Crowned In Thorns

Judgment

Three days later, we were summoned to the Grand Assembly Hall.

The King stood beneath a massive stained-glass window, sunlight slashed through in crimson and gold, casting long, warlike shadows across the marble floor. His presence filled the room, the only way a true monarch could—commanding, cold, immovable.

Kael stood just behind him, shoulders squared, face unreadable.

There were only ten of us now.

Ten girls, ten futures, ten possible crowns.

But none of us expected what the King said next.

“You have each proven yourselves in resilience, wit, and diplomacy,” he began, his voice ringing through the hall. “But this competition is not simply a matter of elegance and charm. It is about rule. Strength. Judgment.”

He paused. The silence was taut.

“The rebels who survived the attack await sentencing. As does Mirena Voss, for assaulting another candidate and undermining the Crown’s trust.”

A murmur rippled through the girls.

My face remained still.

“You will each receive one hour to deliberate on the punishment for both. Your reasoning will be submitted in writing to the High Council. If your verdict is found lacking—whether in severity, clarity, or rationality—you will be dismissed from The Ascension. If your punishment is deemed acceptable or the High Council has questions about you’re reasoning you will be called in.”

The room spun just slightly.

He wasn’t bluffing.

“And in one week’s time,” the King continued, “a royal ball will be held in honor of the final candidates. Your presence is expected. But your place among them must still be earned.”

And then we were dismissed. One by one, to our rooms, to our heads, to the weight of choices only a monarch should make.

My room was too quiet.

No Thane to joke about wardrobe disasters. No, Kael leaning in close with questions designed to unravel me.

Just me. A blank sheet of parchment. And a question that had nothing to do with tea parties or gowns.

What should be done with the rebels?

I dropped the sarcasm.

Dropped the act.

And let the truth speak.

“The rebels who infiltrated the palace have committed acts of treason. They have slain guards, threatened innocent civilians, and sought to harm the Queen. They are not mere misguided dissenters; they are violent insurgents.

We must interrogate them thoroughly, extracting every fragment of information regarding their instigators and motives. Once this is accomplished, they should face swift and public execution. Let the kingdom witness the fate that befalls those who dare to conspire against it.

In these tumultuous times, mercy is a luxury we cannot afford.”

I stared at the ink as it dried.

No part of me trembled.

But then came the second question.

What should be done with Mirena Voss?

My smirk returned.

“Mirena Voss, daughter of Marquess of Delcor, struck another candidate across the face—before none other than the Crowned Prince—and conducted herself with all the grace of a feral peacock in heat. She is decidedly unfit for court.

Yet, I do not advocate for exile; that would be a fate too lenient. Instead, I propose that she be sent to Sector Nine. Let her dwell among those she deems inferior, subsisting on ration lines and enduring the toil of sun-scorched labor. Let her learn the true meaning of humility—not through the act of kneeling before a crown, but in her quest for sustenance.

What she requires is a lesson in humility, not a reprieve in banishment.”

—Carolina Stanton

Braymoor Sector, Candidate of The Ascension

I signed my name with a final flourish.

Then I folded the paper, rang the bell, and handed it to the steward who arrived with a bow so deep I thought he might dislocate something.

As the door clicked shut behind him, I stood in the mirror’s reflection.

A farmer’s daughter.

A soldier’s legacy.

And, for the first time, a judge of kingdoms.

They summoned me before dinner.

Not to dismiss me, apparently—but to clarify.

Which was code for: You scared someone.

Two guards escorted me through the winding halls, though neither spoke. I didn’t need them to. Their silence was enough.

The High Council chambers weren’t designed to make people comfortable. Cold white stone, vaulted ceilings, arched windows that cast long, judgmental shadows. The room reeked of incense, old law, and a very specific kind of power—the kind that didn’t like to be questioned.

Nine members sat at the curved dais, robes trimmed in gold thread, faces carved from marble. At the center sat Lord Elric, Head of the Council and longtime advisor to the Crown. He was older than dust and twice as dry, with hands that never shook and eyes that never blinked.

“Lady Stanton,” he said, voice smooth as oil over steel. “You may approach.”

I stepped forward, hands folded at my waist. My dress was clean. My scar visible. My chin up.

“You are the only candidate,” he began, “who recommended execution for the captured rebels.”

“I am,” I said evenly.

“Would you like to amend your recommendation before it is entered into the royal record?”

I blinked once.

“No.”

A ripple of discomfort passed between two council members near the edge.

Lord Elric didn’t flinch. “You understand this is not a wartime court. This is royal policy. To execute them would set a precedent.”

“So would letting them live,” I replied. “They infiltrated the palace. Killed our guards. Nearly assassinated the Queen.”

“You believe execution is the only suitable punishment?”

“I believe it’s the only one that sends the correct message.” I met his gaze. “If they attempt to bleed the Crown, they pay in kind.”

