A Taste of Thorns

The hallway smelled of dried roses and old secrets.

Seraphina paused outside the study door, her fingers grazing the worn edge of the wood. The wallpaper behind her curled at the corners, lifting like old scars too stubborn to heal. In the dim glow of the chandelier above, her silhouette looked like it had been carved from regret and rebellion.

"You don't have to go in," Everion said behind her. His voice was low, cautious, as if he feared it might shatter something between them.

She didn't look at him. "If I don't… he wins."

"Does he?" Everion stepped forward, the space between them buzzing. "Or are we all just moving in his shadow, thinking we're the ones casting it?"

Seraphina's lips parted slightly. There was always something unnerving about how he could read her—a knowing that didn't belong to this world, or maybe did… but only the cruel parts.

She didn't answer. She simply pushed the door open.

The study smelled of aged paper, spiced brandy, and something more acidic—like fear left too long in a sealed jar.

Father sat at the desk, pen in hand, scribbling in the black ledger he guarded like a lover. His gold spectacles slid halfway down his nose. He didn't look up when she entered.

"Close the door behind you, Seraphina," he said, voice crisp as frost.

She obeyed, her spine straightening. Everion lingered outside for a breath before the door latched shut, sealing her in with a ghost who had never died.

"You've been busy," he said finally, still not looking up. "The garden witch. The summoning. The library. The throne room."

"I don't need your approval," she said coolly. "Or your permission."

"No," he said, dipping his pen into ink. "But you'll need my forgiveness. And that's a rarer thing."

She circled the desk slowly. "Forgiveness? For what? Surviving your curse? For daring to remember what you made me forget?"

His hand froze mid-sentence. Then, he looked up.

The eyes that met hers were not those of a father. They were the eyes of a king long dethroned but still drunk on imagined power. Cold, calculating… and utterly unfazed by her fire.

"You still don't understand, do you?" he said softly. "You think this is about control. About memory. About power. But Seraphina, what I gave you wasn't a curse. It was freedom."

She laughed—a bitter, metallic sound. "Freedom? You erased my mind, carved out pieces of my soul, and left me with shadows. That's not freedom. That's butchery dressed as mercy."

He stood slowly, hands clasped behind his back. "I gave you silence, child. You were drowning in the noise of your own destruction. I silenced it. You're welcome."

Seraphina stepped closer, close enough to see the ink staining the creases of his fingers. "You didn't do it for me. You did it to control what I knew."

He tilted his head. "And what is it you think you know now?"

"That the Blood Pact isn't dead," she said, voice low and dangerous. "And you're not the only one pulling strings. There are others. And they remember what I was made to forget."

The silence between them turned sharp. It sliced through the air, lacing every breath with threat.

"And have you also remembered what you were?" he asked.

Her jaw clenched.

Because she had. In fragments. In flashes. In dreams that left her gasping and ashamed.

She had remembered power. Hunger. A kiss in a blood-drenched hall. A blade in her hand and laughter in her throat.

"Yes," she whispered. "And I am no longer afraid of her."

Father smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.

"Then we are doomed."

Outside the study, Everion leaned against the cold wall, arms crossed, listening.

He didn't need to press his ear to the wood. The tension inside was thick enough to pulse through stone. He heard her voice—steady, cutting—and Father's, calm as a guillotine.

"She's changing," came a voice beside him.

He turned. Idrien leaned against the opposite wall, shadowed in his usual cloak of disdain and mystery.

"I thought you were with the council," Everion muttered.

"I was. Then I realized nothing they say matters if she doesn't survive tonight."

Everion's brows knitted. "What are you talking about?"

Idrien tilted his head. "There's something coming. A reckoning. You can feel it, can't you?"

Everion did. It was in the way the air refused to settle. The way the shadows in the corridors seemed to move when no one was watching.

"She needs us," Everion said.

Idrien gave a short laugh. "She doesn't need anyone. But she'll bleed all the same."

Inside the study, Seraphina's fists were clenched.

"I don't care what doom you speak of," she said. "I won't let you bury me in silence again. I'm not your pawn."

"You never were," Father said quietly. "You were the queen. But even queens fall."

She moved to speak, but he raised a hand—and for the first time, she felt it again. That pulse. That invisible leash that once yanked her mind into darkness.

But this time… it didn't work.

She blinked. Straightened. And smiled.

"Not anymore," she said.

His eyes widened.

The room trembled faintly—books shifting, a chandelier creaking. Seraphina's hair lifted with an unseen wind. Magic surged, wild and angry and alive.

"You sealed part of me away," she said. "But you forgot something."

"What?"

"You taught me how to survive."

She turned and walked to the door, her steps loud in the echoing silence. As she opened it, the energy snapped back into stillness, the tension hissing away like smoke.

Father stood alone in the shadows.

Outside, Everion and Idrien looked up as the door opened.

Seraphina stepped out. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes fever-bright.

"She knows," Idrien said softly.

Everion moved to her. "What did he do?"

"Nothing he'll get to do again," she said.

But her hand was trembling, just slightly, where it hung at her side. Everion reached out and took it.

She didn't pull away.

They didn't speak as they walked. The hall swallowed their footsteps, leaving only Idrien behind, watching with the weariness of someone who had seen too many wars begin with moments like this.

That night, she couldn't sleep.

Seraphina stood by the balcony, eyes on the moon. Its light painted silver on her bare shoulders, tracing old scars and new ones yet to form.

Everion lay on the bed behind her, shirtless, propped on one elbow. He didn't speak. He just watched her.

"You don't have to stay," she said, not turning.

"I know."

Silence stretched.

"I remembered something else," she said. "Something from before."

He sat up. "What was it?"

"A boy. A blood ritual. A promise." She turned now, eyes unreadable. "You were there."

Everion didn't flinch. "I was."

"And you lied to me."

"I did."

She walked to the bed and sat at the edge. "Why?"

"Because if you knew the truth, you would've hated me."

She met his eyes. "And now?"

He reached for her hand, threading his fingers through hers.

"I don't care if you hate me. I just want you to survive it."

The next morning, the court was humming with whispers.

The Lady of Thorns had returned.

But not everyone would survive her blooming.