The Prince Rose or Thorn

The first sensation was the cold. A deep, marrow-chilling dampness seeped through the thin fabric beneath her. Vivian groaned, her head pounding with the ferocity of a jackhammer on concrete. *Too much cheap wine last night?* she thought blearily, trying to pry her eyes open. But the light filtering through her eyelids wasn't the familiar, warm glow of her apartment’s morning sun. It was… dim. Grey. Flickering unnaturally.

She forced her eyes open, blinking against the sting. Instead of her popcorn ceiling plastered with glow-in-the-dark stars (a relic of teenage whimsy she’d never taken down), she saw vast, vaulted stone arches disappearing into shadowy heights. Heavy, dark velvet drapes hung beside tall, narrow windows crisscrossed with lead. The air smelled of dust, old stoarches disappearing into shadowy heights. Heavy, dark velvet drapes hung beside tall, narrow windows crisscrossed with lead. The air smelled of dust, old stone, beeswax, and something faintly metallic – like cold iron.

Panic, sharp and sudden, clawed its way up her throat. *Where the hell am I?*

She pushed herself up on surprisingly weak arms, wincing at the stiffness in her muscles. She wasn't in her worn flannel pajamas. She was encased in a heavy, stiff nightgown of coarse linen, scratchy against her skin. Her hands, trembling slightly, looked different. Paler. Smoother. The bitten nails she’d tried to quit chewing were gone, replaced by neatly trimmed ovals. A wave of dizziness washed over her, and fragmented images slammed into her consciousness: a blinding light, the screech of tires, the acrid smell of burning rubber… and then… nothing. Until now.

*Accident. Did I…die?*

The thought was terrifyingly plausible. But then… where was *this*? It looked like a set from one of those ridiculously expensive historical dramas she used to binge-watch. A *very* authentic set. Too authentic. The chill in the air was real. The gritty texture of the stone floor beneath the thin rug was real. The sheer, overwhelming *scale* of the room was real.

A soft gasp drew her attention. Near a massive, carved wooden door stood a young girl, maybe fifteen, dressed in a simple grey dress and white apron, her eyes wide as saucers. She held a pewter pitcher, frozen mid-step.

“M-My Lady!” the girl stammered, dropping into an awkward curtsy that nearly sent the pitcher flying. “You’re awake! Thank the heavens! We were so worried when you wouldn’t rouse…”

*My Lady?* Vivian stared, her mind struggling to process the archaic form of address and the girl’s thick, unfamiliar accent. “Who… who are you?” Her voice came out hoarse, unfamiliar to her own ears – softer, slightly higher pitched, with an accent she couldn't place. *Not my voice.*

The girl blinked, confused. “Elara, my Lady. Your chambermaid? Are you… feeling quite yourself?” Concern warred with apprehension on her young face.

Vivian’s gaze darted around the room, taking in the heavy oak furniture, the sparse tapestries depicting hunting scenes, the massive cold fireplace. It landed on a polished metal mirror hanging near a washstand. Driven by a desperate need for confirmation, she stumbled out of the narrow bed, ignoring Elara’s startled cry. She lurched towards the mirror, gripping the washstand for support.

The face that stared back was not hers. It was breathtakingly beautiful, but utterly alien. High cheekbones, flawless porcelain skin, eyes a startlingly deep violet – like amethysts caught in moonlight. Waves of thick, raven-black hair tumbled past her shoulders. It was the face of a stranger, yet… disturbingly familiar. She’d seen this face before. Not in life, but…

*On a book cover.*

Memories, not her own, flooded her mind in a chaotic torrent. A name: **Lady Vivian Ashworth**. A title: Daughter of the Duke of Blackwood. A role: The villainess. The setting: The Kingdom of Aethelgard. The story: *The Prince's Rose*. A novel she’d read just last week – a sprawling, melodramatic historical romance filled with scheming nobles, star-crossed lovers, and one particularly vindictive, doomed antagonist: Lady Vivian Ashworth.

Vivian staggered back, hitting the edge of the bed hard, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps. *Transmigration. Isekai. Oh god, it’s real. I’m INSIDE the book. And I’m HER. The villainess.*

The plot of *The Prince's Rose* crashed over her. Prince Alexander, the golden-haired, stoic heir, destined to fall for Sophia Bellweather, the kind-hearted, orphaned daughter of a minor baron. And Lady Vivian? The Duke’s spoiled, ruthless daughter, obsessed with Alexander, engaged to him through political maneuvering. She would stop at nothing to eliminate Sophia – slander, sabotage, even attempted murder. Her actions would ultimately lead to her public disgrace, her engagement broken, her family ruined, and her exile to a desolate convent… before a mysterious, fatal "accident" befell her carriage on the journey. The readers had cheered at her downfall.

