Chapter 4: Trial by Thorns

Seren woke in a bed of vines.

At first, she panicked. The vines wound around her wrists, her waist, her legs—cool and firm like cords of muscle. But they didn’t strangle or pierce. They held her in place, cradling her like a child.

She was in a room carved from living wood. Its walls curved upward like a hollowed-out tree. Pale light filtered through slits in the bark, casting green shadows across the floor.

As she shifted, the vines loosened. Carefully, she sat up.

A dress lay beside her—deep crimson, embroidered with roses and lined with silver threads. The fabric shimmered faintly, as if woven from moonlight.

She didn’t remember falling asleep. She didn’t remember dreaming. Only the voice—low, ancient, whispering through her bones.

“Choose, daughter of thorns. Choose, or be chosen.”

The room smelled of sap and lavender.

And outside the door, someone waited.

The woman in red stood at the threshold.

“Good,” she said softly. “You’ve awakened.”

Seren hesitated. “What… happened?”

“The vinebed keeps those who have passed the Marking,” the woman said. “Your body was tested for bloodline and strength. It seems the Court accepts you.”

“The Court?” Seren frowned. “You mean… the magic?”

“I mean the Thorns themselves.”

She moved into the room, her robes whispering over the floor.

“In the Old Court, power wasn’t just blood. It was bond. Every Queen was marked by the Thorn Trial. Every heir must endure the same.”

“Trial?”

The woman extended a hand. “Come. It’s time you see what remains.”

Outside, the tower gardens were alive.

But not in the way Seren remembered gardens from the human world.

The trees whispered in languages she didn’t know. The flowers blinked. Thorns curved like fingers, growing only when they were looked at.

Every step she took, the plants responded.

They reached toward her. Not in menace. In recognition.

She followed the woman to a circular stone platform at the garden’s center. Thalion stood there, arms crossed, next to Kaelen and two other fae Seren didn’t know.

One was tall, dark-skinned, with hair braided in gold thread and eyes like lightning storms. The other looked barely older than her—freckles, tousled hair, and bare feet that never seemed to touch the ground.

“The Court of Thorns,” Thalion said, nodding to them. “Or what remains.”

The woman in red lifted a hand. “Seren Vale, heir of the last Thorn Queen, you are called to the Trial.”

“Wait—now?”

“You have crossed the Veil,” she said. “You have been Marked. The land recognizes your blood. The Court recognizes your presence. But you are not Queen yet.”

“I never said I wanted to be Queen,” Seren muttered.

Kaelen smirked. “Too late for that.”

The barefoot fae stepped forward, holding a dagger carved from rosewood.

“She must choose,” he said. “Blood or bloom. Thorn or root.”

Seren blinked. “What does that mean?”

Thalion stepped beside her. “The Trial has three parts. One of the mind. One of the body. One of the will. You must face each alone.”

“If I fail?”

Kaelen said flatly, “Then you’ll die. Or worse.”

The dagger was handed to her.

Its blade hummed in her hand.

And without more explanation, the platform beneath her opened—swallowing her into shadow.

She landed in a forest made of mirrors.

Every tree, every branch, every leaf—reflected versions of herself.

Some looked the same.

Others were wrong.

Twisted. Bloodied. Laughing versions with too-wide smiles.

The first test had begun.

She moved carefully, the dagger warm in her hand.

“Mind,” she whispered. “Okay. Think.”

The forest shifted with her.

Each step forward created a dozen steps backward.

Each turn of her head multiplied into echoes.

“Why are you here?” a voice asked.

She spun around.

Her own reflection stepped out from a mirror—dressed in black, her eyes hollow.

“To pretend you’re special? To play queen of a dead court?”

“I didn’t ask for this.”

“But you wanted it.”

The reflection stepped closer.

“You wanted to matter. You wanted to be chosen.”

“No.”

“You wanted power.”

“I wanted freedom.”

Seren raised the dagger.

But the reflection raised one too.

They fought.

Blade to blade. Movement to movement.

Every strike Seren made, the reflection copied. Every dodge, mirrored.

Until Seren paused.

And closed her eyes.

“I am not you,” she whispered.

She opened them—and instead of attacking again, she dropped her dagger.

The reflection hesitated.

Seren reached out—and touched its chest.

“I forgive you,” she said.

The reflection cracked.

Then shattered.

The forest fell away.

She awoke on a mountainside.

Wind howled around her, and snow bit at her skin. The dress was gone—replaced with armor made of thorns.

The second trial: body.

A shadow moved ahead.

Massive. Four-legged. Covered in fur like night.

A direwolf.

No.

Not just a direwolf.

A Thornhound.

It snarled, baring black teeth. Its eyes glowed violet.

Seren readied herself.

No sword. Only the dagger, returned to her hand.

Great, she thought. One blade versus a fae wolf the size of a horse.

It lunged.

She dodged, barely, rolling across the ice.

It circled her, growling.

“I don’t want to kill you,” she said.

The hound lunged again.

This time, she didn’t dodge.

She ducked under its belly and slashed across its side.

Black blood spilled on the snow.

It roared—but didn’t retreat.

Instead, it turned slowly—and bowed.

Seren blinked.

“You’re not the enemy.”

The hound nosed her arm.

She touched its head.

And the wind faded.

She stood once more in the garden.

Only one trial remained.

The Court watched in silence.

Thalion stepped forward, but didn’t speak.

The final trial was not of mind or muscle.

It was of will.

Seren stepped onto the final platform.

A circle of thorned vines rose around her—fast, snapping shut like jaws.

And in the center, a throne.

A throne made of living roots and rose stems.

She approached.

It pulsed.

The closer she came, the more it grew.

Memories flooded her mind—visions not her own.

A battle in the snow.

A woman screaming.

A golden crown shattered.

A child hidden in a cradle of roots.

Seren reached for the throne.

It lashed out.

Vines whipped around her arms, slicing skin.

Blood fell.

She did not pull away.

“I am not my mother,” she whispered. “I am not your past. I am not your weapon.”

The vines wrapped tighter.

“But I am your heir. And I choose myself.”

The thorns plunged into her palms.

And then—

Silence.

The vines bloomed.

Roses opened.

The throne bent to her shape.

Seren sat.

And the forest trembled.

When the light returned, she stood clothed in crimson and silver—crowned not with gold, but with thorns.

The Court knelt.

Even Kaelen bowed his head.

And Thalion, for the first time, smiled without sorrow.

“You passed.”

Seren looked at her hands—scars now etched into her palms like runes.

“I don’t feel different,” she said.

“But you are,” Thalion said. “The land knows you. The throne has accepted you.”

“What now?”

Kaelen rose. “Now we gather the lost courts. The Thorns have awakened. And the High Fae will feel our roots again.”

Seren stood straight.

“Then we start with the one who betrayed my mother.”

“And who was that?” asked the woman in red.

Seren’s voice was steady.

“My father.”

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