Crowned In Thorns

The sun hadn’t even cleared the ridge before I had goat s**t on my boots and straw in my bra. A glamorous life, truly. Braymoor mornings were slow, syrup-thick, and smothered in dust, like the whole sector was trying to forget it existed. Fog clung to the earth like a child afraid to let go. Our fields weren’t pretty. Nothing here was. Not the frostbitten wheat stalks curling toward the sun. Not the broken irrigation pipes I’d patched for the fourth time this season. And definitely not the boots I’d been wearing since last harvest, cracked at the toes and smelling vaguely like something had died in them. Which, to be fair, probably had. I was elbow-deep in chicken feed when the wind shifted. Not in that natural way, where the air smells like pine or oncoming rain. No, this wind brought the stench of metal and polish. Too clean. Too foreign. I straightened slowly, brushing grain dust off my hands, my heart sinking before I even saw them. Three figures stood at the gate to our farmhouse. Royal navy coats. Polished boots. One of them held a parchment envelope like it had been dipped in acid. The moment I saw the seal—three spears crossed behind a burning crown—I felt something cold settle in the pit of my stomach. No one from the capital city came out to Braymoor. Not unless someone was being buried or drafted. And I hadn’t died—yet. “Carolina Stanton?” the lead envoy called, a voice crisp enough to slice hay. I didn’t move. Not at first. Because I knew exactly what that envelope meant. And I hadn’t applied. I wiped my hands on my skirt and crossed the yard like I had time to kill, ignoring the way my throat tightened with each step. The envoy didn’t blink, just held the envelope out like a sword. “You’ve been selected to represent Braymoor in the upcoming Ascension.” I stared at him. “I’m sorry—what?” “Your application was submitted and reviewed. You meet the age requirement and class eligibility. Per royal mandate, the chosen are to be notified in person. Congratulations.” The tallest envoy extended the scroll with a stiff, gloved hand. His uniform gleamed like a warning. I took it. The seal was real. The weight of the parchment is real. My name is printed in bold, official ink: Carolina Marion Stanton. I felt the breath knocked from my chest. Like someone had reached inside and wrung it out of me with both fists. My fingers went cold. Numb. “Departure is in forty-eight hours. Prepare accordingly.” And just like that, the three of them turned and left, their coats snapping in the wind. I stood there in stunned silence while our flock of chickens clucked judgmentally around my feet. I hadn’t applied. I knew that for a fact. But I knew someone who might’ve. I found my mother in the kitchen, elbow-deep in sour root mash. The moment she looked up and saw the envelope, her mouth tightened. She was watching me. Calm. Still. “You,” I whispered. “You submitted it.” She didn’t answer. Not directly. Everything about her—the set of her jaw, the way she held my gaze like she’d already justified it in her mind—confirmed what I already knew. She just wiped her hands on a rag and turned back to the pot. “You applied for me,” I said. “Without asking.” Still nothing. “You used my name. My birth code.” My voice shook—with fury so hot I saw red. She turned then. Slowly. “I didn’t think they’d pick you.” “Then why do it?” “Because maybe—just maybe—they would.” My hands curled into fists. “You had no right.” Her mother stood unwavering, hands fisted on her hips. “I am your mother, Carolina Marion Stanton. I had every right.” My jaw clenched. “No. You didn’t.” We stood in a silent stand-off; the envelope was still clutched in my hand like a weapon. Outside, the wind tugged at the barn door, trying to get in. For once, I understood the feeling. “You just decided for me?” I spat. “Signed me up like I was a cow at auction?” Her expression didn’t change, but her knuckles whitened where they gripped the chair. “I decided for us.” I laughed, sharp and humorless. “Oh, well then, by all means—forge my future and toss me to the wolves. Royal ones, even better.” “You hate it here,” she snapped. “Don’t pretend you don’t.” “No!” I shouted back. “You hate it here. You’re the one who has never been happy being a six. Being a lowly farmer’s wife.” She glared at me. “Even if I did hate it here, that doesn’t mean I want to parade myself in front of the entire kingdom for a crown I didn’t ask for!” She slammed the wooden spoon against the pot. “And what did you ask for, exactly? Another year in this decaying farm, patching hoses and feeding animals while your bones rot under you? You think there’s dignity in staying small?” “There’s honesty in it,” I shot back. “There’s safety.” “There’s nothing here but dirt, Carolina. And you’re not made of dirt.” My jaw tightened. “You are smart,” she continued. “Too smart for this place. Too loud. Too angry. You’ll rot here and grow