*That’s my fate? Disgrace, ruin, and death?* The cold she felt earlier was nothing compared to the icy dread that now gripped her heart. This wasn't a game. This was a death sentence wrapped in silk and velvet.

"My Lady? Please, you must lie down!” Elara rushed forward, genuine fear in her eyes now. “You took such a terrible fall down the East Stair yesterday. The physician said you might be addled…”

*Addled.* Vivian grasped the excuse like a lifeline. *Confusion. Amnesia. That’s my ticket. My only hope.* She allowed Elara to guide her back onto the bed, her mind racing faster than her pounding heart.

“Elara,” she whispered, forcing her new voice to sound weak and bewildered. “I… I remember the fall. A sharp pain… then nothing. Everything… everything is foggy. Who… who am I? Where are we?” Playing amnesia was a cliché, but in this cliché-filled world, it might just work. She needed time to understand her situation, to gather information without revealing the terrifying truth.

Elara’s eyes filled with sympathetic tears. “Oh, my poor Lady! You are Lady Vivian Ashworth, daughter of His Grace, the Duke of Blackwood. We are in your chambers at Blackwood Castle. You’ve lived here all your life!” She wrung her apron nervously. “Should I fetch the physician? Or… or perhaps His Grace? Or Lord Thomas?”

*Lord Thomas.* Vivian’s borrowed memories supplied the image: her younger brother. Ambitious, cunning, and utterly devoted to the family’s power. He saw her engagement to the Prince as the ultimate stepping stone. He was also one of the main architects of her schemes in the novel, whispering poison in her ear, manipulating her jealousy. *Dangerous.*

“No! No physicians… not yet,” Vivian said quickly, perhaps too quickly. She softened her tone. “Please, Elara. Just… tell me things. Small things. It might help the fog clear. Start with… today. What is happening in the castle?” Information was survival.

Elara hesitated, then nodded, eager to help. “Well, my Lady… it’s rather quiet this morning. His Grace is in his study with the steward. Lord Thomas is attending to estate matters in the south fields. The household is preparing for…” she trailed off, biting her lip.

“Preparing for?” Vivian prompted gently, though a knot of foreboding tightened in her stomach.

“For the Prince’s arrival, my Lady,” Elara whispered, as if saying it too loud might jinx it. “He is due tomorrow afternoon, with his retinue. For the… the betrothal discussions.” She glanced at Vivian, expecting the usual haughty excitement or demanding orders for preparations.

Instead, Vivian felt only cold terror. *Alexander. Tomorrow.* The man she was supposed to be obsessed with, the man whose love for another would drive her to ruin. The central figure of her impending doom.

She forced a weak smile that felt like a grimace. “Oh. Yes. The Prince.” Her mind whirled. *Twenty-four hours. I have twenty-four hours before the main plot crashes into me.* She needed to understand the castle, the people, the *rules* of this world. She needed to know how deeply Vivian Ashworth’s reputation as the venomous villainess was already entrenched. Were her actions before the transmigration already setting her on the path to destruction? The novel started *in medias res*, with her actively tormenting Sophia. What had happened *before*?

“Elara,” Vivian said, her voice gaining a sliver of steadiness born of sheer necessity. “Could you… could you help me dress? Something simple. I feel… I feel the need to walk. To see familiar places. Perhaps it will jog my memory.” She needed to get out of this room, out of this stifling atmosphere of impending doom. She needed to *see*.

Elara looked doubtful. “But the physician said rest, my Lady…”

Please, Elara,” Vivian infused her voice with a vulnerability she hoped was convincing. “The walls feel like they’re closing in. Just a short walk? In the inner courtyard garden, perhaps?” A relatively safe, controlled environment to start.

Reluctantly, Elara agreed. The process of dressing was an ordeal in itself. Layers of stiff undergarments, a heavy woolen dress in deep emerald green (Vivian Ashworth’s signature color, the memories supplied), laced so tightly Vivian felt her breath constrict. Leather shoes that pinched. Elara fussed with her hair, braiding and pinning it into a severe style that accentuated the sharp angles of her new face. Looking in the mirror again, Vivian saw the villainess fully formed – beautiful, cold, intimidating. It was a mask she desperately needed to learn how to wear, or at least, how to hide behind.

Stepping out of her chamber was like stepping onto another planet. The corridor was wide, lined with faded tapestries and grim-faced portraits of stern ancestors. Cold stone floors echoed underfoot. Servants scurried past, heads bowed, murmuring respectful “My Lady’s” but avoiding eye contact. The fear and deference were palpable, but Vivian sensed no warmth, no genuine respect. Only wariness. *This is the legacy I’ve inherited,* she thought grimly. *Fear, not loyalty.*

She followed Elara through a labyrinth of corridors, down a broad staircase, and finally out into a walled courtyard garden. It was meticulously maintained but felt sterile – geometric hedges, dormant rose bushes stripped of blooms, gravel paths crunching underfoot. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and evergreen. Compared to the oppressive grandeur inside, it felt almost freeing.

