The Thorn Protects the Rose

Chapter 1

MONDAY MORNING

Reality slammed into her like a physical blow. Elara bolted upright, her hands clawing at her throat as if to tear away the phantom heat still searing her windpipe. It felt like she’d been swallowing molten lead; she choked, forcing the bitter surge of bile back down a throat that felt raw and blistered.

She scanned the room, her eyes wide and bloodshot, half-expecting to see the charred skeletal remains of her life. Instead, there was only the sunlight—lethargic and sickeningly bright—cutting through the air in heavy, dust-choked beams. The scent of aged mahogany, usually a sanctuary, now felt suffocating, failing to mask the acrid stench of burning ash that clung to the inside of her nose like a rot.

She was heaving, her chest arching with every ragged, desperate pull of air. Beneath her ribs, her heart thrashed, a panicked animal trapped in a cage of bone. She stayed there, suspended in the wreckage of her own nerves, waiting for the world to stop smelling like her own funeral.

“Lyra?!” The name was a jagged wreck of a sound, torn from a throat that felt like it had been scraped raw by the dream-smoke.

As the high-frequency ringing in her ears finally dulled, the silence of the room rushed in—heavy and oppressive. There was no morning bustle, no familiar sound of shuffling draws and books. Elara’s eyes, still stinging from phantom ash, tracked a thin sliver of light from beneath the bathroom door. The muffled, rhythmic patter of the shower was the only thing anchoring her to the present. She collapsed back against the headboard, the air leaving her lungs in a shaky, nauseating shudder. She wasn't holding her breath; her body had simply forgotten how to use it.

She couldn't hear. The water was a wall between them, leaving Elara alone with the wreckage of her own mind. She pressed her palm against her ribs, trying to still the frantic, ugly thudding of her heart.

Get it together, she hissed at her reflection in the dim light. It was a dream. Calm the f**k down.

The memory of the throne is so vivid I can still taste the opulence, yet here I am, brittle and cold. The dream was so beautiful… but then why does waking feel like a slow, suffocating interment?

She tried to recall the rest of the dream, but it was fading fast, like trying to grasp mist. It was frustrating as hell. She wiped sweat from her brow with the back of her hand and realized she was still shaking. The water stopped, and she heard Lyra get out of the shower. Elara jerked her head back and forth.

Focus. Just move on.

Trying to get out of bed, instead she stayed anchored there, her eyes fixed on the bathroom door until the world stopped spinning. She had to move. The university didn’t reward ghosts, and it certainly didn't tolerate weakness from a Thorne. She had to exhume herself from this bed and piece together the Elara Thorne the world expected—the one with the iron-clad GPA and the effortless, high-born grace. Glancing at the clock on her nightstand, her irritation grew as she realized she had slept through her alarm. Class was in ten minutes.

"Damnit Ly! Why didn't you wake me up?!" She swung her legs over the side of the mattress, her bare feet hitting the floorboards with a cold, unforgiving jolt. It felt like stepping onto a frost-covered grave. Every muscle protested, heavy with the phantom exhaustion of an unseen war she had fought in her sleep. She dragged herself toward her computer desk, catching her reflection in the mirror beside it looking like a stranger—eyes bloodshot, skin sallow and slick with the cold grease of a night-terror.

Lyra’s voice drifted through the bathroom door, airy and relaxed—a warm Australian lilt that felt like a jagged contrast to the cold, dead stillness of Elara’s skin. “You were sleepin’ so soundly, babe!” Lyra chuckled, the sound muffled by the wall behind her. “I even tried to wake ya—chucked Mr. Wiggles right onto your chest. You didn’t even flinch. Reckon you were dead to the world!”

The blow-dryer cut on, a ringing sound that clawed at Elara’s ears. Dead to the world. The phrase hit a raw, infected nerve. She narrowed her eyes at the reflection in the mirror, her grip tightening on her brush until her knuckles threatened to split the skin.

A low, gravelly “Mrreow” broke the tension. The plump black and white cat wove through the legs of the desk and began to rub against her ankles, his fur soft and grounding. Elara leaned down, her movements stiff, and buried her fingers into his thick coat. He started to purr, a rhythmic, mechanical vibration that rattled against the hollow ache in her own chest.

"You're lucky you're cute," she murmured, but she only managed a half smile. She didn't feel the warmth of the moment; she only felt the terrifying reality that even her familiar—her own blood-bound companion—hadn't been able to pull her out of the fire. She stood, the mask sliding back into place as she forced down the darkness and turned away from the cat, her expression hardening into the practiced, porcelain indifference that defined her life.

She shed the sweat-soaked remains of her nightdress and, with a sharp flick of her wrist, levitated her skirt, knee-high socks, and suitable white corset into place. She moved with a jagged, unnatural precision, watching in the mirror as the charcoal fabric and her emerald green cloak adorned with gold embellishments settled over her frame. She spritzed her wrists with lavender—not for the scent, but for the chemical dampening of her frayed nerves.