bitter. I can’t watch it happen anymore.” Something splintered in me. Not loud. Just clean—like a thread snapping in the dark. I was angry. Of course, I was angry. But beneath it… What happens if I leave? What happens to her? To the land? To Renn. I hated myself for thinking it. Hated her more for making me choose between resentment and guilt. I turned my back on her before I said something I couldn’t take back. The envelope was still in my hand, the seal mocking me. There‘s a mirror in our upstairs washroom, barely bigger than a book. It’s cracked in the top corner from when Renn slipped and elbowed it during bath week last year. The frame is tin. The glass always fogs. But I looked into it anyway. Looked at the girl who was supposed to be a queen’s match. Long, tangled waves of strawberry blonde hair, currently streaked with hay and pinned back with an old copper comb. Green eyes—not delicate emerald, like they describe in romance serials, but dark and sharp, like moss growing over something buried. Freckles I never asked for dusted across my nose, and lips too full for my own liking. My face was soft where I wished it were angular, my cheekbones high and round from years of rationed meals and farm labor. I was curvy enough to be noticed—just not in the polished, capital-approved way. More like the “she’d survive a famine, but she’s definitely been skipping dinner” kind of way. Not beautiful. Not pageant-ready. Just… functional. I frowned. There would be cameras. Stylists. Politics. Prince Bloody Kael, the golden heir to Velastra, the one with the handsome face and tragic war stories. Girls would be trained to capture his attention like prize hawks. And I was supposed to compete with that? I snorted and flicked the mirror off the wall. It clattered into the basin. Perfect. The next day was a blur of silent stares and hushed gossip. Apparently, word travels fast when a farm girl gets plucked from Caste Six and tossed toward a crown. The mayor stopped by with a pinched smile and a speech about honor and representation. “You’ll be Braymoor’s face,” he said, eyes scanning our pitiful little house like it was a mold infestation. “Try not to embarrass us.” “Sure,” I said. “I’ll be sure to wear my best potato sack and smile.” He didn’t get the joke. Later, my little brother Renn climbed onto the porch with a half-loaf of black-market bread and a grin full of mischief. “You gonna wear a dress with puffed sleeves?” he asked. “Only if I want to look like a walking marshmallow in a fashion show for clowns,” I mutter. He laughed so hard he fell off the railing. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay awake under the quilt stitched by my grandmother’s ghost stories, staring at the ceiling while my chest caved in. I didn’t want the Ascension. Didn’t want the crown or the palace or the polished prince with his distant eyes, no matter how attractive he was. But I wasn’t sure I could stay here either. Braymoor had always felt like a box. A dusty one. Carefully nailed s**t and stacked with the others. And now someone had cracked the lid, just enough to let the light in. And maybe I wanted to see what was outside. Even if it burned. On the morning of departure, my mother laid out a dress I didn’t recognize. It was navy cotton, plain but freshly mended. She placed it on the bed with shaking hands. “You’ll need to look respectable,” she said. I stared at it for a long moment. Then I looked at her. Her eyes were tired. Red-rimmed. I hated that she’d stolen my choice. But I didn’t hate her. I dressed without speaking. At the gate, the transport awaited—a sleek, sand-colored tram with golden trim and windows so clean they looked like water. Its engine purred like a predator. Two officials stood outside it, watching me like a loose bolt in the machinery of monarchy. I didn’t cry. Didn’t hug my mother. Or promise to write. I just stepped onto the train, took one last breath of Braymoor’s bitter air, and let the doors close behind me. Let them dress me up, film me, and underestimate me. I didn’t want the crown. But I wasn’t going there to beg or simper. The train was too quiet. No hum. No engine pulse. No grit in the corners of the seats. Just velvet. Polished brass. Silence that smelled faintly of citrus and power. I sank into the only cushioned bench in the car and stared at the glass across from me. It wasn’t a window. It was a screen—one of those two-way viewing panes they used in interrogation chambers and noble parlors. I couldn’t see out, but I was willing to bet someone could see in. Let them watch. I kicked off the only pair of black patent leather dress shoes that I owned, curled my legs beneath me, and unsealed the envelope the envoy had handed me. I’d tried to ignore it for two days, but it refused to go away. Inside was a scroll with the royal crest, three pages of instructions, and a personal note. Handwritten. “Miss Stanton, You are to report