The Mirror of Thorns

In the heart of a quiet kingdom, nestled between jagged mountains and mist-covered lakes, lived a princess named Seraphine. She was unlike any royal the bards sang about. While others danced at feasts and paraded through gardens, Seraphine lived in the shadow of her own mind, scribbling stories by candlelight, where ink replaced blood and parchment held her soul.

Her tales were strange and twisting. They whispered of monstrous lovers, cursed stars, and gods who wept like men. She wrote them all in secret, convinced that her words were meant for no one. After all, what would people say? That the princess dreamed of fallen angels and talking chickens? That she twisted fairy tales into dark confessions? No. It was better this way—hidden.

But still, the doubt gnawed at her. Was she really a writer, or just a girl pretending behind a quill?

One rain-heavy evening, when even the castle flames seemed dim, Seraphine wandered into the forbidden west wing of the royal library. She wasn't searching for anything in particular—just escape. Yet as if drawn by fate or folly, she found a dust-covered mirror tucked behind ancient scrolls and forgotten spells.

It was oval, rimmed in black iron that curled like vines. Thorns of metal jutted out along the frame. A plaque below read: The Mirror of Thorns — See what truth dares not show.

Curious, Seraphine wiped the dust away and looked into the glass.

At first, she saw nothing unusual. Her own face stared back, tired and pale, eyes darkened from too many sleepless nights. But then the reflection changed.

Now she saw herself surrounded by paper torn in rage, ink spilled like blood, and her stories burning in a fire she had lit herself. The Seraphine in the mirror whispered things she had buried: You’re not good enough. No one will read this. It’s all nonsense. You're wasting your time.

She stepped back, breath caught in her throat. But the mirror wasn’t done.

Images shifted rapidly—snippets of her stories coming to life. A mermaid screamed underwater, bound by human feet. A farmer chased a talking chicken across time. A girl kissed the god of hell under falling stars.

Then came something unexpected. She saw people—real people—reading her tales. Crying, laughing, trembling. She watched as her words stitched pieces of them back together. Her darkness had become their light.

The mirror’s voice echoed again, but now, it was soft, almost kind.

"You write in fear, but your voice holds fire. Fail, yes—but fail better. Again and again, until you rise."

Seraphine stood still for a long while. When she turned away, her heart beat differently—slower, steadier, and full of something she had nearly lost: belief.

That night, she returned to her writing desk and began a new story—not to be hidden, but shared. It told of a mermaid who fell in love with the Korean god of hell, of how love changed them both, and how sometimes the monsters we fear are just misunderstood.

She wrote without stopping, hands aching, tears sometimes falling. She didn’t care if it was perfect. She cared only that it was honest.

And when she finished, she looked toward her mirror—but it was gone.

In its place lay a single line scratched into the stone:

"You are already what you were afraid to become."