Novel & Cerita The Language Of Thorns

I obey, the mossy ground cool and damp under my knees, the pool’s glassy surface rippling faintly as she begins to chant in an ancient tongue, words like moonlight woven into wind, stirring the lunar runes on the stones to glow. Images swirl in the water like smoke rising from embers: a grand citadel carved into jagged ridges, silver-and-black banners fluttering proudly in the breeze. A tall man with my auburn hair and hazel eyes stands atop a dais, a silver circlet crowning his head, his expression stern yet filled with paternal pride as he addresses a cheering pack. “Father,” I whisper, the word escaping like a long-held breath. Alpha King Thorne – my blood, my legacy.

Throes of Love 2 “Where are you taking me?” Isobel asked for the umpteenth time in anger. Angelo was ignoring her and there was nothing she hated more than being ignored. It irked her to no end. All she wanted was to let her brothers know she was safe and sound right now.

He said and chuckled. "No, Obviously No." She said while rolling her eyes. "Now, let me pluck the thorn out of your back." She continued and observed that a large thorn has punctured his back with a large stem and few petals of a dark red rose similar to black shade. "It's okay darlo. The person should not be afraid of thorns if they crave for roses." He said while Irina plucked out the penetrated stem of a rose. He acted to hiss in a pain.

With every step, the voice grew louder. There it was—the source of the call. A throne made of thorns, fangs, and bones. “Reunite or destroy,” it whispered.

“Yeah, I guess,” “We talking about Mateball?” Kairos and Maximus snapped their heads up to look at the door to Kairos’s room. Lounging against the door frame was Thorne. His bleach blonde hair had been freshly washed and toned. It stood out against his deep olive skin. He wore thick black rimmed glasses over his honey-gold eyes. “Yeah,” Kairos said. “You going? You taking History of Wolves or The Last Great Queen this year?” “Har, har,” Thorne rolled his eyes. “I’m taking no one. Unlike you two, I’m trying to not piss off the Queen.”

The maid knocked. "Enter," Kieran's voice came from inside. My heart was pounding so hard I thought everyone could hear it. I walked in. The door closed behind me with a soft click. The room was huge. A dining room with a long fancy table. Candles everywhere. Crystal glasses. Everything screamed money. Kieran Thorne was sitting at the head of the table. He stood up when I walked in. He wore a Black suit. His Hair was perfectly styled. He looked like he belonged in a magazine.

The ground flared, and I heaved a sigh of relief. Thornshade had answered. The thorns along the trees pulsed with pale light, rising higher, sharper, as if awakened by intrusion. The beasts hissed, circling wider now, frustrated. Draven sheaths back its sword, “What great defenses you people have.” He said sarcastically. I rolled my eyes. “Your alpha had better get better defenses before half of Thornshade is wiped before these—“ he said, pointing to the thorns, “will activate… most would be dead.”

Its papery flowers replaced by husks that rattled like dried scorpion tails in the wind. Mamá’s voice surfaced, soft as the petals she once nurtured: *“Marisol, beauty is defiance here. Remember that.” Her hands, soil-caked and steady, cupped the blooms. ‘They thrive when neglected,’ she lied. A lesson in survival.”* Now, the thorns pierced my skin, mocking her memory. A low, thrumming dread vibrated through me, a sound like a thousand wings shearing bone. A deep resonance that settled in my chest like a cold stone. It wasn't loud, but it filled the air with an echoing presence that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.

It felt real. I didn’t do the graceful forms the warriors practiced. I went to the scarred posts. I hit them. I kicked. I let the anger out—Ayla’s old terror, Liliana’s buried rage, my own cold fury. She won’t leave alive. My claws, tipped with Seris’s wolf-strength, tore long gashes in the wood. “Trying to redecorate?” The voice was a smug blade through the morning. Thorne leaned on the fence, dressed all in black, a king surveying his courtyard. A wicked little smile played on his lips.

Buried the stone *CHOOSE* there. Then he cut his palm. And Hope’s. And Luna’s. And Asha’s. He pressed all the blood into the earth. “I’m sorry,” he said to no one and everyone. “I wanted peace. But peace without choice is just sleep.” The earth drank the blood. A small sprout came up. Not silver. Green. With thorns. The new sprout grew beside the white tree. Green leaves. Pink flowers. Thorns. Wolves called it “Luna’s Thorn”.