The thorns we bleed for

The morning after the storm tasted of regret and salt.

Seraphina stirred awake beneath the ruins of the cathedral, Lucien’s cloak draped over her like a shield. She could still feel the imprint of his touch on her skin, the ghost of his lips on her mouth. But when she sat up, Lucien was already gone.

For a moment, she thought it had all been a fever dream. The storm. His kiss. His promises of ruin.

Then she noticed it — a single black rose resting by her side, thorns sharp enough to draw blood.

Seraphina’s hand trembled as she picked it up.

He had left her behind. Again.

You knew he would.

But knowing it didn’t lessen the ache hollowing out her chest.

She wrapped the cloak around her shoulders and rose to her feet. The world beyond the cathedral was unnaturally still, the kind of stillness that comes after a slaughter. She could smell something on the wind — not rain, not smoke — but magic. Old, broken magic.

Something had changed last night.

And deep in her bones, Seraphina knew it was because of them.

A flash of movement caught her eye. Across the graveyard, between the leaning stones, a figure in white moved swiftly — almost gliding.

Seraphina narrowed her eyes. No one wore white in Varrow’s End unless they wanted to die.

Without thinking, she followed.

The figure led her down winding alleys and across crumbling bridges, never looking back, never slowing. It wasn’t until they reached the abandoned marketplace that the figure finally stopped — standing beneath the skeleton of a shattered clock tower.

Seraphina approached cautiously, her fingers brushing the dagger hidden beneath Lucien’s cloak.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

The figure turned — and Seraphina gasped.

It was a girl, no older than herself, with hair like starlight and eyes the color of a dying sun. But it wasn’t her beauty that made Seraphina’s blood run cold.

It was the mark burned into the girl’s throat — a black sigil in the shape of a broken crown.

“You love him,” the girl said, voice soft and strange. “You think you can save him.”

Seraphina said nothing. She didn’t trust her voice.

“But he is already spoken for,” the girl continued, stepping closer, her feet making no sound. “Bound by blood and vow to another.”

Seraphina’s hand tightened around the dagger.

The girl smiled sadly, as if reading her thoughts. “You cannot kill fate with a blade, Seraphina.”

“Then what do you want from me?”

The girl’s golden eyes glowed faintly. “To warn you. The more you love him, the faster you will lose yourself.”

A shiver traced Seraphina’s spine.

“And when he breaks you,” the girl whispered, almost kindly, “there will be no one left to put you back together.”

The wind howled through the empty square, rattling broken shutters and tearing at the remnants of banners long forgotten.

When Seraphina blinked, the girl was gone — leaving only the echo of her words, and the sickening certainty that loving Lucien Thorne would be the last choice she ever made.

To be continued.

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