THORNS OF THE FORGOTTEN CROWN

The executioner’s axe fell at dawn. From the high balconies of the Eastern Tower, the blade’s echo rang like a war drum across the stillness of the capital. Crows scattered into the lavender sky, their wings slicing through the mist above the palace walls. No one wept. Not in public. Down in the square, nobles sipped spiced wine as the crowd watched the condemned crumple in silence, another whisper erased from the ever-hungry throne of Virelya. A servant, a rebel, a traitor—no one really cared what he had done. The Regent didn’t need reasons, only reminders. And today’s reminder had been particularly loud. High above it all, in the rafters of the Grand Spire, Ashen Thorn watched through slitted eyes, masked in shadow and soot. A gloved hand gripped the hilt of a dagger slick with oil. Another life wasted, another silence bought with blood. The Regent’s reign was built on bones. Ashen Thorn had made a promise: that one day, he'd choke on them. --- Far across the city, beyond the marble gates and velvet-draped courtrooms, a girl was kicking a locked gate in broad daylight. “I said open up, you stiff-necked, silk-sniffing bastard!” Liora Vane yelled, slamming her boot into the iron bars. Two guards flinched. One dropped his spear. “Miss Vane,” the older guard said with visible effort, “your invitation was… revoked.” “Revoked?” she barked. “Revoked? I had it right here before your crony shoved me into a horse trough in Nareth.” “Official orders, I’m afraid.” “Oh, I’m afraid too,” she snapped. “Afraid I’ll knock your teeth so far down your throat you’ll have to digest them.” Behind her, a merchant’s cart passed by with a shaky mule and three wide-eyed children gaping at her. Liora gave them a mock curtsey, then turned back to the gate with a forced smile. “Listen, I don’t care what back-alley ledger you crawled out of,” she said. “Lord Vane sent me. I’m his daughter.” “You’re adopted,” the younger guard mumbled. Liora's smile dropped. Her eyes narrowed—sharp, wild, and dangerous. “What’s your name?” she asked. He hesitated. “Ren.” “Well, Ren,” she purred. “When I’m back inside those walls—and believe me, I will be—I’m going to find you. And I’m going to gift-wrap your spine for Midwinter.” Ren took a step back. The older guard sighed. “Miss Vane, the palace is preparing for the tournament. Invitations are strict.” Liora’s voice dropped low and smooth. “Then you’d better hope someone notices you let a Vane rot outside with the rats. And that I don’t find another way in.” With a final glare, she turned on her heel, muttering curses under her breath. Her cloak flared behind her like smoke trailing a wildfire. She hadn’t come all this way for nothing. She would find a way in. Through a tunnel, a servant’s door, or over the godsdamned rooftops if she had to. She didn’t care about the tournament, or the honor, or the crown. She was here to find answers. And maybe—just maybe—to set fire to every lie this kingdom had ever told. --- Back within the palace walls, deep in the chamber where secrets breathed between the stones, Prince Thalen stood before a cracked mirror. He touched the scar on his cheek, a jagged white line that split his reflection in two. Once, it had been a gift from a man trying to kill him. Now, it was the only proof he’d survived. “Do you think they’ll recognize you?” a voice asked from behind. Thalen didn’t turn. “Not if I play the fool well enough.” “You’ve had practice.” The speaker stepped into view—Nyra Elowen, court mage and keeper of the Whisper Vault. Her robes shimmered like mist woven into silk, and her eyes never stopped watching. “You don’t have to do this,” she said softly. “The line of kings is dead. Let it stay that way.” “The line isn’t dead,” Thalen replied. “It’s hiding.” She frowned. “There are worse things than hiding.” “I’m not doing this for the crown.” “No,” she said. “You’re doing it for them. For the ghosts.” He didn’t answer. Outside the chamber, bells began to toll. The palace was opening its gates to the competitors. The tournament had begun. And so had the countdown. --- In a smoky tavern on the outskirts of the capital, Riven leaned against the wall, sipping bitter wine from a chipped goblet. The tavern was loud—music, shouting, laughter—but Riven heard only the beat of footsteps. Five men. One too heavy, one too quiet. The ambush came fast. A blade at his side. A fist toward his jaw. Riven ducked, rolled, and slammed his boot into the heavy one’s knee. He moved like a shadow—quick, silent, surgical. Within thirty seconds, all five were groaning on the floor. He finished his drink and stepped over them without comment. A girl in the corner raised a brow. “That why they call you Riven?” He didn’t answer. Didn’t smile. Just tossed a coin to the barkeep and walked out. He had a contract to fulfill. Some noble girl needed an escort into the palace for the tournament. Easy coin. At least, that’s what they said.