Chapter 1: The Rose and the Thorn

The grand hall of Averlandia Castle glittered with gold and fine silks, the air thick with the scent of lilies and fresh bread. It was a day of celebration, a day for joy. The birth of a prince—a perfect son to carry the legacy of King Theron and Queen Eleanore—was a sign from the gods themselves that the kingdom’s future was bright. Nobles from across the land had gathered to pay homage, to bring lavish gifts, and to bow before the newborn who would one day rule.

At the heart of the celebration, King Theron stood tall and proud, his arm around the beaming Queen Eleanor. The infant prince, swaddled in royal blue, lay nestled in a crib of gold and velvet. The king raised his hand, silencing the cheers of his court.

“My people, we are blessed beyond measure. A son has been born! He will grow strong, noble, and wise. He will lead this kingdom to greater heights than ever before!”

The crowd erupted in cheers, raising goblets to the king’s words. All but one figure who remained silent.

At the edge of the hall, a hunched, wrinkled woman in a tattered cloak approached the throne. Her steps were slow, deliberate, and her eyes—dark, deep, and old as the mountains—never left the king. Whispers ran through the crowd as she neared, her appearance a sharp contrast to the grandeur around her. No one recognized her, but the rumors were swift: she was a witch, a woman who had lived far beyond her natural years, known only to those who feared her.

In her withered hands, she held a rose. It was perfect—its petals soft as silk, a deep crimson that seemed to shimmer in the light. The air around it smelled of summer evenings and the sweetest perfumes.

The woman stopped at the foot of the king’s throne. She bowed her head just slightly and, with a rasping voice, said, “A gift for your son, Your Majesty. A token of life and beauty.”

King Theron, still riding the wave of adulation, gave her a bemused smile. “A rose? This is all you bring to honor my son?” He extended his hand carelessly to take the flower.

As his fingers brushed the stem, a sharp pain seared his skin. He pulled back his hand with a hiss, crimson droplets of blood welling up from where the thorn had pricked him.

The room fell silent.

The king’s expression darkened. He scowled at the woman, his voice low with anger. “A thorn? You dare present me with a gift that draws royal blood?”

He threw the rose to the ground and stomped on it with his boot, crushing its petals beneath the heel.

A ripple of shock passed through the gathered nobility. The woman, however, did not flinch. Slowly, she lifted her head, and her eyes gleamed with something far older, far more dangerous than the king could comprehend.

“You are proud, King Theron. Proud as your ancestors were. But you are blind.” Her voice was low but carried through the hall, heavy with the weight of years and curses long past. “Blind to what truly matters. Your son, born of your blood, will not rule as a man. No—he shall bear the price of your arrogance, your hubris.”

The king’s face twisted in anger. “What is this madness?”