Her armour fully in place, she took one final check, tucking back a loose lock of hair, before turning around to see Lyra emerge from the bathroom, a chaotic force of floral steam and impossible, bubbly energy. She was already armored in her own way: velvet-embossed purple cloak, tucked violet blouse, ebony skin glowing, and the right half of her face free from her curls that were pinned back in a style that screamed confidence. She looked like she had never spent a night shivering in the wreckage of her own psyche.

"Ready to face the lions?" Lyra chirped, beckoning her purse with a casual grace. Her books, an excessive library she refused to leave behind, flew into the bag with a synchronized click. She had enchanted it to carry practically anything of any size or quantity without being heavier than the simple brown cross-body itself.

Elara gave one stiff nod. She gripped the strap of her cat-shaped purse—a final, childish tether to the person she used to be—and shrunk her textbooks with a precise, cold flick of emerald magic. They shrank until they were tiny, weightless blocks, disappearing into the black bag. She looked at Lyra’s bright, unsuspecting smile and forced her own into existence. It was a practiced, porcelain curve that didn't reach her mossy green eyes.

"Right then," Lyra said, her voice dropping its chirpy facade for something steadier, grounding. She didn't buy the performance; her gaze lingered on Elara’s face, searching for a crack. "Reckon you want to take us, or should I do the honors?"

Elara exhaled, the sound trembling as she let down her guard slightly. She reached out, her fingers lacing with Lyra’s. "Go ahead, Ly," she whispered, her face softening. "I just... I need to move. We can do a post-mortem at lunch.”

Lyra didn’t move immediately. She offered a long, heavy look; a silent promise of sanctuary. Elara felt the heat prickle behind her ears, but she didn't recoil. She leaned into the weight of her friend’s concern for a heartbeat before turning the guise back on, squeezing her hand and then letting go.

Lyra’s hand swept through the air, and the room violetly inverted. The stale, ash-choked air of the dorm was ripped away, replaced by the sterile chill of the homeroom vault. They stumbled across the threshold, Elara’s balance failing her as the magical transit pulled at her already shredded nerves. A fine, violet dust clung to their cloaks, shimmering like toxic spores in the morning light before fading away entirely.

They were late. The entire class—a gallery of polished, expectant faces—snapped toward the sound of their arrival. The heavy oak door slammed shut with a finality that resonated like a strike to the back, and Professor Eldridge’s voice boomed through the space, too loud, too sharp, cutting through Elara's throbbing temples.

"So glad you could join us, ladies." Professor Eldridge’s voice was a low, resonant drawl that didn't quite hide the sharp edge of his displeasure. His gaze locked onto Elara, his eyes narrowing. "Ms. Thorne."

Elara met his stare, forcing her chin up. She took in the architecture of his face—the rigid, authoritative mask he wore like a second skin, the salt-and-pepper shadow of his beard groomed to a razor’s edge, and those dark brown eyes that held layers of centuries-old secrets.

"You out of anyone should know that if you're not five minutes early—"

The corner of her mouth barely flinched, a slight malfunction in the roboticism of her facade. She remained still and professional while addressing him with the cold, flat voice of a perfectly practiced doll. "—you're late. Sorry, professor, we have no excuse." Beside her, Lyra shifted, her brow creasing with a flicker of genuine alarm—she knew Elara better than anyone, and this jagged edge in her voice was new. She nudged Elara toward the circle of students, her touch light, as if she were trying to guide a wounded animal without spooking it.

"Alright then." Began Prof. Eldridge, "As you know we've been practicing our shape shifting magic with humanoid forms this past week, as well as minor summoning spells. Today we'll begin with another practice round of shape shifting, and Friday will be your practical test. For this test you must maintain the shifted form you have chosen, while summoning a minor object such as a pencil or a desk lamp. I'll give you the first half of class to get this extra practice in, and the remaining time after lunch we will start familiarizing ourselves with the transition to moderate summoning. Ms Thorne,"

Elara offered a stiff nod, though the familiar spark of their rivalry felt dampened, like a fuse trying to light in a downpour. Usually, his relentless needling was the whetstone she used to sharpen her own resolve—a constant invitation to remind him exactly why she was indispensable. Today, however, the world felt slightly out of phase. The satisfaction she usually found in the chase was absent, replaced by a hollow ache that made his voice sound like grinding glass. Something was fundamentally fractured in the rhythm of the day, and she didn't have the energy to mend it.

“You will lead us in today's practice.” He continued. “I assume you've already chosen a form?”

Elara cringed inwardly. Every nerve in her body was still vibrating from the morning’s nightmare, and the weight of the Thorne legacy felt like a physical yoke across her shoulders.

Internally, she was screaming for a moment of silence, but externally, she performed the only role she knew. She forced a confident smirk—the one she had practiced in the mirror until it was as rigid as a shield. She relaxed her shoulders, masking the tremor in her hands by tucking them briefly into the folds of her emerald green cloak.

"Yes, I have," she said. Her voice was steady, a masterpiece of defiant indifference, but to her own ears, it sounded like it was being squeezed through a throat still raw from a restless sleep.