to the Velastran Palace by the end of the cycle for orientation and public debut. As Braymoor’s chosen, you now serve as a representative of the Sixth Caste and its values. As a member of the Chosen, you and your esteemed lineage shall automatically ascend to the illustrious third Caste by virtue of your birthright. Conduct yourself with honor. —Ascension Liaison, Lady Cressadine Vale. Honor. Sure. I’d bring a bucket full of it. The scroll detailed wardrobe expectations—“Formal daywear issued upon arrival, grooming standards must be adhered to at all times—your hair will be styled in accordance with palace tradition. And etiquette advisories—“you are expected to kneel when addressed by a senior royal unless instructed otherwise.” There were also rules. So many rules. Do not touch the prince. Do not speak of prior romantic affiliations. Do not criticize the monarchy, the caste system, or the Ascension process. Do not refuse palace styling. Do not run. That one got a snort out of me. What, like escape, had ever been an option? An hour into the ride, the landscape changed. The dry hills of Braymoor gave way to smooth glass roads, then sculpted fields, then floral hedges taller than any house I’d seen in person. Sprinklers arced lazily over rose gardens with nothing better to do. The hum of the train lulled her halfway to sleep until the carriage shook, and her shoulder slammed against the wall. She cursed under her breath, straightened, and caught the end of a conversation up front. “Another patrol didn’t report in. Third in two weeks.” “That’s nowhere near the capital.” “Still. His Majesty’s orders are clear—double the perimeter guards. Quietly.” Carolina tilted her head, not bothering to pretend she wasn’t listening. “They say the rebels aren’t even wearing colors anymore,” the second guard muttered. “Just fade in and out. Ghosts. Like they’re waiting.” Footsteps shuffled closer, and the driver cleared his throat. “You want the girls hearing that?” he hissed. “Shut your mouth.” A thick silence followed. Carolina sat back, heart ticking faster than she liked. Rebels. Real ones. Not just bedtime horror stories for lowborn kids who asked too many questions. She stared out the window again, but the fields looked different now. Like something might be watching from the tree line. And then we hit the capital wall. A sheer obsidian ridge, thirty feet high, carved with curling vines and lined with watchtowers. The train slowed as a gate peeled open like a blooming petal, welcoming me into the belly of something golden and cruel. Beyond the wall, the palace gleamed like a lie. Ivory towers spiraled into the sky. Floating lights hovered above balcony rails. Flags stitched in gold shimmered in the breeze. And all of it… clean. Too clean… The air here didn’t smell like sulfur root or compost. It smelled of lavender and honeysuckle. Of opulence and control. The train hissed to a stop at a private terminal beneath the palace. A woman in a structured charcoal coat waited on the platform, flanked by two silent guards in deep blue. She looked at me over from flats to braid like she was evaluating livestock. “Carolina Stanton,” she said, lips barely moving. “Welcome to Velastra. I am Lady Cressadine Vale. I will be your handler.” “Handler?” I raised a brow. “Am I a dog or a criminal?” Her expression didn’t shift. “We find it efficient.” Efficient. Right. Like labeling cattle before the s*******r. I stepped off the train slowly, the hem of my cotton dress fluttering at my calves. “Lovely reception,” I said dryly. “Really rolling out the royal carpet.” Cressadine gestured to the corridor behind her, ignoring my comments. “The others have already arrived. You’re the final candidate.” Of course, I was. Braymoor always comes last. The walk to the entrance chamber was silent except for the click of her heels. The walls were white stone, inset with mirrors and gold-trimmed portraits of queens who looked like they’d never set foot in dirt. We stopped at a double door carved with the royal crest. “Through here,” Cressadine said. “You’ll be assigned a steward, issued your first formal outfit, and scheduled for your orientation session. Until then—stay quiet. Observe. Smile. And for the love of God—try not to insult anyone.” “I’ll do my best,” I said with the fakest smile I could manage. She opened the door. Twenty-nine heads turned toward me at once. They sat on curved velvet benches inside a domed room lit with glass chandeliers—girls from every caste and corner of the kingdom. Some wore pearl-dotted gloves. Some had hair like silk banners. Most of them stared at me like I’d just tracked mud across their mother’s grave. Which, in fairness, I probably had. I gave them a short, shallow curtsy and strode across the floor like I didn’t care. And maybe I didn’t. Maybe I’d come here to lose. But I’d make damn sure I wasn’t ignored. Smile, You’re on Royal Camera They didn’t stop