Crowned In Thorns

Barbed Crowns

Barbed Crowns

The next morning began with blood—figuratively, anyway.

Another culling. Another announcement. Another row of still-backed girls pretending not to glance sidelong as names were read with glacial calm by a steward in gold-trimmed robes.

Only ten names were not read. Mine was one of them.

We were the last ten. The final contenders in a royal bloodsport dressed up in satin and diplomacy.

My stomach was a knot of nerves and toast. Not that I could eat more than two bites. I’d tried. It tasted like ash.

The Queen—because apparently, we were pretending she wasn’t terrifying—had requested private teas with each remaining contestant over the next several days. One-on-one. No chaperones. No mediators. Just us and her and whatever expectations she carried like silk daggers behind that regal smile.

My tea wasn’t until the fourth day. Which meant three full days of watching the others come back pale-faced or a trembling mess. Some overly chipper, that fake way girls get when they’re lying or on the verge of hysterics.

Some claimed the Queen asked about lineage. Others said she brought up political alliances, land ownership, military legacy, and whether we’d “fit beside her son.”

I wondered what she’d ask me. If she’d ask me anything at all.

In the background of all the primping and posing, a different kind of rumor began to slither its way through the halls.

Rebels. Near the capital.

It started with murmurs in the servants’ wing. Then it crept into late-night chatter among the guards. We weren’t supposed to hear it. But we were girls trained to survive on crumbs and implication. So, of course, we heard it.

“They torched a checkpoint near Sable Ridge.”

They’re moving closer. There was a breach at the river gate, but the palace denied it.”

“I heard the Crown sent a battalion to Braymoor last week. Quietly.”

I tried to focus on remembering the proper curtsy depth for a Queen versus a Dowager Duchess. But it was hard to care about tea etiquette when people were apparently lighting parts of the kingdom on fire.

My tea with the Queen was scheduled for mid-morning.

I wore the soft velvet gown Thane had helped me choose—a color that made my hair look like burnished gold and my eyes sharper than usual. He gave me a wink and whispered. “Don’t threaten her too directly. At least wait until the second cup.” I managed a smirk.

The Queen’s parlor was a sun-drenched room with high-arched windows and polished marble floors that gleamed brightly in the morning light. She sat like a statue in living form, spine straight, crown light but undeniable on her head. Her gown was the soft blush of rose petals, but her eyes were steel.

“Miss Stanton,” she said, gesturing to the velvet seat across from her. “Join me.”

I did.

We talked of harmless things at first. Music. Fashion. Traditions in the farm sectors. The Queen asked about my father.

“I remember him,” she said quietly. “He saved Kael’s life.”

That startled me enough that I nearly dropped my teacup.

“You… remember him personally?”

She nodded. “My son spoke of him after that battle. He said your father was the reason he returned alive.”

It shouldn’t have mattered. But it did. Somehow, her knowing changed the temperature of the room.

“I am grateful for his sacrifice.”

That was the last warm moment of the morning.

Because halfway through the tea, a scream rang out from the hallway.

At first, I thought it was a servant. Then a crash followed. Shouts. Metal against metal.

The Queen’s guards stiffened. Then someone burst through the outer door, panting.

“Your Majesty—they’ve breached the northern wing. Rebels are inside.”

The words hit like a slap.

One of the guards stepped forward. “We must move. Now.”

Another tried the side exit. “Blocked.”

Then came the blast. A window shattered. Screams from the hall. One of the Queen’s guards surged forward to meet the attacker, sword clashing with his as the second guard covered us. “Go!” he barked, buying us seconds we didn’t deserve. The third guard was felled in a single s***h from a man in dark armor bursting through the main entrance.

I didn’t think. I grabbed the Queen’s hand and ran.

We ducked through the side library, the Queen breathless beside me in her silks, and I scanned for anything, anywhere to hide. I remembered what Thane had once said in passing—“The tapestries have more secrets than the guards”—and yanked the edge, praying he hadn’t been joking. We found a narrow servant’s stairwell tucked behind a tapestry, and wedged ourselves into the darkness.

We were silent except for our breathing.

Dead silent.

Until the sound of boots came.

One of the younger guards had fallen just outside the tea room. His blade had landed a few feet from the entry to the stairwell. I crawled out just far enough to snag it before the footsteps turned the corner.

The dagger was still warm.

The man paused in the hallway. Tilted his head. Then his eyes narrowed on a faint smear of blood by the panel.

The rebel—lean and wild-eyed, kicked open the hidden panel, a wicked-looking blade in his hand. The Queen gasped. I surged forward, shielding her with my body.

He grinned. No,t the kind of grin you forget. The kind that made your blood turn to ice.

“Well, well,” he crooned, a sick grin curling his mouth. “Didn’t expect to catch the f*****g Queen hiding like a rat. And you—” his eyes dragged down me, slow and vile, “—look like the kind of b***h who screams real pretty.”

