Chapter 6: The Throne of Thorns
995 Words
The throne room wasn’t supposed to exist.
Or rather, no one had seen it in centuries—not since the fall of Seraphine and the collapse of the Scarlet Court. Most believed it lost to time, buried beneath Midnight Keep’s endless layers. Others said the throne devoured those who searched for it, whispering in their dreams until they went mad.
Vivienne found it not through logic, but through instinct.
Or perhaps memory.
She followed the scent of ash through corridors no longer listed in the Keep’s blueprints. The walls pulsed with energy, as if the Keep was waking from a slumber—aware of her presence. Doors moved. Paintings blinked. Once-familiar halls became riddles of time and space.
Vivienne moved in silence, her senses sharp. She was not afraid—not of what she’d find. She was afraid of what she’d become.
Down a spiral staircase cloaked in vines of black roses—each thorn drawing a whisper when she passed—she finally stepped into a chamber the size of a cathedral.
And there it was:
The Throne of Thorns.
It stood on a dais carved from bone-white stone. Vines spiraled around it—dead yet pulsing, each thorn tipped in dried blood. At its base were a dozen skeletal hands reaching upward, as if begging to serve. A hundred candles lit the path, but none of them cast a shadow.
Vivienne approached slowly.
The moment her foot touched the first step, a deep hum filled the air. The throne responded to her presence. Not with invitation—but with challenge.
“All power demands sacrifice.”
She turned. Lucien stood at the edge of the chamber, cloaked in shadow. He hadn’t followed her—he had arrived.
“How did you find me?” she asked.
He looked grim. “Because you are walking the same path Seraphine did. And I followed her once, too.”
Vivienne looked back at the throne. “She ruled from here?”
“No. She died here.”
Silence fell between them.
Lucien stepped closer, his presence like a storm on the horizon.
“This throne,” he said, “was not made for mortals. It was carved by the First Ones—the beings who shaped the contract before blood had meaning. The moment you sit on it, it will know your heart. It will test your will.”
“And if I’m not worthy?”
“Then it will consume you. No ceremony. No second chances. Just oblivion.”
Vivienne did not flinch. “Then let it try.”
She reached the dais. A strange heat radiated from the throne, despite its stone and thorn. She felt the weight of every Duchess who had come before. She remembered their stories—each one ending in madness, betrayal, or death.
She placed her hand on the armrest.
The world changed.
In an instant, she was not in the chamber anymore. She stood at the edge of a battlefield. Corpses stretched for miles. Fire raged in the distance. Above her, red stars fell like arrows.
Lucien lay at her feet—his armor broken, his eyes empty.
Caius stood behind her, a crown in his hands and poison on his smile.
She looked down.
In her hands—Seraphine’s sword.
And blood.
So much blood.
She screamed.
The vision shattered.
Another began.
She sat on the throne. Her face ageless. Her voice divine. The Keep bowed to her will. Kingdoms burned by her command.
Children whispered her name as both prayer and curse.
She wore no crown.
Only thorns.
"One must die."
"To bind the throne, blood must be given."
"Not past blood. Present."
She fell forward.
Lucien caught her.
“It wants blood,” she gasped. “Not Seraphine’s. Not the prophecy’s. Mine.”
“No,” he said. “There must be another way.”
“There isn’t.”
Caius entered then, his face like stone.
“I warned you,” he said. “The throne chooses, not the Council. It demands sacrifice. And sometimes... it demands a king.”
Lucien turned on him. “You knew?”
Caius nodded. “The throne never wanted Seraphine. It tolerated her. But Vivienne... she’s a child of both curse and choice. She can bind it.”
Vivienne stared between them. Her voice was hoarse. “What happens if I refuse?”
“Then the Keep will fall. The contract will unravel. The dead will return.”
“And if I accept?”
“You will become the throne. Not just its ruler—its heart.”
That night, Vivienne wrote three letters.
One to Lucien.
One to Malric.
And one to the girl she used to be.
She walked through the Keep one last time, touching its stones. Whispering to the ghosts. Apologizing to the walls that kept her secrets. Mourning the future she would never have.
At midnight, she returned to the Throne.
Lucien waited, blade at his side. “If it goes wrong—”
“You’ll kill me,” she said.
He didn’t answer.
She stepped forward.
The vines retracted.
She bled willingly—two lines across her wrists, clean and straight. She pressed her palms against the thorns.
The throne drank.
And then it spoke.
“You are not her.”
“You are more.”
“You are the thorn and the rose. The weapon and the will.”
“You are crowned.”
Power surged.
Vivienne screamed—but not in pain.
In release.
Centuries of silence shattered. Magic poured from the walls. The Keep woke.
Lucien fell to his knees.
Caius bowed.
Above them, a new crown bloomed—not of gold, but of shadow and fire. It hovered above Vivienne’s head.
When she opened her eyes, they glowed silver.
She had become something else.
Something beyond Duchess. Beyond heir.
A sovereign bound not by blood—but by will.
And the Throne of Thorns had chosen.
To be continued...
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