The Weight of the Thorned Crown

The parliament square reeked of ancient blood rust seeping through cobblestone cracks. Ayla's heel caught in a fissure, recalling Lila's words three days prior in the infirmary: "Thorns must pierce palms to bloom." Seventeen hybrid students trembled in a semicircle before her, the frontmost boy's hands—still gashed from gathering roses—cradling a wild briar crown.

"They call this treason evidence," the lead girl quavered, the silver wreath tangled with thorns glinting cold in twilight. "But you said deeper cuts mean stronger scent."

As Ayla's fingertips grazed the crown's edge, the council clocktower struck nine. Guards' spiked boots clattered like wolves gnawing bone. The captain's wolf-head crest bore dried jam stains—the same shade as blood from the slum riots.

(Thorns pricked her palm as a hidden compartment clicked open beneath clock chimes)

"Back!" The guard's chain-whip lashed out. Ayla pressed the crown to her chest. Thorns pierced her blouse, releasing lily-of-the-valley scent—Lila's tenth-birthday hairbell nestled in the rose stem's groove, its clapper etched with Selena's runes.

Petals exploded under stomping boots. Kneeling, Ayla sliced her knee on shards—remnants of Lucas' shattered inspector badge from last night. She gathered bloodied petals, each背面 needle-etched with student initials. The one nearest the stem bore cerulean lubricant stains.

"Give it up, princess." The captain crushed the last petal, his sole clinging to Lila's clinic flyer scraps. "Think weeds can forge a crown?"

Lucas' shadow bisected the wreckage. His boot halted half an inch from debris, joint motors five seconds slower than usual—Ayla counted, like counting the torn seventh page in last night's log.

(The bell resonated, syncing with his mechanical heart's arrhythmia)

"Done scavenging?" His voice reeked of overheated coolant. "Medics clear the square in ten. Be glad they skipped silver bullets."

She pocketed the final three petals, fingers brushing her mother's lab keychip—extracted from her sakura necklace at dawn. Deliberately smearing bloody palms against his prosthetic hand, lubricant-blood droplets hit the bell. Runes glowed with Selena's handwriting: "Wolves never kneel."

Glass shattered from a side entrance. Students formed a human chain as Lila's wheelchair crashed through planters, her ravaged vocal cords rasping: "Don't...touch...sister's..."

An engraved dagger slid from the wheelchair's armrest—hilt patterns matching the crown's thorns. Ayla lunged as Lucas' prosthetic yanked the chair back—exposing his new surveillance implant's code matching Selena's vault combination.

"Enough!" His roar activated fountain security. Holograms of a thirty-year-old hybrid revolt flooded the water screen—young Selena crowning Lila's mother with an identical wreath. The bell seared Ayla's palm.

Rain lashed without warning. Students scattered under water cannons. Huddled behind a statue, Ayla found microfilm inside the bell—a six-year-old Lila in a family portrait, Selena's finger pressing her sister's wolf-brand.

(She slipped the film into his heart's vent as inspection lasers scanned them)

"Final warning." His boot crushed the last rose, raindrops dripping onto her torn sleeve. "Go near Lila again, I'll cuff you myself."

Ayla ripped her soaked collar, exposing fresh thorn gashes. "Like you 'personally' erased the surveillance feeds?"

As guard wolves howled, she found the crown base's hidden bulge—pressing it ejected not the bell, but half a yellowed birth certificate. The father's column bore the Neumann crest; the mother's, Selena's blood oath.

Music box rewind melodies twined with the bell's hum from the clocktower—mimicking Lila's coma whisper: "Sister...wrong..."