Thorns and Crowns

Chapter 1: The Marriage of Silence

The rain had not stopped in days.

Dark clouds hung heavy over the capital of the Great Jin Empire, casting a shadow upon the palace gates where the bride arrived — not with songs or lanterns, but under the watchful eyes of soldiers. Her carriage, painted in the colors of her defeated kingdom, rolled to a halt, its wheels slick with the mud of foreign soil.

Inside sat the former princess of Yue.

Now, nothing more than a symbol of surrender.

She held herself upright, not because she was proud, but because that was all she had left. Her hands rested in her lap, fingers curled tightly around the edge of her sleeve — a sleeve embroidered by her mother, the Empress of a land that no longer existed.

The door slid open. Rain dripped from the roof above. A eunuch bowed low.

“Your Highness. We have arrived.”

She stepped down into a world that was not hers.

The wedding was a formality — a political union to cement the victory of the Empire of Jin over the fallen Yue. No crowds had gathered. There were no musicians, no red veil, no laughter. Only incense and silence, thick with unspoken tension.

The prince did not meet her until the ceremony itself.

He stood tall and still, dressed in black robes with gold dragon embroidery coiled around his chest. His features were sharp — a face shaped by discipline rather than warmth. He didn’t smile. He didn’t even look at her.

She bowed deeply. He only gave a shallow nod in return.

The rites were spoken. Vows were exchanged, empty and cold. They drank the ceremonial wine. The cup trembled slightly in her hands — not from fear, but from rage she could not express.

This was not a marriage.

It was a burial.

Later that evening, she was escorted to her new chambers — vast, luxurious, and silent as a tomb. The servants bowed and left her alone, as instructed.

He had not come.

She stood by the carved lattice window, watching rain slide down the paper screen. Lanterns flickered in the distance, and far beyond the palace walls, she imagined her homeland — burning, surrendered, stripped of honor.

A knock came, sharp and cold.

The prince entered without waiting.

He did not greet her.

His eyes scanned the room, then settled on her.

“This union is not one I desired,” he said, voice like iron. “But it is necessary. You are here as a symbol, as our victory a princess from a fallen kingdom. I favor you by marrying you so...I expect you to know your place.”

She said nothing.

He stepped closer, stopping only a few paces from her. His gaze pierced through her, but she did not flinch.

“You are to act with grace,” he continued. “There will be no rebellion. No theatrics. Remember, your kingdom lives only because my father allowed it."

Finally, she spoke — voice soft but steady.

> “Then let your father know that Yue may have fallen, but its daughter still stands.”

A flicker — a brief twitch in his jaw — the only reaction he gave.

Without another word, he turned and left her standing alone in the room that was now her cage.

That night, she lay awake beneath silken covers, listening to the storm beyond the palace walls.

They had taken her home, her family, her title.

But they had not taken her mind.

Nor her fire.

Tears fill her eyes, She wanted to cry out loud but...

Instead, she whispered into the darkness:

> “I will not break. Not for you. Not for this empire.”

And somewhere, deep in the palace, a shadow paused — the cold prince at his window — eyes half-closed, as if listening to a song too distant to name.