The blue glow of my monitor cast shadows across my cluttered desk as I stared at the game's interface, my fingers hesitating over the controller. Three empty energy drink cans stood like sentinels beside my keyboard, proof of another sleepless night lost in a world that had somehow become more real to me than my own cramped apartment.
I never thought I'd become so utterly consumed by what should have been just another dating simulation game. Hell, when I first picked up "Crown of Thorns: A Noble's Heart" from that discount bin at the electronics store, I'd almost put it back. The cover art screamed shoujo manga—all sparkly eyes and flowing hair, clearly targeting the otome game crowd. But boredom had won out over pride that rainy Tuesday evening six months ago, and now here I was, completely addicted to a story that should have been beneath my notice.
The premise was painfully predictable on the surface: Allan Reeves, a blacksmith's son from the merchant quarter, gets thrust into the glittering world of nobility through a scholarship to the Royal Academy. There, he meets Lady Diana Alasmira, the Duke's beloved daughter. Of course, he falls head over heels for her perfect smile and kind nature. And naturally, there's a villainess standing in their way—the cold, calculating Princess Serena, who must be defeated to save both the kingdom and true love itself.
It was textbook hero's journey material, the kind of paint-by-numbers fantasy that populated countless light novels. Yet somehow, the writers had managed to craft characters that felt genuinely human beneath all the typical tropes. Well, most of them anyway. Allan still made me want to throw my controller across the room half the time.
The soft chime of the game's melancholy soundtrack pulled me back to the present moment, back to the scene that had been eating at me for the past hour. My character stood in the ruins of the throne room, ornate tapestries torn and scattered across marble floors stained with blood. Shattered stained glass windows let in pale moonlight that painted everything in ethereal blues and silvers.
And there, collapsed against the base of her own throne, was Queen Serena Viola Ruthelphia.
My chest tightened despite myself as I took in her appearance. The game's artists had outdone themselves with this final scene. Serena's elaborate crown lay broken beside her, its amethyst and ambers scattered like tears across the cold stone. Her midnight-purple hair, usually bound in an elegant updo that spoke of royal authority, now spilled loose around her shoulders. The crimson of her blood stood out starkly against her dark silk gown—a gown that had once been purple.
But it was her eyes that held my attention. Even through the stylized art of the game, I could see the exhaustion there. Those deep dark violet eyes that had once blazed with coldness and ruthlessness now stared at nothing, unfocused and dim.
Allan stepped forward.
"You earned all of this, Your Majesty," Allan's voice carried that insufferable tone of righteous certainty that had grated on my nerves throughout the entire game. The voice acting was decent, but the words themselves made my skin crawl.
I wanted to reach through the screen and shake him. Here was Serena, barely clinging to life, and this was what he chose to say? Not a moment of mercy, not even basic human compassion?
"You brought it upon yourself," Allan continued, his sword still dripping with her blood as he stood over her broken form. "You are now suffering everything you have caused in the Kingdom. This isn't how a Queen should have ruled."
The hypocrisy was staggering. Allan spoke as if he understood the weight of leadership, as if he had any concept of what it meant to make impossible choices with lives hanging in the balance. He was eighteen years old, for crying out loud—a blacksmith's son who'd been playing at being a hero for barely two years.
I'd read between the lines of the story, picked up on details that Allan's narrow perspective had missed entirely. Serena had become queen at twelve when her parents died in that suspicious carriage accident. Twelve years old, thrust into a world of scheming nobles who saw a child on the throne as an opportunity to seize power for themselves. The game had shown glimpses—brief cutscenes and throwaway lines of dialogue—that painted a picture of systematic manipulation and abuse.
Of course Allan didn't know any of this. The game was told from his perspective, and he'd never bothered to dig deeper, never questioned why a twelve-year-old girl might grow up to become ruthless. He saw only the results, not the causes.
"If you had just been kinder…If you had listened to your people instead of surrounding yourself with corrupt advisors, none of this would have been necessary."
I watched Serena's face as he spoke, noting how her eyes didn't even flicker in his direction. She wasn't listening to his speech. Maybe she couldn't hear him anymore, or maybe she simply didn't care what her executioner had to say. There was something almost peaceful about her expression now, as if she'd finally found some measure of quiet after years of constant noise and pain.
Allan by the way was criticizing her for the very nobles who had tormented her in the first place. Those corrupt advisors he mentioned? They were the same men who had controlled and manipulated her for years. When she'd finally grown strong enough to remove them from power, she'd been branded a tyrant.
She was just throwing back at the world which made her so much suffer if I had to say.
"I know you think you were protecting the kingdom," Allan continued, apparently determined to deliver his entire moral manifesto to her dying form. "But fear isn't the way to rule. A true leader inspires loyalty through compassion, not terror."
I chose to ignore the rest of his speech for my own good and looked at Serena.
Her breathing was growing shallower now, each rise and fall of her chest more labored than the last. A small pool of blood had formed beneath her, seeping into the patterns carved into the marble floor.
I found myself leaning closer to the screen, scanning her face. What was she thinking about in these final moments? Was she remembering her parents, lost so many years ago? Was she thinking about the choices that had led her here, wondering if there might have been another way?
Or maybe she was just tired of all?
The game's soundtrack swelled—a melody played on strings and piano that spoke of endings and lost chances. It was beautiful and heartbreaking.
"I hope," Allan said, his voice softer now but no less presumptuous, "that in your final moments, you can find some peace. Despite everything, I don't think you were truly evil. Just... lost."
That made me pause. It was perhaps the first genuinely thoughtful thing Allan had said in the entire scene, maybe in the entire game. A tiny acknowledgment that there might have been more to Serena's story than simple villainy. It wasn't much, but it was something.
Serena's eyes fluttered closed, and for a moment I thought it was over. But then they opened again, just a fraction, and she turned her head slightly. Not toward Allan—she still couldn't seem to bring herself to look at him—but toward me?
No, not me?
What was I thinking about?
It's more toward the players maybe?
Her lips moved, so slightly that I almost missed it. The game didn't provide subtitles for whatever she whispered—it was probably just a death rattle, a final breath escaping—but I found myself imagining what she might have said. An apology, perhaps. Or maybe just the names of her parents, calling out to them across the years.
Her eyes closed for the final time, and the tension left her body all at once. Queen Serena Viola Ruthelphia, last of her line, was dead.
The screen faded to black with elegant white text appearing in the center: "END OF CHAPTER."
I sat back in my chair, emotionally drained despite having done nothing but watch a cutscene. This was why I'd gotten so invested in this stupid game, despite its flaws. Moments like this, where the writing transcended its medium and created something genuinely moving.
Allan would go on to marry his precious Diana, of course who will become likely the next Queen so Allan the next King. Well, the game wasn't over at all so I will see.
I reached for my controller and saved the game, then switched off the console.
My apartment seemed smaller somehow, shabbier in the harsh light of my desk lamp. Reality had a way of feeling inadequate after spending time in a world where every emotion was heightened, where even tragedy felt meaningful.
I stretched, wincing as my back protested hours of sitting in the same position. My eyes burned from staring at the screen, and I could feel the beginning of a headache building behind my temples.
Making my way toward my bed I collapsed on it without bothering to change clothes, staring up at the water stain on my ceiling that vaguely resembled a crown.
"I hope you found your peace, Serena," I mumbled into the darkness. "I hope you finally made it home."
The words felt silly as soon as I said them—talking to a fictional character like she could somehow hear me from beyond the game's ending.
I smiled before shaking my head.
I closed my eyes, and for just a moment before sleep took me.