Vivian walked slowly, feigning to absorb the surroundings, while her mind cataloged everything: the height of the walls, the position of the gates, the types of guards (stoic, armored men bearing the Blackwood crest – a snarling wolf), the few other nobles or attendants who gave her wide berth. She saw a flash of blonde hair near a far archway – a young woman in a simple blue dress, head down, carrying a basket of linens. *Sophia?* Vivian’s heart lurched. The heroine. The catalyst for her destruction. She quickly looked away, a surge of irrational panic rising. *Not yet. I can’t face her yet.*

A figure emerged from a doorway opposite – a man in his late twenties, impeccably dressed in dark riding leathers and velvet, his dark hair slicked back, a calculating sharpness in his grey eyes. A smirk played on his lips as he saw her.

“Ah, Sister,” he drawled, his voice smooth as oiled silk. “Taking the air? Or surveying your domain before the Prince arrives to claim it?” He stopped before her, his gaze sweeping over her with an appraising, almost possessive air. **Lord Thomas Ashworth.**

Vivian felt a chill that had nothing to do with the garden air. Instinct screamed *danger*. The novel’s memories surged: Thomas whispering about Sophia’s low birth, suggesting ‘accidents’, urging Vivian to use her position ruthlessly. He wasn’t just a brother; he was a puppeteer, and the original Vivian had been his willing marionette.

She summoned every ounce of her new-found aristocratic bearing, channeling the cold hauteur she’d seen in the mirror. “Thomas,” she acknowledged, keeping her voice level, devoid of the usual simpering affection the original Vivian showed him. “Merely clearing my head after yesterday’s… mishap.” She watched his eyes closely, searching for any sign he knew more about the ‘fall’ than he should.

A flicker of surprise crossed his face at her tone, quickly masked. “A nasty business, that. Clumsy of you.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “But no matter. Tomorrow is what counts, Vivian. Alexander comes. We must ensure he sees only your finest qualities. And sees nothing… *untoward*.” His eyes darted meaningfully towards the archway where Sophia had vanished. “Distractions must be managed. Severely, if necessary. Remember our conversation?”

Conversation?* Vivian’s blood ran cold. *What had the original Vivian agreed to? What had they already set in motion?* She couldn’t ask. Amnesia shielded her from past actions, but it also left her blind to the traps already laid.

She met his gaze, keeping her violet eyes as impassive as she could manage. “My memory of yesterday, and many things before, is… unreliable, Thomas,” she stated, carefully reinforcing the amnesia cover. “The physician believes it temporary. For now, I find myself disinclined towards… complications.” She put a subtle emphasis on the last word, hoping he’d interpret it as caution rather than defiance.

Thomas studied her for a long, uncomfortable moment, his smirk fading into a thoughtful, calculating expression. The sharp intelligence in his eyes was unnerving. “Disinclined?” he repeated softly. “How… interesting. The fall must have rattled you more than we thought.” He reached out and patted her cheek, a gesture that felt like a spider crawling on her skin. “Rest, dear sister. Regain your strength. And your *resolve*. You’ll need it.” He gave Elara a dismissive nod and strode away, his boot heels clicking sharply on the stone path.

Vivian watched him go, the icy dread solidifying into a hard knot in her stomach. Thomas wasn't just a threat; he was an active player expecting his villainous partner to perform. Her amnesia act might buy her time, but it also made her unpredictable in his eyes. Unpredictability could be dangerous.

She turned back to the bleak garden, the weight of the castle, the title, the terrible fate, pressing down on her. She was Vivian Ashworth, the villainess. Prince Alexander arrived tomorrow. Her brother was plotting. The heroine was nearby. And she had no idea what schemes were already in play.

*Survival,* she thought, the word a desperate mantra in her mind. *Not love, not power, not revenge. Just survival.* She had to navigate this gilded cage, understand the rules, identify allies (if any existed), and find a way to avoid the gruesome destiny the plot demanded. The complexities of this new reality weren't just political or social; they were a matter of life and death. Her first investigation had already begun, and the first secret uncovered was the most terrifying one: her own identity and its deadly trajectory.

The gravel crunched under her shoes as she walked, each step echoing the beginning of a perilous journey she never asked for, in a story where she was destined to lose. But Vivian Ashworth, the soul from another world trapped within the villainess, was determined to rewrite the ending. One terrifying, uncertain step at a time.