Queen of Thorns

Roses and Requiems

Power feels different when the blood dries.

In daylight, the crown isn't made of gold — it's made of choices.

Each one sharp as a blade.

And tonight, my hands must decide who bleeds.

In the King’s study, ancient dust coats leather-bound ledgers.

Rayyan and Zayn stand guard at the door.

Roman leans against the hearth, arms folded, gaze locked on me.

“What exactly are you looking for?” Roman asks quietly.

“Truth,” I murmur, fingers tracing cracked spines. “Or what’s left of it.”

The Ashen King hid everything behind ciphers and riddles.

But I learned something in killing him:

Men like him can’t resist writing down the worst of themselves.

My fingers stop on a thin black journal, bound in snake skin.

Inside, the ink smells old — iron, salt, and something like regret.

The words stab like thorns:

“If my enemies fail to destroy me, the truth will.

The girl must never know what binds her to the House.

If she learns, even love will turn to ash.”

My throat tightens.

“Roman,” I whisper, voice trembling. “What did he mean?”

Roman doesn’t answer.

His silence is heavy — and loud.

“Roman,” I say again, sharper now. “Tell me.”

“Zara—” His jaw locks, pain behind his eyes.

“Tell me!” I demand, voice cracking.

He bows his head.

“You were more than his heir,” Roman says hoarsely.

“He tied your blood to his power — a ritual. If you die, the House fractures. The families revolt.”

The words fall on me like cold rain.

“So they don’t kneel for me,” I breathe. “They kneel because they have to.”

Roman steps forward, voice raw.

“No,” he says. “They kneel because you’ve earned it. But yes — your blood seals the House. Without you, it burns.”

“And you knew?” I whisper.

His silence is answer enough.

“You knew,” I say again, voice shaking. “All this time, you knew I was his last lock on power.”

“I did,” Roman whispers. “And I still chose you.”

Silence.

Long. Heavy. Unforgiving.

“Do you hate me for it?” he asks, almost a whisper.

My heart twists.

“No,” I breathe. “I hate him for making it necessary.”

Zayn knocks softly.

“Sorry,” he says. “Council awaits, Zara.”

Roman starts to speak, but I hold up a hand.

“Later,” I say coldly. “Right now, the House must see a Queen. Not a broken girl.”

And I leave him standing in the ruin of truths.

The council hall smells of wax and iron.

Twelve heads turn toward me — their new Queen.

Rayyan leans lazily against the wall, eyes watchful.

Zayn stands behind my chair, silent as death.

Roman enters last, shadow at my shoulder.

“Two border families refuse tribute,” reports the woman with gray braids. “They call your rule ‘illegitimate.’”

“And the rest?” I ask.

“Watching,” she says. “Waiting to see if you have teeth.”

“Then let them see,” I say, voice calm as poison.

“Send word: loyalty buys protection. Defiance buys graves.”

The silver-cane lord speaks.

“And if they still resist?”

“Then we burn their fields,” I answer coldly. “And salt the ash.”

Rayyan’s mouth quirks in dark amusement.

“The dark rose learns to bite,” he murmurs.

Outside, Roman stops me on the balcony.

“You mean to destroy them all?” he asks.

“I mean to rule,” I answer. “Or die trying.”

“I won’t let you die,” he says fiercely.

“And I won’t let you stop me,” I whisper.

Our eyes lock.

There’s no softness left — only flame and steel.

That night, I return to the King’s study alone.

The fire burns low.

The journal lies open where I left it.

And at the end, scrawled in trembling ink, I find this:

“She will love the wolf I gave her.

But wolves remember the leash.”

The door opens.

Roman steps in, gaze guarded.

“You shouldn’t be alone,” he murmurs.

“Neither should you,” I say quietly.

I show him the words.

“Is it true?” I ask. “That he gave me you?”

Roman’s breath catches.

“At first,” he admits. “I was his weapon, placed at your side. To watch. To kill, if needed.”

“And now?” I ask.

“Now,” he breathes, voice cracking, “I would kill the world before I let them take you.”

“Then swear it,” I whisper, stepping closer.

His eyes darken, pain and hunger swirling.

“Zara—”

“Swear you are mine,” I demand. “Not his. Not theirs.”

He sinks to one knee.

“I am yours,” he whispers. “In darkness. In blood. In ruin.”

“And I am yours,” I breathe.

I raise his chin.

“Stand,” I command softly.

When he does, I press my mouth to his.

It tastes of salt and sorrow — and something fiercer than hope.

Later, in the hush before dawn, we lie tangled in silk and sweat.

Roman traces the scars on my ribs.

“What will you do now?” he murmurs.

“Unbind what he made of me,” I whisper. “Break the leash he forged in my blood.”

“And if it kills you?” he asks.

“Then I die as myself,” I answer.

“And if you live?” Roman breathes.

“Then I rule free,” I say. “And you rule beside me.”

Morning brings darker news.

Rayyan enters, face grim.

“We found something else,” he says, tossing a burnt ledger on my table.

“A list. Of debts paid in blood.”

My eyes scan names.

Some marked with crosses.

Some circled.

And one — circled three times in red ink:

ROMAN.

“What is this?” I ask.

“The King’s final insurance,” Rayyan says softly. “Proof Roman killed for him. Enough to turn the council, if it leaks.”

Roman’s face is stone.

“You knew?” I ask Roman.

“I suspected,” he says. “But I thought he burned it.”

“Why keep it?” Zayn asks.

“Because control,” I answer bitterly. “Even dead, he holds chains.”

Choice burns in my chest:

Destroy the ledger — keep Roman’s past buried, risk whispers.

Or keep it — and risk it falling into enemy hands.

I look into Roman’s eyes.

Haunted. Loyal. Mine.

“Burn it,” I decide. “I will not rule by blackmail.”

Rayyan hesitates.

“If the council finds out—”

“Then they find out,” I say. “Let them judge me for the man I choose to keep at my side.”

Roman’s voice breaks.

“Zara… you would risk everything for me?”

“No,” I whisper, stepping close. “I risk everything for us.”

At the hearth, flame eats ink and blood.

Ash drifts like dying petals.

The past turns to smoke.

And for the first time, I feel lighter.

Night falls.

From the balcony, I watch torches burn along the walls — symbols of a House that kneels because it chooses to.

Roman stands beside me.

“What if they never accept us?” he asks.

“Then we rule anyway,” I say. “Because power isn’t given. It’s taken.”

In the ashes of a King, we build something fierce and flawed.

And in the darkness, I know:

This is no fairy tale.

But it is ours.