My stomach turned.

He took a step forward. I didn’t move. His eyes lit with amusement.

“You know what I like best about girls like you?” he said, voice thick and gleeful. “They break easily.”

He kept coming. “Which one of you screams prettier, huh? Maybe I’ll have you both—nice and slow—before I slit your throats. You first, pretty girl.”

He lunged.

I ducked, barely dodging the first swipe, but he was fast. His hand caught my bodice—fingers curling into the silk—and yanked. The fabric tore down the front with a sickening rip, baring my breast before I could twist away.

“You piece of—” I swung my fist, catching him across the jaw.

He snarled and struck back.

His blade slashed across my arm, hot fire splitting through muscle and skin. I cried out, stumbling.

Then his hand tangled in my hair.

He yanked my head back, the sting sharp as my scalp protested.

The edge of his knife pressed against my throat. I froze as the cold steel bit into the tender skin beneath my jaw.

The Queen gasped behind me. Powerless. Cornered. Her body was trembling.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered near my ear, breath hot and rancid. “I’ll make it slow. Fun, even. I like to play with my food.”

My hand clenched tighter around the dagger I’d hidden at my side, blood soaking my fingers.

And then—

I twisted, leaning into the blade, letting it cut shallow as I slowly brought the dagger up.

His eyes widened, just for a second, thrown by the sudden movement.

Blood trickled down my neck.

And I drove the dagger in.

Straight into his throat.

His mouth opened around a gurgle. A wet, awful gasp.

He staggered, hands flailing. The knife slipped from my neck as he choked on his blood. His eyes—wild, disbelieving—locked onto mine as the warmth of his life sprayed across my face in a violent arc.

He dropped. Wedging the stairwell door open.

I stood there, shaking, covered in blood that wasn’t mine, chest rising and falling like an animal. My arm burned. My torn dress stuck to me in places. I didn’t care.

The Queen said something—soft and horrified—but I couldn’t hear it.

I crouched in front of her again, blade still in hand, like a feral thing, daring the next one to come.

When the guards finally burst through the door, weapons raised—

They didn’t find a queen in training.

They found a blood-soaked girl with a ripped dress, eyes wild, crouched like she’d kill again without hesitation.

And then—

Everything tilted sideways.

The warmth in my arm became numb.

The blood loss finally won.

And I collapsed.

“You saved me…” she whispered, voice thin with disbelief.

The last thing I saw was her kneeling beside me, hands pressed to my arm. Her blush-pink gown was soaked red.

* * *

Kael

Smoke hung thick in the corridor like a curse, curling around my throat and stinging my eyes. The scent of blood and burning fabric was everywhere. A tapestry crackled behind me, embers devouring silk lions and laurels. I didn’t stop to watch it fall.

My sword was slick in my grip—too much blood, too much chaos—and the screams hadn’t stopped.

Not even when the last of the rebels fell in this hall.

But there were more.

I ducked low as a rebel burst out from a side chamber, blade raised. He was fast—ragged clothes, wild eyes, the sneer of someone who thought he’d already won. I didn’t give him time to think. I twisted, dodged his swing, and slammed the hilt of my sword into his temple. Bone cracked. He crumpled without a sound.

I didn’t stop to check if he was breathing.

Another shout—closer. Then steel-on-steel clanged behind me.

I pivoted toward the sound just in time to see one of the guards stumble, a gash across his thigh. The rebel lunging at him was taller, heavier, but sloppy. I crossed the distance in three strides and drove my blade through his side. The scream that tore from him was short-lived.

I wrenched the sword free. Blood sprayed the marble. The guard nodded to me, limping toward a wall to brace himself.

“Secure the north wing,” I barked to the next squad, pointing toward the archway. “If they reach the armory, we’re finished.”

They moved. Some limped. All were bleeding.

So was I. I hadn’t realized it—there was a slice down my bicep, shallow but burning—but adrenaline kept it distant. Irrelevant.

I wiped the blade against a dead man’s cloak.

Down the hall, someone barked a name. Another voice cried out for help—young and raw.

I turned a corner and nearly collided with a boy no older than sixteen, one of the inner guards, face white as parchment. His blade trembled in his hand.

“The King and Queen?”

The boy looked like he might faint. I gripped his shoulder.

“Are they inside the royal wing?” I asked, my voice low but sharp.

He nodded frantically. “Yes, Your Highness. A group breached through the west garden—Queen’s guards engaged but—there was too much smoke, too many of them—”

My pulse went cold.

I shoved past him.

He didn’t finish. I was already moving.

My boots slid on something slick. Blood. The polished marble of the palace was streaked with it, stained red like war paint.

Another explosion shook the far wall, distant, but too close.

