BlindfoldedDev

In the vast, ever-shifting lands of Florencia, magic is not drawn from the elements, but from the essence of flora. Warlocks and witches cultivate their power through ancient botanical rites, wielding spells infused with the soul of plants. The rarest flowers grant immense power—some can heal, some can destroy, and some can bend reality itself.

Kieran Ashthorne, a rogue warlock with eyes like the burning sky and hands stained with forbidden magic, has lived his life as a mercenary, selling his skills to the highest bidder. He’s infamous, not just for his talent, but for his cursed lineage—descended from a bloodline that once shattered the balance of magic.

But when Kieran stumbles upon the legendary Blood Lotus, a flower said to rewrite fate itself, he does something no one expects—he offers it instead of wielding it.

To who?

To a runaway princess, Isolde Varelle, the last heir to a kingdom overrun by an apocalyptic force known as the Rotborn—beings of decay that corrupt magic itself. Isolde, once sheltered, must now learn to fight, and Kieran, for the first time, must learn what it means to protect rather than destroy.

Together, they embark on a quest to restore lost flora, rediscover ancient warlock covens, and outrun bounty hunters, treacherous gods, and the shadows of their pasts.

But magic is fickle, and the more they use the power of plants, the more they realize—the flowers are watching them back.

The Blooming Warlock

The severed hand twitched in Isolde's grip.

Kieran stared at it. "Yeah, that's—definitely cursed."

Isolde glared at him. "You don't say."

They were crouched in the shadows of an abandoned tannery, the scent of leather and rain thick in the air. The streets outside were still crawling with Thorned Lords, but for now, they had a moment to breathe.

Isolde carefully unwrapped the bloody cloth from the hand, revealing ornate golden rings still fastened around the stiff fingers. The skin was pale, tinged with dark veins, but what caught Kieran's attention was the symbol branded into the back of the palm—a royal sigil, partially burned into the flesh.

Kieran frowned. "That's not just any king's hand."

Isolde nodded grimly. "It belonged to King Alden Varelle."

Alden Varelle—the current king of Lirath. The same king who had declared war on the Rotborn a decade ago. The same king who had allegedly died from illness three months ago.

"…You're telling me the king is alive?"

Isolde clenched her jaw. "I'm telling you that his hand is still moving."

Kieran ran a hand down his face. "Gods."

If Alden was alive—if his severed hand was still reacting to magic—then that meant something far worse than death had happened to him.

It meant someone had taken him apart piece by piece—and left his body alive to suffer through it.

"We're in deep shit," Kieran muttered.

They didn't have time to sit around.

Kieran wrapped the hand back up and shoved it into his satchel. "Alright. We find a place to lay low, then figure out how to get this curse off."

She was staring at him with that same sharp, calculating look she'd had since the moment they met.

"…You're not asking why I have it."

Kieran sighed. "I assume the answer's either 'bad luck' or 'horrible life choices.'"

"…You're a warlock, aren't you?"

The word hung in the air, heavy between them.

But she'd seen the way his curse had reacted to the Thorned Lords. She'd seen the way they had recognized him.

Isolde watched him for a long moment.

Then, to his surprise, she relaxed.

"Good," she muttered. "Because if we're going to survive this, I'm going to need a warlock."

But before she could answer, something slammed against the tannery door.

BOOM!

The door burst open behind them, revealing a figure wreathed in living thorns.

Kieran barely caught a glimpse of glowing red eyes before the vines lashed out like a striking viper—

The Thorned Lords (3)