The Thorn Queen

Before there was “Sleeping Beauty,” there was Queen Isolde of Arden. She loved roses more than her people, more than her crown. The garden she tended grew wild, crimson vines spreading faster than any gardener could cut.

One spring, the roses began whispering. Isolde swore they were her ancestors, telling her secrets — how to heal, how to rule, how to live forever. She started pruning herself with their thorns, feeding the soil with drops of her blood. Her beauty grew unnatural, her skin pale as wax, her lips flushed by the same crimson hue as the petals she nurtured.

When famine struck, the people begged her to burn the garden and plant wheat. She refused. “My roses are life,” she said. But when the winter came early, her subjects rebelled, storming the castle with torches. They found her kneeling among the roses — sleeping, unmoving, wrapped in vines like silk threads.

The garden burned. Yet every spring, roses still bloom over her tomb, redder than blood. And if you listen closely, the thorns whisper.