Thorn Crown Novels & Stories

Elijah asked, crossing his arms. Thorne muttered, "This is just my speculation, but I think the sea gods promised them power, and perhaps many other wonderful things that might have seemed really good at the time. But the devil you see, will promise you heaven and earth… only to drag you to hell when it's all said and done." Elijah leaned forward, his jaw tight, "So where is this crown now? Do you know?" "no one knows for sure. But then…" Thorne said and picked up the tome, turned over some pages.

he said, voice dropping, gritty. “He’s not solo. You hear that?” She swallowed hard, forcing her breath thin, tuning out the thud in her ears. There—soft scuffs, boots on concrete, more than one pair echoing faint. Her gut twisted. They were boxed in, and that vial—Dorian’s sick little gift—was out there, laughing at her from the dark. “Perfect,” she grumbled, edging tighter to the wall, her arm brushing Roman’s. His heat stuck to her, and it was stupid how it messed with her head.

The oldest seer performs the ceremony, her voice carrying through the crowded space with the authority of someone who has been the room's most powerful occupant so many times that the walls have learned to cooperate with her projection. The crowns are placed. Lucian's burns its restored gold and red, the colors woven together as they were before the siege's fracture, the light coming off it warm and steady rather than the sharp fluctuating heat of the early months after the sacrifice. Lior's crown is the one Thornhaven's artisans forged from the materials Darian had been setting aside before his death, the design he apparently discussed with the craftspeople months before the final battle, t

Sanctioned means no one touches you—unless someone higher says they can. Caelric steps closer. “Where is the token.” The attacker’s eyes flick down, terrified. Soryn’s grip tightens, and the man whimpers. “Pocket—inside—” Caelric reaches in and pulls out something small. Metal. A coin-sized medallion. Even from across the room I can see the etching—too clean, too official. A crown shape. A vertical line through it like a blade. My blood turns cold. Caelric’s face doesn’t change, but his eyes harden into something I’ve only seen right before people disappear.

Never seen it twisted into a symbol of possession rather than authority. The collar around her throat was exquisite. He could see that even from where he stood in the shadows, even through the red haze of rage that clouded his vision. Three bands of braided gold, wide as his thumb, fitted perfectly to her slender neck. Intricate scrollwork decorated the metal, ancient symbols that his education recognized as Old Realm script—the language of their ancestors, before the kingdom was unified, before the Dravenharts claimed the throne. He could just make out the words etched into the gold: *Property. Bound. Claimed.*

“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.”

Mason’s jaw tightened as he regarded his sister. “I did,” she responded, strolling in. “But I’m back. Obviously.” “And Kaden?” She stiffened, her eyes darkening. “What about him?” Mason didn’t press it. No one did. My eyes lingered on the little girl with her. She had pale blonde hair and eyes so white, they rivaled mine. I looked away. “The Crown of Thorns was not forged as a gift,” I went on, ignoring the pressure against my forehead. “It was wrought from divine wrath and bound with the breath of the goddess herself.

He didn’t smirk. Didn’t tease. Just held me as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Then he placed the file in my hands. The name at the top sent a cold rush down my spine. THORNVEIL. My breath caught. He flipped the page, revealing scanned documents—birth records, royal announcements, photos, reports. Luna whispered in my mind, “This is about you.” My eyes moved slowly over the lines, absorbing the impossible truth. Queen Liora went into labor in a neighboring town…

“Next time, Alpha Aeson, we will not come as diplomats. The Heir’s pulse calls to the Crown and we always answer.” He turned and melted into the trees, his warriors following without a sound. We were left in smoking silence. Thorne knelt beside one of the Emberfall bodies, pulling something free, a small iron token stamped with the old Crescent Flame sigil. The cult again. “Alpha,” Thorne said grimly, “Emberfall and the cult are working together. Silver Crown isn’t helping them; they’re taking advantage of the chaos.” Kael didn’t answer. He was too busy running his hands over me, checking for wounds and breathing me in like I might vanish.

The sound seemed strangely loud. Then she turned around and walked away. Evelyn immediately started forward. "Wait." The woman never stopped. Within moments she disappeared between the ruins. Rowan walked over and picked up the object. His expression changed. "That's impossible." Evelyn took it from him. The item was old. Very old. A silver emblem shaped like a thorn wrapped around a sword. Her heart skipped a beat. Order of the Thorn. The symbol belonged to the hunters. More specifically, to an older generation of hunters.