A Crown of Thorns

"What?" I said, startled. He couldn't be serious. "You're joking, right?"

But he didn't laugh. He didn't even flinch. He just looked at me—steady, unblinking—with eyes that somehow saw through me, like he already knew the answer I was afraid to say.

I always wanted to. Not in a loud, dramatic way. Just… quietly. To slip away. To wake up somewhere else, someone else. Somewhere, I wasn't afraid to go home. Somewhere, I didn't have to pretend I was fine when everything was broken.

But I couldn't.

Not when she was still here.

Not when leaving meant he'd turn his fists on her instead.

I paused, my thoughts spiraling into silence. The wind tugged gently at my sleeves, the city lights flickering below us like a pulse.

Even though there was a part of me—ashamed, guilty—that just wanted to walk away and never come back. Let her take the blows. Let someone else carry it. But I never could.

"Yes," I said at last. I looked up at the sky and closed my eyes, like I was making a wish. Like saying it could somehow make it come true.

And then—something strange.

A soft poke against my back. Like a finger pressing gently, deliberately.

"Well then," he said.

And everything vanished.

—

When I opened my eyes, I was lying on something soft. A bed. But not mine. The ceiling above me wasn't the cracked plaster of home—it was smooth, grand, almost regal—marble white with intricate gold inlays, like something from a historical movie. My hands sank into silk sheets. The air smelled of lavender and polished wood.

I sat up quickly, alarmed.

This wasn't my room. This wasn't my world.

I looked down at myself. My limbs were smaller. My skin is smoother. Did I… shrink?

The clothes I wore were soft and unfamiliar—simple, but comfortable. Like sleepwear from another century.

I turned and caught sight of a tall, ornate mirror across the massive room. My bare feet padded over the cold marble floor as I rushed to it. I stumbled to a stop in front of the glass.

A child stared back at me.

Strawberry-blonde curls framed her delicate face. Her eyes—my eyes—were bright blue, wide with confusion. I leaned closer. She did the same.

That's me? But younger.

Fifteen? maybe. My heart twisted.

A sharp knock startled me.

"Young Miss," came a voice through the enormous, marble-inlaid door. "My lord has asked you to visit your parents' grave."

The door creaked open. A woman in a modest dress stepped in, flanked by several other maids. They didn't wait. Before I could even react, they crossed the room, lifted me gently as if it were routine, and carried me behind a second door near the bed.

There, they began to undress me. My protests froze in my throat. It wasn't violent—but practiced, rehearsed, like they'd done this hundreds of times.

While they filled a huge porcelain tub with steaming water poured from kettles, they added oils and scattered rose petals. The scent was intoxicating. They bathed me with quiet efficiency, then dried me and dressed me in a rose-gold gown that shimmered softly in the morning light—far too formal for what I assumed was still early.

Once I was dressed, they cleaned the room as if by silent command. One laid out a plate of delicate pastries on a table near the window.

Then, just as swiftly as they came, they left.

And I remained there—frozen on the cold floor—unable to move, unable to breathe.

What kind of world had I fallen into?

And who exactly was I in this place?

Suddenly, the marble door creaked open again, but this time, there was only one man who entered the room.

"I'm your escort, my lady. Follow me, and I'll lead you to my lord," he said, bowing slightly, his posture rigid in the way only knights and soldiers seemed to carry themselves. His armor glinted softly in the dim light as he straightened, the sword at his waist clinking with each movement.

His calm demeanor contrasted sharply with the confusion churning in my gut. A knight? My lord? The words sounded foreign on my lips, like they didn't belong to me.

I couldn't help but stare at him—tall, composed, with sharp features and a face that held no hint of emotion. He didn't seem fazed by my disorientation or the fact that I wasn't entirely sure of where I was or who I was supposed to be.

I stood there for a long moment, my body frozen, while my mind raced with questions I couldn't answer. What is this place? Why am I here?

But then, a sense of curiosity pushed me to move. Without a word, I walked past him, careful to keep my distance, trying to avoid the growing unease that made my heart beat faster with every step. He followed me without hesitation, his presence a constant reminder that I wasn't in control of anything here.

As I walked down the grand hallway, I deliberately slowed my pace, wanting him to walk beside me so I could follow where we were headed. With this tiny body it time feels like it slows down, as if I could delay whatever awaited me at the end of this path. The walls around me were lined with tapestries depicting scenes I couldn't place—some of knights on horseback, others of battles and feasts. Each step echoed in the silence of the corridor, my shoes tapping against the marble floors with an odd sense of finality.

My mind began to spiral, overthinking everything.

Who is this lord?

What is my relationship to him?

Why does this feel like I'm being led to some inevitable meeting?

The corridor stretched on endlessly, but the weight of the situation hung heavy in the air. I caught glimpses of people—servants, guards—who seemed to move with purpose but barely acknowledged my presence. I wondered if they even recognized me, or if I was just another figure in the vast, impersonal world that this place seemed to be.

Finally, we stopped in front of a pair of massive doors, even grander than the ones to my room. The escort bowed once again.

"My lord awaits inside," he said, his voice as detached as ever.

I took a deep breath and pushed the door open. My pulse quickened, but I walked in, knowing I couldn't turn back now. Inside, the room was a garden filled with large glass windows, full of flowers and plants that I had never seen before in my life.

As I wandered through the quiet garden, the air hung heavy with the scent of damp earth and fading roses. My steps slowed when I caught sight of a boy seated on the ground beneath the drooping branches of an ancient willow. He looked like something out of a storybook—clad in garments of silver threaded with golden essence, regal in bearing despite the sorrow that clung to him like a second skin.