staring. Every step I took into the orientation chamber felt like being weighed on a butcher’s scale. I heard the rustle of silk, the intake of perfectly rationed breaths, the silent judgment dripping off mascaraed lashes. Lovely. A pit of glittering vipers, and I’m the only one who smells like a barn. Cressadine didn’t bother with introductions. She announced my name—“Carolina Stanton, Sixth Caste, Braymoor Province”—like she was reporting a sanitation leak. Then she vanished into a side hall, probably off to powder her contempt. A girl with a face like carved porcelain raised one perfect brow. “Braymoor?” she echoed, like the word physically offended her. I gave her a slow blink. “That’s what I said. Don’t worry, it’s not contagious.” The corners of her mouth twitched, almost amused, then smoothed back into neutrality. She didn’t reply. I took the only open seat—far end, center row, directly under a vent blowing perfume-scented air down my neck. It made me itch. Which felt poetic. A steward passed by and handed me a small white booklet. ASCENSION CANDIDATE HANDBOOK: BEHAVIOR, EXPECTATION, IMAGE Bold of them to put image last, when it was clearly the only thing they cared about. I flipped through it while the others murmured in careful voices, rehearsed laughter spilling like honey off porcelain spoons. The handbook had rules for everything. No profanity in broadcast range. No political speech without clearance. Do not initiate contact with the prince unless addressed. No slouching during mealtime. Always appear grateful. Always appear composed. Always appear small. So basically: smile, shut up, and don’t bleed on the linens. The door at the far end opened again, and we all turned as a steward stepped in, flanked by two guards and a woman dressed like a walking sculpture—six feet tall, platinum white hair, high-collared black silk with a ring of gold feathers stitched into the shoulders. “Candidates,” the steward said. “Lady Maris Ravaryn, Royal Matron of the Ascension.” The woman surveyed us like she’d birthed half the kingdom and regretted all of it. “I will make this brief,” she said, her voice sharp and melodic. “You are not here to make friends. You are here to rise. To shine. To reflect the values of your caste and elevate the grace of the crown.” Did she rehearse that in a mirror while threatening her soup with exile? “The prince will meet you when the court deems you worthy of his attention,” she continued. “Until then, you will be polished. You will be trained. And you will be watched.” She turned toward the mirrored wall that spanned the length of the chamber. “Yes,” she said, smiling thinly. “That includes now.” One of the girls—the same one who raised her brow at me—smiled back at the mirror with practiced poise. I tried not to roll my eyes. Tried. Lady Maris’s gaze landed on me for just a second. Her smile didn’t waver, but I felt it chill. She knew who I was. She knew I didn’t belong. Behind me, a whisper cut through the perfume-thick air. “Braymoor province?” Selene’s voice carried that affected lilt all rich girls practice—just loud enough to be overheard. “I didn’t realize they let livestock apply this year.” A few girls giggled. Soft, venomous things. I turned slowly. Didn’t smile. Didn’t blink. “You’re right,” I said sweetly. “It’s usually slaughterhouse first, competition second. But here I am. Still breathing.” Her mouth twitched, uncertain if I’d just insulted her or threatened her. I didn’t wait for her to figure it out. I turned back to face Lady Maris, spine straight. Let them look. Let them whisper. I wasn’t going anywhere. After orientation, we were herded like cattle down a corridor of glass floors and ivy-colored walls into a chamber labeled INITIATION WARDROBE SUITE. Inside, racks of clothing gleamed like offerings in a temple—soft silks, woven lace, sequined bodices. There were at least thirty stewards with measuring tapes and datapads. I felt like I’d wandered into a grooming center for royal pets. “Miss Stanton,” someone said. I turned. A boy—no, man—stood beside me, tall, brown-skinned, sharp-eyed, maybe twenty-two. Not a steward. No tape. Just a plain suit and a pin at his collar shaped like a crescent blade. “Who are you?” I asked. “You’re assigned an image steward,” he replied. “I’m Thane. “Thane,” I repeated. “Like a medieval warlord?” A flicker of amusement passed behind his eyes. “Like a stylist with a death wish.” “Great,” I said. “We’ll get along just fine.” He handed me a tablet and a stylus. “Fill in your allergies, sensitivities, and insecurities. Just kidding—no one cares about the last one.” I smirked despite myself. Finally. A sense of humor in this parade of airbrushed teeth. He guided me to a fitting station, measured my limbs with terrifying efficiency, and asked questions like, “How would you define your aesthetic? Rural rebel or wholesome harvest?” “I’m more ‘don’t touch me before coffee and I own two knives,’” I said. “Noted,” he replied, tapping it in. When the fitting was over, I had a full wardrobe queue waiting in my suite—ten curated outfits based on caste, tone, skin compatibility, and ‘public reception modeling.’ Which I assumed meant: How palatable can we make the girl from the dirt? But I didn’t argue. Because somewhere in the back of my mind, I could still hear the clink of that royal seal. Still, I feel my mother’s hand shaking as she lays out the navy dress. She wanted me to rise. Fine. Let me rise. Let me charm and curtsy and claw my way through silk and poison and fire. And when the time came to burn… I’d make sure they remembered the girl who walked in smelling like hay and walked out crowned in ash. My suite was ridiculous. Wider than our entire farmhouse back home, and twice as tall. The ceiling arched like a cathedral, strung with crystal lights shaped like snowflakes. The bed was big enough to host a war. The walls were pale green silk, embroidered with vines, and I wouldn’t be surprised to learn were real. Even the rug under my feet was thick enough to eat my shoes whole. I should have felt amazed. Instead, I felt… itchy. Like, I didn’t fit into my own skin. Do not slouch. Do not swear. Do not breathe loudly, or they’ll reprogram your lungs. There was a mirror above the dresser. Not cracked. Not cloudy. Just pure, flawless silver. I walked over, half against my will, and stared. They’d braided my hair, but not tightly, just enough to pull it off my shoulders and show the slope of my neck. I had on a soft cream blouse with pearl buttons and slate-gray trousers that made my hips look less “farm girl” and more “capital chic.” I didn’t look like me. But I didn’t look like anyone else either. You’re a cleaned-up version of yourself. A prototype. A mask they can stomach. I didn’t like her. Still… I didn’t hate her, either. A chime echoed from the wall panel. I flinched. “Candidate Stanton,” came a soft voice from an unseen speaker. “Dinner begins in thirty minutes. You are expected in the Emerald Courtyard.” Of course, it was called that. What, were we eating under a diamond dome tomorrow? I muttered something profane under my breath and grabbed the shoes Thane had left—shiny cream flats I could probably kill a man with if I hit hard enough. As I reached for the door, someone knocked. I froze. Then opened it. And came face-to-face with the girl from earlier. The one who’d mocked Braymoor with her eyes and looked like she drank perfume for breakfast. She gave me a small, unsettling smile. “You’re not what I expected.” “That makes two of us,” I said. She leaned casually against the doorframe, her long russet curls pinned in elegant loops. “I’m Isobel Virelli. Tertian Province. Caste Two.” Of course, she was. Isobel studied me with careful interest. “You’re either brave or stupid to speak the way you do in front of Lady Maris.” “I’m leaning toward charmingly suicidal,” I said. She laughed—an actual laugh, light and genuine. “Good. The other girls will underestimate you.” “Is that a threat or a compliment?” “Both.” Her smile thinned. “There’s blood in this game, Carolina. Don’t forget that.” Then she turned and walked away, silk trailing behind her like smoke. The Emerald Courtyard was, in fact, emerald. From the gemstone-encrusted lighting to the hundred glowing glass tiles that lined the path to the fountain centerpiece. Tables ringed the edges, set with crystal goblets and silver utensils too delicate to actually function. The other girls arrived in waves—trailing perfume and whispered alliances. I kept my head high and my mouth mostly shut. Mostly. Lady Cressadine made an appearance just before the servers entered, flanked by palace guards like she expected an ambush. “Ladies,” she announced, “there has been a schedule change.” Thirty girls leaned forward at once. “The prince will be joining us tomorrow morning.” Whispers bloomed like mold on bread. So soon? He’s not supposed to appear for at least a week. Does that mean he’s eager? Maybe he just wants to get it over with before breakfast. Cressadine’s eyes swept over us like a broom. “You are expected to present yourselves in court attire. You will line up alphabetically by province, and you will not speak unless spoken to. You are not friends. You are candidates. Act like it.” Then she left. Poof. Gone. Just like that, the future king of Velastra entered the game. That night, I lay on the palace bed, staring at the ceiling, wide awake in a room that smelled like lavender and guilt. The crown was coming. And so was the man who wore it. I didn’t want him. Didn’t care about velvet chairs or royal bloodlines or polite applause. But I knew how to read the air. And something about tomorrow felt like a match about to hit the fuse. If the prince expected a parade of pretty smiles and compliant promises… He could have any of the others. But if he wanted fire? He was going to get burned.