Novelas y relatos de Thorns

Its design mimicked thorned vines, elegant yet malevolent. “What is this?” I whispered, horror spreading across my face as I stared into the mirror. Xareth's reflection appeared behind me, calm, composed. His breath grazed my ear as he leaned in, his smirk spreading like rot. “It's called the Chain of Thorns. Or the Thorned Binding, if you prefer something more poetic.” His voice was soft. “It looks beautiful, doesn’t it? But the real artistry lies in what you can’t see. Every thorn, invisible to the eye, digs deeper the more you resist... or feel.”

“You run. Then shoot. Then run again.” Nightfall came heavy and fast. Inside the barn, Kael lit the central brazier, tossing in dried herbs that smelled like pine and smoke. He unrolled a map across the floor Hollow Creek, the town, the forest, the valley. “The Thorns have outposts here,” he said, pointing. “They’re not a pack. They’re a hive. Led by Saris Thorne.” Lyra added, “She was once a Pact matriarch. Broke her oath. Took followers. Said the Pact made us weak.”

These were dark, their petals the color of dried blood, and they were guarded by thorns as long and lethal as daggers. In the center of the courtyard sat a stone altar, its surface etched with runes that seemed to writhe if she looked at them too long. Without a word, Thorne lifted her and pushed her onto the cold stone. The chill of the rock was a shock against her heated skin, but before she could recoil, he moved. He positioned himself between her legs and spread her thighs wide, pinning her knees back toward her shoulders. "They all know what you are now," he murmured. His voice was a dark caress, a low vibration that made her skin crawl even as it ignited

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 violet aura around him was so dense it began to suck the Blight out of the air, creating a localized vacuum of pure nothingness. ​"You speak of the 'Blood,' Thorne," Ren said, his voice overlapping in a chilling, multi-layered chorus. "But you are holding a cane made of your own ancestors' bones. You are not a wolf. You are a graverobber." ​Thorne’s sightless eye twitched. "You... the boy of the Void. You think your silence can stop the Red Grid?" ​"The Grid isn't the target," Ren replied.

Its obsidian teeth pulsed with a sickly indigo light that tasted of acidic ore and ancient rot. The harvest. I didn’t just plant the crop; I provided the ink for the scythe. My lungs seized. Every breath was a struggle against a throat filled with the phantom shards of five years of silence. I stepped forward, my boots skidding on the frost-slick stone, trying to shield Leo. The lasers simply climbed my white blazer, settling over my heart with a clinical, predatory indifference. Thorne stood at the center of his executioners, his white robes looking like funeral shrouds against the dark red glow of the abyss. He smiled, revealing rotting gums and a map of ancient greed.

My chest tightened with something close to relief. I smiled wildly with a flash of relief on my face, but the relief disappeared as quickly as it came the moment I noticed the huge thorns surrounding it. I shook my head in disappointment, knowing there was no way I would be able to get past it. The thorns were very long and sharp, surrounding the plant perfectly with not a single weak point. They formed a near perfect circle, dense and unforgiving, like they had been growing there for centuries for the sole purpose of making sure no one ever touched what was inside.

“Still not great.” I came further into the room. “There’s something I need to tell you.” She waited. “My guys found a road today. It’s in the southern boundary, past the ridge. Hasn’t been used in at least five years. We’re going out tonight to take a look.” Something changed in her face. Not surprise exactly, it was more like recognition. “The road of thorns,” she said. I went still. “What did you just say?” “That’s what it’s called.” She said it simply, like she was telling me the sky was grey. “That’s what people who actually knew it called it. The thorns grow over the markers in the wet season. They come back every year.”

His fingers, which were accustomed to gripping the hilts of swords and the reins of horses, were currently tangled in a mass of thick, forest-green yarn. "You have to cross the stitch over, then under, then tuck," Kaelen whispered, leaning in close with a grin that was entirely too friendly. "If you don't keep the tension even, it creates a hole. And if there’s a hole, the cold gets in. You don't want the cold to get in, do you, Thorne?" Thorne was sweating. He was a man of steel and blood, but he was currently being defeated by a pair of bamboo needles.

Confirmation that her scent could still make something live. --- The thistle grew. It pushed its head out from the crevice in the stone wall and swayed in the wind and snow of the Northern Territories. Its leaves were silver-white, very small, huddled in the crack of the wall. The wind battered it back and forth, but it didn't break. Its roots burrowed into the stone seam, deeper and deeper, steadier and steadier.