I cut down a rebel at the junction near the gallery stairs—he was dragging a maid by the hair. One clean strike. Her sob turned into silence as she scrambled free, tears cutting through soot on her cheeks.

I told her to run. She did.

By the time I reached the east corridor, five more rebels had gone down.

I didn’t remember all of it. Only flashes. A scream. A sword dropped. A man gurgling as he bled out on the carpet that had cost more than his life was worth.

We fought in the gardens, in the foyer, in the very halls where I’d learned to walk.

And still—still—I hadn’t seen her.

Carolina.

Her name haunted the space behind my ribs.

Where was she?

I barely registered the steward who appeared at my side—blood on his cuffs, panic in his voice.

“Your Highness!”

I turned sharply. “Report.”

“The Queen,” he gasped. “She’s alive. But in the infirmary. One of the girls—Lady Stanton—saved her. They were attacked. Nearly killed.”

The world narrowed.

I didn’t wait for the rest.

I ran.

The hallways smelled of blood and scorched velvet. My boots kept slipping on the slick marble.

The bodies of rebels were still being dragged out. Some groaned. Others didn’t move at all.

My sword was still wet in my hands.

And I couldn’t breathe.

Not until I saw her.

I rounded the corner into the infirmary wing and stopped cold.

It had been converted into a warfront. Beds lined the walls in uneven rows. Trays of surgical tools clinked and rattled.

A girl sobbed quietly in the corner, her shoulder wrapped in bloodied gauze. Someone shouted for more cloth. The metallic tang of antiseptic warred with the stink of open wounds.

But none of it mattered.

Because I saw her.

Carolina.

She lay half-draped across a narrow cot, motionless except for the soft, uneven rise of her chest. Her skin was pale—shock pale. Her lips were nearly blue. One of the medics was stitching a deep, jagged wound across her upper arm, the kind that would scar. The medic glanced up when I approached, but said nothing. My mother must’ve refused to leave her side. The rest of her body had been covered in a white linen sheet, but I could see where her dress had been torn—ripped straight down the bodice, the fabric still clinging to her skin in wet, ruined folds.

Blood stained her collarbone. Her hair was matted with it. Her throat—

There was a thin, clean line across it.

Not deep, but fresh.

A threat that had come far too close.

I stopped breathing entirely.

My mother was seated beside her. Regal and still—like she hadn’t moved in hours. Her gown was soot-streaked, the fabric wrinkled. She had removed her jewelry. Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap, knuckles white.

I crossed the room in four strides.

“Mother,” I said, the word catching in my throat. “What happened?”

She turned slowly, like every muscle in her body had locked up. Her face was pale. There was a small smear of blood on her cheek.

Not hers.

“I tried to keep her behind me,” she said quietly. “But she wouldn’t let me.”

My heart pounded louder.

“She took a dagger off one of the fallen guards,” she continued, voice hoarse. “When one of them found us… He said things, Kael. Filthy, disgusting things. About what he’d do. To me. To her.”

A red haze rimmed my vision.

“He grabbed her,” she said, barely audible. “Ripped her dress. Cut her. Dragged her head back by her hair and put a blade to her throat.”

I made a sound I didn’t recognize.

The Queen’s hands trembled as she reached out and touched Carolina’s hair. “And then—” she swallowed hard, “—she leaned into the knife. Let it cut her.”

My fists clenched hard enough to c***k bone.

“She used it as a distraction. Drove her own dagger straight into his throat. Didn’t hesitate. The blood—” her eyes blinked rapidly, “—it sprayed across her. She didn’t even flinch. Just stood in front of me. Like she was possessed.”

“She wasn’t possessed,” I said, my voice low and tight. “She was protecting you.”

The Queen looked at me then.

“She was feral,” she whispered. “Like a wolf-cornered." But it wasn’t rage. It was stubborn will. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life.”

I turned back to Carolina.

She was still unconscious. Her face was soft.

Like the fight had been carved out of her with the blade that split her arm.

I reached down and took her hand.

It was cold. Bloodless. The pads of her fingers were rough from farm work, but limp in mine.

A thousand feelings surged in my chest at once—pride, fury, fear, something far more dangerous than either.

She wasn’t supposed to be here. She wasn’t supposed to bleed for a crown she never wanted.

And yet she had.

For my mother.

For me.

The Queen spoke again, her voice gentler this time. “The medics say she is suffering from blood loss, but the blade didn’t hit the artery. And she should make a full recovery.”

I stared down at the girl on the cot—this girl who had shattered every assumption I’d ever made about the Ascension.

No. Not a girl.

A woman.

A weapon in silk.

She wasn’t just brave. She was decisive. Selfless. Relentless. She had more spine than half my council. More fire than any noble girl I’d ever met.

And suddenly, I knew—Carolina Stanton was the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life ruling beside.

The games be damned.