He sat in silence between two stone graves.

When he noticed me, his expression softened. A small, wistful smile touched his lips.

"Lily, come here," he called gently, beckoning me closer with a graceful hand.

Curiosity guided my steps. I approached, my gaze drawn to the names etched into the stone.

Charlotte Hartwell, it read. The Duchess of Hartwell. And beneath it, scrawled in a cruel hand: I hope you rot in hell. You deserve to die.

Beside her lay Asher Hartwell. The Duke of Hartwell. Below his name: The worst Duke of Hartwell. I hope you'll rot in hell forever.

I stared, stunned by the venom carved into marble. And yet… a strange sorrow stirred in me. I didn't know these people, not truly, but something in me ached for them.

Then the boy, his voice steadier than his young years should allow, spoke again.

"Lily, you are the only family I have left. Now that our father is dead, I'm to inherit the title. I will become the Duke of Hartwell." His hand found my shoulder, firm with resolve. "The kingdom loathes our name. Father's business partners are withdrawing. They want to see us fall apart."

His eyes burned with determination. "But I won't let that happen. I won't let our family collapse. We will rise again. The glory of House Hartwell will return."

He took my hand in his small, trembling one. "You are Lily Evangeline Hartwell, and I am Julian Theodore Hartwell. We are Hartwells, and together, we will overcome this. Do you understand, sister?"

His voice wavered at the end—not with fear, but with the desperate hope only a child could carry. He looked at me not just for reassurance, but for something deeper—for proof that they hadn't lost everything. That he wasn't alone.

I gave him a soft, steady smile, one I hoped would quiet the storm behind his eyes.

We sat there in silence, side by side at the foot of our parents' graves, the earth still raw and uneven where they had been buried. The tombstones stood stark and new, their cruel inscriptions still ringing in my ears, but my thoughts had already begun to drift.

Lily Evangeline Hartwell.

The name echoed in my mind, sharp and familiar.

That's why this body feels so familiar to me. Why the garden, the house, even Julian's face stir memories I never lived.

Because I've read this story before.

The Crown Prince and His Wife—that's the name of the novel. And I… I'm the female lead. The tragic heroine. The duchess's daughter. The future consort of the crown prince.

I wasn't supposed to be her. And yet, somehow, I am.

This is the story of a kingdom forged by tradition and shaken by ambition—of a boy born beneath the weight of a crown, and the girl who was never meant to stand at his side.

Alistair Lysoria, the firstborn son of the King of Lysoria, came into the world under a shadow. His mother was a concubine, a woman of common birth with no noble blood to her name. But in Lysoria, the law is clear: the firstborn son, regardless of their mother's status, shall inherit the crown.

So it was that Alistair became the Crown Prince, and his mother, once cast aside and whispered about in courtly circles, was named Queen. The first queen vanished quietly, without mention or mourning, leaving behind two daughters. The eldest, proud and cunning, would grow to be Alistair's greatest enemy.

From the very beginning, the noblemen despised Alistair. To them, he was an affront to their bloodlines, a stain on the throne. They sought his downfall at every turn, plotting his execution in whispers and shadows. But the boy had one true friend: Julian Theodore Hartwell, the young Duke of Hartwell—loyal, brilliant, and fiercely protective.

Their friendship became legend.

But Alistair's heart belonged to another—Lily Hartwell, Julian's younger sister. She was the only light in his cruel world, the only person who saw the boy behind the crown.

Julian, however, did not share his friend's hopes. Fearing for his sister's future, or perhaps for reasons he dared not name, he sent Lily away to study abroad—far from the court, far from Alistair. In doing so, he became a quiet villain in the tale, the man who stood between two hearts bound by fate.

Years passed. Julian's secrets caught up with him. Arrested and banished from the kingdom, his influence fell like ash. And so, Lily returned—older, wiser, and drawn once more into the orbit of the Crown Prince she once loved.

But I am Lily Evangeline Hartwell. And I do not want to be his wife.

Fury burned in my chest as I stormed down the long marble corridor, my footsteps echoing through the silence like war drums. Each step was a declaration—I will not belong to him.

The very thought made my skin crawl. Alistair Lysoria—a prince, yes, but also a manipulative, silver-tongued menace who shadowed Lily's move. He played the part of the devoted suitor, hiding behind a mask of charm and false innocence. But I knew better. I saw through the smiles, the carefully chosen words. He claimed it was love. Maybe it was—but it didn't feel like love to me. It felt like control, like he was weaving a story where Lily had no say. And somehow, Lily kept falling for the illusion.

And all the while, I was left to wonder why my brother, Julian, had been cast from the kingdom like a criminal. Alistair never spoke of it—not really. He only offered vague excuses, quiet sighs, and that same sorrowful look, as if he mourned something he'd helped destroy. He was fully convinced that Julian was a criminal. Or at least, that's what he wanted Lily to believe.

Because he knew the truth would shatter Lily. But I know there must be another reason. And the more I think about it, the more wary I grow of Alistair.

I despise him for that.

And now... now I am to be his bride?

The thought churns in my stomach like poison. I would give anything to return to the quiet simplicity of the life I once knew—before the palace, before the politics, before him.

Lost in my thoughts, I didn't even realize I'd reached my chamber door until my fingers brushed the cold brass handle. I froze, breath catching, fury simmering just beneath my skin.

I may be destined to wear a crown.

But I will not wear it quietly.