Thorns Beneath the Crown
1599 Words
The court changed the moment Elyndor arrived.
Trumpets announced her presence long before she crossed the gates—silver and gold echoing through marble corridors, forcing servants to bow and courtiers to smile wider than they meant to. The imperial banners were lowered in ceremonial welcome, and the air itself seemed to tighten, as if the palace knew it was being measured.
I stood at the edge of the great hall, half-hidden behind a column of black stone, watching her approach.
Elyndor of Belinium was every inch the future empress they wanted her to be.
Her gown was pale ivory, embroidered with sigils of ancient dynasties, the fabric so fine it shimmered like frost. Her hair—long, ash-blonde—was braided with pearls and thin threads of silver, framing a face sculpted for portraits and propaganda alike.
Beautiful.
Controlled.
Deadly in the quiet way that only women raised among knives could be.
Atum stood at the foot of the dais when she reached him.
He did not smile.
He bowed.
The court exhaled.
She placed her hands in his, delicate and deliberate, and leaned in to kiss his cheek. “My Emperor,” she said softly, loud enough for everyone to hear. “I’ve missed you.”
His eyes flicked—just once.
Toward me.
Possessive. Unthinking.
Elyndor noticed.
Her gaze followed his, sharp as a blade sliding free of silk.
And then she smiled at me.
Later, as the court dissolved into murmured approval and carefully staged joy, she found me alone in the eastern gallery.
“Lady Tara,” she said, voice smooth as polished stone. “Or is it something else today?”
I turned slowly, offering a shallow bow. “Titles change depending on who’s asking.”
Her eyes swept over me, taking inventory. “Interesting choice of colors,” she said, glancing at my dark cloak. “Mourning suits some women better than celebration.”
“I find it honest,” I replied. “Unlike white.”
A pause.
Then a laugh—soft, musical, razor-edged.
“You’re bold,” she said. “I see why he keeps you close.”
“I don’t belong to him.”
Her smile sharpened. “Everyone in this palace belongs to him. Some just pretend otherwise.”
“And you?” I asked.
“I am here to become his wife.”
The words landed like a challenge.
“One month,” she continued. “That’s all we have before the wedding. I intend to make good use of every day.”
I met her gaze, unflinching. “Then I hope you enjoy the preparations.”
“Oh, I will,” she said. “Especially removing unnecessary… distractions.”
Elyndor did not raise her voice.
She never had to.
The knights stood before her in a quiet antechamber, armor polished, eyes lowered—not in reverence, but in understanding. They knew this tone. It was the one used when mercy was not expected.
“The girl called Tara,” Elyndor said, adjusting the ring on her finger as if discussing court gossip. “She wanders too freely for someone without title.”
“Yes, my lady,” the captain replied.
“You will follow her,” Elyndor continued. “Not openly. I want to know where she goes, who she meets, and how often she leaves the palace without permission.”
“And if she notices?”
Elyndor smiled faintly. “Then she is sharper than I thought.”
She stepped closer, lowering her voice just enough to feel intimate. Dangerous.
“If an opportunity presents itself,” she said calmly, “an accident would be… unfortunate. Streets are unsafe at night. Fires spread. Magic misfires.”
The captain hesitated. Just a fraction.
Her gaze snapped to his.
“I will not ask again,” she said. “Remove the problem quietly—or return to me with proof that she is worth keeping alive.”
The knights knelt.
Elyndor turned away, already bored.
Outside, the empire continued celebrating a wedding that had not yet happened.
That night, I left the palace before the moon reached its peak.
The witches were being moved again—this time through the lower districts, under heavy guard. I felt it before I saw it: the tremor in the ley lines, the sick pull of fear and blood.
I didn’t see Elyndor’s knights until it was too late.
Steel flashed from the shadows, cutting off my escape routes with military precision. They moved fast—trained not to kill, but to corner.
To capture.
I fought back with magic and blade, but they were relentless. One strike slipped through my guard—a burning line across my ribs that stole my breath and painted my side red.
I screamed the spell through blood and pain.
