The Thorned Rose of Anwyn

Prologue: The Blood Feud

The forests of Cernyw had long been stained by the feud between the druids of the Blackthorn Circle and the Iron Wolf Clan. Generations of spilled blood hardened hearts, but not all. Eira, heir to the druids’ ancient magic, and Faelan, the Iron Wolf’s fiercest warlord, met in secret beneath the hawthorn grove—a place where the veil to the Otherworld thinned, and whispers of the Thorned Bride lingered.

Chapter 1: The Vow in Shadow

Moonlight filtered through the twisted branches as Eira pressed a hand to Faelan’s chest, her fingertips brushing the silver knotwork tattoo over his heartbeat. “The clans will never accept this,” he murmured, his voice rough as the blade he wielded.

“Then we don’t ask for acceptance,” Eira said, her crown of black roses trembling. “We ask the Thorned Bride.”

Faelan stiffened. Legends spoke of the fae queen who’d cursed herself to guard the gates of Anwyn after her mortal lover betrayed her. Those who sought her blessing faced trials of blood and bone—and failure meant becoming thorn and shadow in her grove.

“You’d bind us to her?” he growled.

Eira’s eyes glinted like the Ogham stones encircling them. “She’s the only one who cares if love is real.”

Chapter 2: The Gate of Obsidian Roses

At midnight, they carved their names into the oldest hawthorn, blood mingling with bark. The air crackled, and the trees groaned as thorns wove themselves into an archway dripping with obsidian blooms. Beyond it, the Otherworld shimmered—a realm of eternal twilight, where the grass cut like blades and the wind carried screams masquerading as song.

The Thorned Bride awaited them.

Her form shifted: one moment a maiden draped in gossamer and roses, the next a skeletal wraith crowned with antlers. “Lovers,” she crooned, her voice honey and rust. “You seek my blessing? Prove your hearts.”

Her hand unfurled, revealing three obsidian rose petals. “Three trials. Three truths. Fail, and your souls will root here forever.”

Chapter 3: Trial of the Shattered Mirror

The first petal dissolved, plunging them into a cavern of mirrored ice. Reflections of their pasts flickered: Eira’s father cursing Faelan’s name, Faelan’s sword piercing a druid’s heart.

“Choose,” the Bride whispered. “Sacrifice a memory—one that chains you to hate.”

Eira hesitated, then touched a mirror showing Faelan burning a druid shrine. “Take it,” she said, tears freezing on her cheeks.

Faelan roared, slashing a memory of Eira’s kin ambushing his kin. The mirrors shattered, and the Thorned Bride laughed. “One truth remains: you still fear each other.”

Chapter 4: Trial of the Hollow Heart

The second petal led them to a lake of liquid silver. “Drink,” the Bride commanded. “And reveal the lie in your hearts.”

Eira drank first. The silver burned, forcing her to speak: “I fear his rage will consume him… and me.”

Faelan’s turn. “I fear… she’ll regret choosing me.”

The lake boiled, dragging them under. They surfaced gasping, clutching each other as the Bride sighed. “How tedious. Mortals always cling to doubt.”

Chapter 5: Trial of the Eternal Thorn

The final petal opened a glade where a single rose grew—thorns gleaming like daggers. “Pluck it,” the Bride said. “But know this: its thorns carry a curse. One of you must bleed to grant the other life.”

Faelan reached first. “No,” Eira hissed, grabbing his wrist. “The Bride twists vows. Let me—”

“You’ve sacrificed enough,” he said, wrenching the rose free. Thorns pierced his palm, veins blackening as he collapsed.

Eira screamed, cradling him. “Take me instead! Heal him!”

The Bride knelt, her antlers casting jagged shadows. “Ah, but he took the wound willingly. The final truth: love is sacrifice… and sacrifice is mine.”

Epilogue: The Garden of Whispers

Dawn broke over Cernyw. The hawthorn grove stood silent, save for two new trees—one draped in black roses, the other in silver thorns. The clans, finding their heirs gone, declared the feud ended.

Yet on moonlit nights, villagers swear the trees whisper. A man’s laugh, a woman’s sigh, and the faintest hum of a lullaby.

The Thorned Bride watches, her crown heavier with fresh blooms. “Rest well, little loves,” she murmurs. “You paid the price… but my garden always hungers.”