Our relationship has remained light and easy over the years, which I cherish more than he knows. Spending time with him and the beautiful horses he cares for is often my only escape from a life most would embrace, yet a life that is my prison.
I’ve never forgotten the sacrifice my mother made to keep me alive, nor what she taught me about protecting myself. Sometimes, sadly a little less often every passing year, a small part of me is all her. The part of me that rebels, the spirited Fae that still yearns for freedom from her duty to the Thorn Crown, for a sense of belonging—especially while I’m around Prince Kiernan.
Compliance without conviction.
“I’d better get back before someone comes to find me.” I sigh and get up, brushing the grass and dust from the back of my plain black dress. It’s quite a walk back to the castle, and I’m expected to be waiting ready for the Prince to escort me to our evening meal in the Great Hall.
I give Heller a quick hug. His rough fingers dance along my arm as I pull away, as if he wants to stop me, but we walk our separate ways—he towards the stable block down the hill, a large wooden building built beside the Western Pasture, me towards the dark castle, several windows already glowing with soft orange Faelight.
“And for the love of the Gods, have a bath,” I shout over my shoulder.
His deep laugh echoes into the fading light.
The Castle of Thorns and its hundred-foot walls are more fortress than castle. Built of dark grey stone, thick black vines of thorns entwine between the stones—a living manifestation of the King’s power. As one of the last fertile areas left in Kaladia due to The Corruption, the fortress encloses a vast area where the last of the Earthbound Fae live and work, the imposing castle looming like a shadowy wraith over it all. Bitterness settles in my chest.
The Corruption.
The reason I find myself under the King’s stifling rule. No one knows how it came to be, though many have debated its origins for years. Some say it was born from ancient curses, others believe it emerged from forbidden magic gone terribly wrong, and still others whisper that it’s a punishment from the Goddess Terra herself for our collective sins. Where once our kingdom was full of life and vitality, now it lies dead and unforgiving. The air itself feels heavy and oppressive in the Barrens, as if the very essence of life has been drained away, leaving behind only silence and despair.
Not too dissimilar from the King.
As I slip inside a wooden door at the back of the castle, the smell from the Kitchens makes my mouth water and my belly rumble. The rich aroma hits me, and I realise just how hungry I am. I can almost taste it on my tongue, and I let out a small moan of anticipation.
I hurry down the hall. The Royal Household has warned me many times that it’s‘unbecoming of a future Princess to use the staff entrances and halls.’I reach a heavy wooden door and open it slowly, taking a quick peek left and right, praying no one is around. I’m lucky—it all seems quiet. No Thorn Guardsstalking the shadows or even wait staff to catch me skulking about. I gently close the door behind me and start down the vast and draughty hallway. If I’d gone the other direction, I would have ended up at the Great Hall, and Gods forbid I turn up to the evening meal in a day-worn dress and not attached to Prince Kiernan’s arm.
The inside of the castle is as dark and eerie as the outside. A black-and-golden runner carpet covers the stone floor, so plush that my shoes sink deep into the pile. Matching black-and-golden banners—the Court of Thorn colours stamped with their golden emblem of a circle of thorns surrounding three roses—adorn the walls alongside various old, obscure paintings. The lighting is low, the soft orange glow of Faelight casting shadows where it fails to penetrate.
I reach the main entrance hall, where the grand staircase dominates the space. It’s crafted from dark, polished ebony, wide enough for three people to walk abreast. The banister is a masterpiece of intricate carvings of intertwined thorn vines and blooming roses.
As I begin to climb, my slippers sink into the plush black-and-golden stair runner, and I look up towards a towering stained-glass window on the landing depicting the King on his thorny throne, sending a shudder down my spine as usual.
At the first landing, the staircase splits. One branch continues up to one small landing leading to the left, the other to the right, both halls disappearing into shadowed archways. Above, a massive golden chandelier adorned with countless Faelight globes and entwined with thorny vines hangs from the impossibly high ceiling, its golden chains glinting in the light.
I make a quick dash up the right stairs towards the East Wing and my suite. Reaching the dark wooden door, a wave of relief rushes through me—no one was waiting.
I push inside.
I catch my reflection in the golden-framed full-length mirror in the corner of my bedroom as I pass.
The gown I have changed into is a beautiful floor-length black satin, shimmering as it catches the Faelights. Delicate golden thorn vines and roses are stitched around the neckline and hems. The sleeves are long, a pattern of intricate webs of fine black thread from shoulder to wrist.
I quickly pull my fingers through my long and curly, deep purple hair, no time to even try and tame its wildness.
Before I turn away, I go utterly still, a moment of self-scrutiny. My pale skin is a creamy canvas; a constellation of tiny freckles dusted across the bridge of my nose and cheekbones. My eyes are amethyst, flecks of violet catching the light. My full pink lips suddenly droop at the corners as I take in the one feature I cannot hide—the thing that ruins everything else.
Scored through my left eye, starting above the brow and finishing just before my jaw: a black and veiny scar. A daily reminder of my duty to the Thorn Crown and the man who gave it to me.
A sharp rap on the door has me turning away from the swirling emotion reaching out from my reflection. I make for the door, my black heels clicking and the long gown sweeping my ankles. I hesitate for a mere second with my hand on the golden doorknob and take a deep breath, composing my face into a blank mask, then I pull the door open.
His cologne hits me first, a deep, cloying musk that wafts off him in waves, and I hold my breath so as not to gag. He towers over me by half a foot, and he is leaning cockily within the doorway, one hand on the frame, the other in the pocket of his black dress trousers.
I look up into his looming gaze, green eyes beneath long strands of black fringe that graze his heavy brows. He wears his annoying signature one-sided smirk on a face that begs me to slap it.
“Good evening, Princess,” his rich, velvety voice drawls, and his eyes rove from my face downwards in a slow, lewd gaze, over the swell of my breasts and the curve of my hips, making heat rise with anger to my cheeks. His features twist—a wince—as he comes back up to my face and takes in my scar.
“Satisfied with the view?” I ask, my voice sharp. “I’d hate to think I failed such a … thorough assessment.” I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks again as I stand there, arms crossed over my chest. Shifting my weight from one foot to the other, I am unable to hide my discomfort at his gaze.
Prince Kiernan straightens his posture. He looks away and inhales, sharp and quick, but holds the breath before he finally looks back at me. The rest of his short black hair riots in haphazard spikes around his head, always looking a little messy, even when tamed.