The world folded.
I collapsed into grass and night air, the scent of jasmine and wet stone filling my lungs.
Atum’s gardens.
He was there—just as he always was at this hour—walking the moonlit paths like a man haunted by his own thoughts.
He froze when he saw me fall.
“Tara.”
He was at my side in an instant, hands already glowing with restrained magic, voice breaking as he took in the blood soaking my clothes.
“Who did this?” he demanded.
I tried to answer.
Darkness claimed me instead.
When I woke again, it was to warmth.
Soft sheets. Low light. The steady rhythm of a heartbeat nearby.
Atum sat beside the bed, armor discarded, sleeves rolled back, his hands stained with dried blood that wasn’t his.
He didn’t notice I was awake at first.
He was too busy brushing my hair back from my face with shaking fingers.
“You’re impossible,” he murmured. “Do you know that?”
My lips parted, but no sound came.
He pressed his forehead to my hand. “I should lock you in these gardens and burn the rest of the world down.”
I smiled faintly.
He noticed then.
His head snapped up. “You’re awake.”
I tried to sit. He stopped me instantly.
“No,” he said. “You’ve been unconscious for three days.”
“Elyndor,” I whispered.
His jaw tightened. “I know.”
Silence stretched between us, heavy with everything unsaid.
“I’ll deal with her,” he said finally. “And with anyone who dares touch you again.”
“You can’t,” I murmured.
“I can,” he replied softly. “And I will.”
His hand closed around mine, firm and warm.
Outside, the empire prepared for a wedding.
Inside, something far more dangerous was waking.
The room was dim, lit only by a single brazier.
Elyndor stood by the window when Atum entered, her back straight, her posture flawless. She did not turn immediately.
“You’re furious,” she said lightly. “I can feel it from here.”
Atum closed the door behind him.
The sound echoed like a verdict.
“She was followed,” he said. “Cornered. Wounded.”
Elyndor turned then, brows lifting in practiced concern. “How tragic. Thalassas is dangerous for women who walk alone.”
“She collapsed in my gardens,” he continued. “Bleeding. Unconscious.”
A pause.
Then: “Did she survive?”
Atum’s eyes burned. “Do not insult me by pretending ignorance.”
Silence stretched—thick, brittle.
“You forget your place,” Elyndor said at last. “You are an emperor. You cannot afford attachments that undermine stability.”
“She is under my protection.”
Elyndor laughed softly. “You protect her by hiding her behind palace walls while she defies you? While she risks exposure? While she turns you into something careless?”
He stepped closer. The air itself tightened.
“If she dies,” Atum said quietly, “there will be no wedding.”
Elyndor’s smile vanished.
“You would plunge the empire into chaos for her?”
“I would burn it,” he replied without hesitation. “And rule the ashes.”
For the first time, Elyndor looked uncertain.
And uncertainty, she knew, was dangerous.
The court began to whisper.
They whispered about delays. About the emperor canceling audiences. About guards posted where they did not belong—outside private chambers, along garden paths, at the doors of healers sworn to silence.
They whispered about Elyndor too.
About her tightening grip on the council. About sudden arrests. About witch trials accelerating “for public reassurance.”
She stood before the High Council days later, chin lifted, voice clear.
“The people need certainty,” she said. “A wedding date. A purge that proves the crown does not waver.”
Atum said nothing.
His silence was worse than refusal.
Eyes drifted between them, measuring the fracture.
“You hesitate,” Elyndor continued, turning to him now. “Because of one woman.”
Atum finally spoke. “Because of injustice.”
A murmur rippled through the chamber.
Elyndor smiled—cold, triumphant. “Then perhaps the council should reconsider how much power sentiment is allowed to hold.”
She leaned closer, voice dropping just for him.
“You can protect her,” she whispered. “Or you can rule. But not both.”
Atum met her gaze, something ancient and terrible stirring behind his eyes.
“Watch me,” he said.
And in that moment, the empire understood:
This was no longer a wedding.
It was a war being declared—quietly, elegantly, and with blood already spilled.
- Writer
