malik didn't.
He didn't speak.
He didn't scream.
He touched the enchanted iron blade one of them carried — and siphoned it dry in seconds. His hands glowed with stolen power. His eyes turned black.
The forest lit up.
When it was over, they were ash.
Emily found him in the trees afterward, curled against a mossy log, shaking.
"I didn't know what else to do," he whispered.
Emily pulled him into her arms. "You did what you had to."
"But it felt… good."
She held him tighter.
"That's what scares me."
Salem – 1864
The war was creeping north.
The Salem witches were on edge, their circle smaller than ever, their magic growing thin. Rumors spread like disease — about vampires hiding among soldiers, about spirits walking in daylight, about a dark-haired woman named Katerina Petrova moving south.
Emily packed that night.
"We're leaving," she said, her tone final.
Malik stood in the doorway, now seventeen, lean and tall, a spark of power humming beneath his skin. "Where?"
"A town called Mystic Falls. Quiet. Protected. There's a girl I need to find."
Malik raised a brow. "A girl?"
Emily closed her bag. "Katherine. She's more dangerous than you can imagine. And I owe her more than I care to admit."
Malik didn't ask more.
He just nodded. "Then let's go."