He leaned forward slightly. “You are not yet a princess.”

“No, Sir, I am not. I am just a girl who took a blade for the Queen,” I replied, voice cool. “And neither were the guards who died doing their jobs.”

Silence.

One of the women on the council—a Duchess, judging by her rings—tapped her fingers once against the wood. “And your recommendation for Mirena Voss?”

“Humbled,” I said.

Another pause.

“No restitution. No symbolic censure.”

I shook my head. “What Mirena did wasn’t about politics. It was about arrogance. She thinks her blood makes her better. It doesn’t. Let her live in the lower castes. Let her learn.”

One of the older men frowned. “You would exile a noble-born girl to a farming sector?”

“Not exile,” I corrected. “Educate. Send her there for six months. No titles. No silks. No servants. She’ll either come back changed—or not come back at all.”

Lord Elric’s mouth twitched. “A bold approach.”

I lifted my chin. “You asked for judgment. Not appeasement.”

He folded his hands. “Indeed, we did.”

The room was quiet again. Tense. Like the second before a thunderclap.

Then he nodded once.

“You may go.”

I turned, spine straight, pulse steady, and walked out of the chamber without another word.

Kael was waiting outside.

His back was to the wall, one boot braced up, arms crossed. When he saw me, something like relief flickered across his face.

“Well?” he asked, pushing off the wall.

I arched a brow. “Apparently, suggesting execution gets you a personal audience.”

He snorted. “What about the Mirena?”

“They thought I was cruel.”

“Were you?”

I shrugged. “She tried to humiliate me. She slapped me in front of half the court and called me a slut. She thinks punishment is beneath her. So I gave her one she’ll remember.”

Kael’s eyes flicked to mine, sharp and thoughtful. “And if the Council disagrees?”

“Then I’m not the future they want.” I held his gaze. “But I might be the one they need.”

For a moment, he just stared at me, like he was seeing something he couldn’t quite put words to. Then, softly:

“They’re going to fear you.”

“Good,” I said.

“Maybe they should.”

* * *

Kael

The door shut behind her with a quiet click.

I stayed in the hallway long enough to count five slow breaths.

Then I stepped through the same doors she had just exited—into the den of wolves wrapped in velvet and law.

Nine pairs of eyes turned to me as I entered the chamber. A few stood. Most bowed. All waited.

“My lords. Ladies,” I said, voice calm but cold. “I’d like to address the matter of Lady Stanton’s recommendations.”

Lord Elric motioned toward the curved bench at the center of the room. “Your Highness. We were just deliberating.”

“I’m aware,” I said. “I’d like to hear the results.”

A different member of the council—Lady Hara of the Westlands, all crystal pins and scowl lines—cleared her throat.

“Your Highness, I’ll be blunt. Lady Stanton’s proposed sentences were… unconventional.”

“She was also the only one who faced down a rebel with a dagger and walked away alive,” I said. “So let’s not pretend she lacks discernment.”

That shut her up.

Lord Elric, ever the diplomat, laced his fingers and leaned forward. “Five of the ten candidates recommended prison for the captured rebels. Three requested clemency and reparations. One suggested forced labor for a period of ten years.”

“And Carolina Stanton?”

“Execution,” he said flatly.

The word didn’t rattle me. It had already settled deep in my bones the second I’d read her statement.

“She’s the only one who called it what it was,” I said. “Treason. War. Murder.”

“She’s also the only one who framed her verdict as consequence, not vengeance,” Lady Hara added reluctantly.

Elric gave her a look. “And her sentencing of Mirena Voss?”

A pause.

Lord Elric looked almost amused. “We… debated for a time.”

I raised a brow.

“She suggested six months in the 9th Caste for Miss Voss—an attempt to instill humility.”

“And?”

“Her Majesty the Queen and His Royal Council,” he said formally, “have amended the sentence.”

My jaw tightened. “Amended how?”

Elric didn’t blink. “Miss Voss will spend one full year living among the people she deems beneath her. She will report directly to a community steward, wear no markings of rank, and work as any other citizen of the Ninth Caste.”

“And if she refuses?”

“She forfeits her title. And her inheritance.”

Silence hung thick for a beat.

“Five girls will be dismissed by sundown,” Lady Hara added. “Including Miss Voss.”

“And the rebels?”

Lord Elric met my gaze, gaze solemn now. “Her judgment aligns with the Crown’s will. The executions will be carried out publicly. Tomorrow morning.”

I nodded once.

For a second, no one moved. Then I said, “Has the King been informed?”

“He has,” Elric replied. “And he approved of Lady Stanton’s clarity.”

My lips curled slightly. “Good. Then so do I.”

As I turned to leave, Lord Elric called after me.

“Your Highness—”

I paused.

“That girl,” he said, quietly now, “will make an extraordinary queen.”

I didn’t look back. “She already is.”