Queen of Thorns

Ashes & Inheritance

Power is never quiet for long.

In the walls of the Ashen Estate, whispers move like rot under stone:

“She is young.”

“She is only the King’s bastard.”

“And what if another heir lives?”

In the study, Roman’s scars catch candlelight as he leans over the King’s ruined journal.

His jaw is clenched, knuckles white against black leather.

“Zara,” he murmurs, voice hoarse, “you need to see this.”

My heart thunders as I read the words scratched in a dying hand:

“I kept the boy hidden. Should the girl fail, the bloodline endures.”

A boy.

A hidden heir.

And the King — even in death — still moves pieces across the board.

“Where?” I breathe.

“No location,” Roman growls. “Just a name: Nazar.”

“Nazar,” I repeat, tasting the venom in it.

A curse in the old tongue — meaning ‘omen’… or curse.

Rayyan storms in, eyes flashing.

“The council knows,” he hisses. “Somehow they learned of this Nazar. They see him as a safer heir — pure blood, born in secret.”

“How?” I demand.

Rayyan hesitates.

“Someone leaked it,” he admits. “From inside.”

My stomach twists.

“Betrayal,” I whisper. “It always starts at home.”

Night bleeds into dawn as we plan.

Zayn maps old smuggler routes, eyes dark.

Rayyan sharpens his blades, lips curled in grim amusement.

Roman stands apart, staring into the fire, guilt haunting his gaze.

“You blame yourself,” I say quietly.

“I was supposed to protect you from every threat,” he mutters.

“Even those born of blood?” I ask.

He looks at me, pain naked in his eyes.

“Especially those,” he whispers.

The council hall is colder than ice.

Old men in black silk stare at me like a c***k in marble.

The woman with silver braids clears her throat.

“We demand proof this Nazar does not exist,” she says.

“Until then, your claim is… suspended.”

“Suspended?” I repeat, voice low and dangerous.

“We do not crown monsters’ bastards when a true heir may live,” another snarls.

“And if I refuse?” I ask.

“Then the Houses fracture,” he says coldly. “And your rule ends in blood.”

Roman steps forward, voice like thunder.

“And who will enforce that? You’ve knelt once. Kneel again.”

But I touch his arm, stopping him.

“No,” I say softly. “Let them finish.”

“Zara—” Roman protests.

“No,” I repeat. “I will hear them.”

The room stills.

For a breath, even the chandeliers seem to tremble.

“Find the boy,” the silver-braids woman commands.

“Prove he is dead — or bring him here. Only then will we swear again.”

“And if I find him alive?” I ask, voice quiet as a blade.

“Then,” she says coldly, “you step aside.”

Later, in the corridors, Roman catches my arm.

“We don’t search for Nazar,” he growls. “We kill him. Quietly.”

I look into his eyes.

“You’d have me murder a boy,” I whisper.

“I’d have you live,” he rasps. “You are the House, Zara. Without you—”

“Without me, they find another pawn,” I snap.

“I won’t become what he made me.”

Roman cups my face, voice breaking.

“You already are more, Zara. Don’t let them change you.”

My chest aches at his touch.

For a heartbeat, I almost forget the blood waiting outside these walls.

But the blood never forgets.

At midnight, Zayn finds me in the old chapel.

Moonlight stains cracked marble silver.

“They say Nazar is twelve,” Zayn murmurs. “Hidden by loyal men. Raised to hate you.”

“Twelve,” I repeat.

“A child, yes,” Zayn says. “But a child who carries the King’s blood. And the Houses will use him like a blade.”

“Will you kill him?” Zayn asks, voice cold.

I flinch.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “Would you?”

“Yes,” Zayn says softly. “Before he becomes tomorrow’s monster.”

And me?

Am I not already someone’s monster?

Roman finds me again.

His eyes burn — guilt, desire, and fear.

“Say it,” he rasps.

“Say what?”

“That you still want me,” he whispers. “Even with all this ruin between us.”

I step closer.

My heart hammers.

“I want you,” I breathe. “Even if you are my father’s blade.”

“And you?” Roman asks. “Do you want power… or me?”

“I want both,” I whisper, lips brushing his. “And I’ll damn the world to have them.”

His hands bury in my hair.

Our mouths crash together.

The kiss tastes like fury, ash, and everything we were never supposed to have.

His scars scrape my skin; my nails rake his shoulders.

“Zara,” he groans. “Say you’re mine.”

“Always,” I gasp. “Even if it ends us.”

Clothes fall.

Skin against skin, breath ragged.

I feel the heat of his chest, the tremble of restraint breaking.

For a moment, there is no council, no Nazar.

Only this dark, impossible need.

“You shouldn’t want me,” he breathes.

“But I do,” I whisper. “And you want me too.”

“God help me,” Roman rasps. “Yes.”

We fall into the ruin of the King’s library.

Books crash to marble; desire burns away everything but us.

“Look at me,” I command.

His eyes meet mine, dark and wild.

“Never look away,” I whisper.

“Never,” he vows.

After, we lie tangled in velvet and sweat.

The fire burns low.

“If Nazar lives,” I murmur, voice hoarse, “will you help me kill him?”

Roman’s silence is long.

“Yes,” he whispers finally. “And hate myself for it.”

Dawn brings worse news.

Rayyan storms in, breathless.

“The Houses sent riders,” he says. “They mean to find Nazar before us. If they do—”

“They crown him,” I finish coldly.

“And we burn,” Rayyan says.

Choice cuts deeper than steel.

Find Nazar first — and kill him.

Or find him — and protect him from becoming the next monster.

“What will you do?” Zayn asks.

I look at Roman.

“I don’t know,” I whisper.

But inside, something darker answers:

I will do what power demands.

At night, Roman watches me from the shadows.

“You are changing,” he says quietly.

“Into what?” I ask.

“Into the Queen they need,” he whispers.

“And the monster you swore never to become.”

“And do you hate me for it?” I ask.

“No,” Roman breathes. “I love you for it. Even as it terrifies me.”

From the balcony, I see torches on the horizon.

Enemy riders.

Blood moves toward us.

And somewhere beyond, a boy — twelve years old — waits, carrying the Ashen King’s curse in his veins.

“We ride at dawn,” I say.

Rayyan’s eyes spark.

Zayn’s mouth hardens.

Roman nods, jaw clenched.

And inside, I whisper to the shadows my father left behind:

Forgive me.

Because tomorrow, I might have to kill the last child who still carries my blood.