A Vow of Vengeance and Silk
On the morning of her wedding, Lady Seraphine Vaelis stands before the court in a gown of ivory silk, her hands steady despite the poison vials hidden in her sleeves.
She has spent her life preparing for this moment, not as a blushing bride, but as a noblewoman raised on the art of subtle vengeance. Yet nothing could prepare her for the sight of her sister’s handkerchief, stained with Prince Tristan’s crest, fluttering to the marble floor at her feet.
The betrayal is public. Brutal. Tristan doesn’t just reject her, he brands her a traitor, his smile sharp as the dagger he once gifted her. The guards drag her away as the court watches, her sister’s laughter following her into the dungeons.
That night, a stranger emerges from the shadows of her cell. Prince Kaelan Dain, the exiled heir of the Thorn Court, offers her a choice: "Die a traitor, or live long enough to watch them burn." Seraphine chooses fire. Disguised as Kaelan’s bride, Seraphine enters the Thorn Court, a gilded nightmare of stitched lips and black roses. The courtiers smile with pearl-white teeth, their eyes hollow. The queen’s advisors never speak, their mouths sewn shut with silver thread. And Kaelan? He wears gloves at all times, hiding scars that glow like dying embers.
Seraphine learns the hard way that the crown is no mere ornament, it’s a living thing, a parasitic horror that has consumed generations of royal heirs. It whispers. It hungers. And it has chosen her as its next vessel. But the crown isn’t the only monster in the court.
Queen Lysara, who treats people like embroidery, something to stitch into pretty patterns or cut away when they fray.
The Silent Blades, assassins with too many teeth and shadows that don’t move right. The First Daughter, a failed heir locked in the catacombs, her stretched face a grotesque mirror of Seraphine’s own. And Kaelan? He’s hiding something. Something that makes his hands shake when he thinks she isn’t looking. The deeper Seraphine digs, the uglier the truth becomes. Her engagement to Tristan was never about politics. She was bred for this, raised to be the perfect vessel for the crown.
Kaelan isn’t just an exile. He’s the crown’s last surviving heir, fighting its influence day by day. The Thorn Court isn’t a kingdom. It’s a feeding ground. When the queen forces Seraphine to witness an "ascension" a living prince transformed into a hollow-eyed puppet, she realizes the crown doesn’t just want her body.
It wants her rage.
And her winnings. Seraphine’s skin cracks with emerald veins as the crown’s whispers grow louder. Tristan’s head on a spike, Kaelan kneeling at her feet, the kingdom hers for the taking.
The only thing keeping her grounded? Kaelan’s scars, the ones that match hers. The garden’s heart holds the crown’s lifeblood, a pool of liquid darkness. To kill the crown, Seraphine must corrupt its source. But the cost? Becoming part of it. She plunges Pip’s dagger into the black water… and lets the void take shape. The Thorn Court collapses in on itself, its gilded halls now tombs.
Seraphine emerges changed, her eyes flecked with black, her touch freezing. The crown is gone, but something lingers beneath her skin.
Kaelan’s scars still glow. The roots run deeper than they thought.
And in the ruins, something stirs…
This isn’t a story about good versus evil. it is about what happens when the knife you wield against monsters start to feel like part your hand.
And what will you sacrifice to keep it there.