Eldridge smiled. “Whenever you're ready.”

He was watching her closely. Those dark brown eyes, usually full of "bad dad jokes," were narrowed just a fraction. He saw the slight pallor of her skin beneath her makeup—a crack in the armour he had helped her forge. Beside her, Lyra’s breath hitched, a tiny sound of genuine alarm that no one else in the vault could hear.

Elara stepped into the center of the circle, her flats clicking with jagged, unnatural precision against the stone. She breathed in, but instead of the sterile chill of the classroom, she tasted sharp, stagnant air.

She leaned down and swirled her hands at her feet. Usually, her magic was a soft green, but today it felt gritty, like sand in an engine. The emerald mist that formed was thicker than usual, clinging to her skin with a desperate, cloying heat.

As she ran her hands up her legs and torso, she felt the magic cauterize her human form, ripping it away to make room for the beast. She moved past her chest quickly, her internal pressure spiking as she felt the eyes of the class on her.

When the shift was finished, the female wolf stood bipedal in her refined business suit. The fur was thick and grey, a stark contrast to the ashen fabric of her suit. She stood proudly, her tail a lusciously furry anchor at the base of her spine.

Several classmates laughed and clapped. To them, it was a brilliant, quirky performance—the top student showing off her range.

But behind the yellow-gold eyes of the wolf, Elara was drowning. Holding the form felt like trying to hoist a cinder block with her mind. The applause felt hollow, a distant noise echoing in a room that felt alien.

The professor looked a bit flustered, but continued. "Ah.. well an interesting choice, well done!" He clapped his hands as well, then gestured for her to step aside. "Now remain in that form for about thirty minutes. The rest of you, let's see it."

Elara moved to the edge of the circle, she watched with glassed-over eyes as the others shifted, one by one. Laura, a skinny brunette with an affinity for makeup, chose to take the form of a rabbit, which got a suggestive whistle from her boyfriend, Denmark—a tall, muscular man with dirty blonde hair. She stepped to the side and winked at him. Elara mentally rolled her eyes.

Russell, a short, slightly plump man with black hair already receding from his forehead, stood next. He chose a frog—no surprise there, he loved frogs—and his shift was a bit slow. Next was Denmark, who surprisingly chose the form of a cocker spaniel. It was a bit sloppy. He yipped at Laura, who giggled and ruffled the fur on his head as he stood beside her. The corner of Elara’s mouth twitched upward, not at the exchange between the two, but at the execution of his shift, and the fact that while doing all that, his form had started to melt along the edges.

Lyra was next. She turned her hand movements into a dance as purple magic surrounded her, making iridescent feathers sprout forth all over her body. She grew a yellow beak, colored feathers around her eyes resembling Broadway makeup, and a lovely big fan of colorful feathers. A peacock. She was beautiful, it was a brief, grounding moment. Elara let out a low, wolfish huff that served as a cheer, but her mossy green eyes remained brittle and cold. The rest of the class took their turns—it all felt like a fairytale play performed on the edge of an abyss.

Professor Eldridge smiled wide and clapped. "Yes! Well done everyone!" He said "It seems that you're beginning to get a good grasp of this exercise." Eldridge moved around the circle studying the various forms and noting each hardship, instructing a few students who had a particularly hard time with it.

Elara stood perfectly still at her desk, her wolf-claws digging into the mahogany.

"Alright," Eldridge announced after what felt like an eternity. "That’s thirty minutes. You may release your forms and begin the theory review minor summons."

Around the room, the tension snapped. Laura’s rabbit ears vanished into her brunette curls; Denmark’s spaniel-flecked fur smoothed back into a human frame with a relieved huff. Even Russell let out a wet croak of relief as his frog-features dissolved.

But Elara didn't move.

She heard the rustle of textbooks, but the world felt off-kilter. The grey fur and the sturdy, lupine jaw felt more real to her than the copper-haired girl who had woken up like a rising corpse.

"Ms. Thorne?" Eldridge’s voice was low. He was standing just a few feet away, his dark brown eyes searching the wolf’s yellow-gold gaze.

Beside her, Lyra didn't shift back either. Her iridescent peacock feathers shimmered with a purple hue. "Elle?" she whispered, her voice a tiny sound of genuine alarm.

The sound of her friend pulled Elara back from the abyss. She forced a sharp, cold exhale, and the emerald magic receded like a retreating tide. She stood there in her neutral attire, her skin feeling too vulnerable.

"I was just... testing the limits of my stamina," The top student lie came easily.

For the next hour, the room was a blur of ink and parchment. Elara stared at her notes, pretending to read. Her mind was filled with a cacophony of questions that she knew she wouldn’t find in her textbook.

Finally, the statue of a crow on a pedestal next to the door came to life and cawed five times before it turned back into stone********** the end of the morning’s torture.

"Alright, that's lunch!" stated the professor.

The room erupted into the chaotic noise of shuffling feet and slamming books. Elara didn't rush for the door. She stayed anchored to her desk for a heartbeat too long, waiting for the room to finally quiet. She had survived the morning.