The palace bell tolled once—a low, mournful sound that seemed to vibrate through the very stone of the courtyard and settle in Seraphina's bones.
She stood waiting, the frost lacing the cobblestones like delicate silver lace, her breath pluming in the brittle cold. Beneath the heavy wool of her cloak, the mark on her collarbone was a living ember, its pulse a frantic, fearful rhythm that had not stilled since Lucien's kiss. That memory, and the terrifying sound of a floorboard creaking after it, was a ghost haunting her every moment.
Now, the third is here.
The massive iron gates groaned open, a sound of protest that spoke of ages. A single rider emerged from the mist-shrouded dawn, cloaked in shades of gray and shadow, mounted on a horse that was less a steed and more a force of nature. He carried no banner of allegiance, wore no polished armor to announce his status. Just a worn tunic, a weathered leather satchel, and the simple, terrifying promise of the sword strapped to his back.
Thorne.
Her heart stuttered, then clenched into a tight, painful knot. She recognized him instantly. The boy from the woods, now a man carved from granite and silence.
He hadn't changed, and yet he had. He was broader, his shoulders straining the fabric of his tunic, his frame radiating a stillness that was more intimidating than any bluster. His hair, once a pure, unruly black, was now streaked with distinguished silver at the temples, a map of the years they had spent apart. But the way he moved—deliberate, grounded, each step a decision—was exactly as she remembered.
He dismounted, his movements economical and silent. He walked toward her, the frost crunching softly under his boots.
No bow. No words. He simply stopped before her, his presence an anchor in her whirling storm.
Seraphina's throat was impossibly tight. "You came." The words were a breath, barely audible.
Thorne's eyes, the color of a gathering storm, met hers. He nodded once. A single, profound dip of his chin.
She searched his face, desperate for a clue—a flicker of the boy's anger, a ghost of his affection, the shadow of a shared regret. But his expression was a locked fortress, giving her nothing. Just a silence that was heavier than any shout.
"You haven't spoken in years," she said, the statement a question, an accusation, a plea.
In response, he reached into his satchel, his movements slow and deliberate. He pulled out a single piece of parchment, folded with care, its edges soft from handling. He handed it to her, his calloused fingers brushing against hers, a touch that sent a jolt through her system entirely separate from the curse's burn.
Her hands trembled as she unfolded it. The script was bold, unwavering.
I vowed silence until the crown is whole. Until you are safe.
Tears, hot and sudden, pricked at the corners of her eyes. She blinked them back, refusing to let them fall. "You made that vow for me?" Her voice was a ragged whisper.
Thorne nodded again, his stormy eyes holding hers, and in their depths, she saw the truth of it. The weight of it.
She swallowed hard against the emotion rising in her throat. "You were just a boy."
He looked at her—really looked at her—and for a single, breathtaking moment, the fortress walls came down. She saw it all—the memory of two children running through sun-dappled woods, the searing pain of their separation, the iron-clad promise of a youth who would become a man of his word.
She stepped closer, closing the distance between them, the cold air no match for the heat radiating from his body. "I never asked you to do that."
Thorne's gaze never wavered. He took her gloved hand in his and pressed it firmly against the solid wall of his chest. Through the layers of wool and linen, she felt the powerful, steady, strong beat of his heart.
You didn't have to. The words were silent, but she heard them as clearly as if he'd shouted them from the ramparts.
---
Later, they walked side-by-side through the skeletal palace gardens, the rose bushes naked and sheathed in ice. The silence between them wasn't empty or awkward; it was full. A tapestry woven with threads of things unsaid, of shared memories, of a bond that time and distance had strained but never broken.
"You saved me once," she said, her voice soft in the hushed stillness. "In the Thornwood. When I was twelve, and the shadows reached for me."
Thorne nodded, his gaze scanning the frozen horizon, ever the guardian.
"You were bleeding," she continued, the memory vivid. "There was so much blood on your tunic. You never even cried out."
He lifted a hand and touched a spot high on his shoulder, a gesture so familiar it made her heart ache.
"I never thanked you," she whispered.
He shook his head, a sharp, dismissive motion. No thanks were ever needed.
She stopped walking, turning to face him amidst the frozen blooms. "Why did you come back, Thorne? Truly?"
He turned to her, his expression unreadable once more. He reached into his satchel and produced another piece of parchment. This one was older, the edges more worn. She took it.
Because you are the crown. And I am the thorn.
Her breath caught in her lungs, sharp and sudden. The words were cryptic, an echo of the ancient prophecy that bound them. She didn't fully understand their meaning, not in the way a scholar would. But she felt their truth in her soul. It felt ancient. Predestined. Something older than both their bloodlines.
Overwhelmed, she reached out, her bare fingers brushing against the rough stubble of his cheek.
He closed his eyes, a shudder running through his powerful frame at her touch, and for a moment, he was just the boy she'd known, leaning into the comfort of her hand.
---
That night, the mark staged its worst assault yet.
Seraphina sat hunched in a chair by the dead fire, Thorne's parchment clutched in her white-knuckled hand. Her skin was on fire, the sigil glowing with a malevolent, crimson light through the thin fabric of her shift, the angry veins around it pulsing like live wires. She couldn't think, couldn't sleep. Each breath was a struggle against the pain.
A soft, firm knock sounded at her door.
She was beyond answering.
The door opened, and Thorne filled the doorway. He didn't pause, didn't write a note. He simply crossed the room and went to one knee beside her chair, his eyes dark with concern in the moonlight.
She looked at him, her composure in tatters. "It hurts," she gasped, the admission a raw surrender.
Without hesitation, he reached out, his movements sure and steady. His calloused, warm fingers settled directly over the burning mark.
And the pain… vanished.
Not lessened. Not muted. It was simply… gone. Replaced by a cool, profound sense of peace that spread from his touch through her entire body.
She gasped, her eyes flying wide. "How?"
Thorne shook his head, a silent promise that the how didn't matter, only the result.
The relief was so immense it felt like a physical collapse. A sob escaped her, and she leaned forward, her forehead coming to rest against the solid warmth of his chest. His arms came around her immediately, strong and steadfast, holding her together when she felt she might fly apart. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, she felt truly, utterly safe.
He held her for a long time, until her breathing evened out. Then, he pulled back just enough to look into her eyes, his hand still cupping her cheek, his thumb stroking away a stray tear.
Her heart was a wild, fragile thing in her chest. She lifted her own trembling hand, her fingers tracing the firm, silent line of his lips.
"Break your vow," she whispered, the words a plea, a offering, a command. "Just for me."
Thorne hesitated, a war raging in his stormy eyes. The vow was his identity, his penance, his shield.
Then, his voice, unused for so long, emerged—hoarse, low, and ragged with emotion, each word a precious, hard-won gift.
"I love you."
Three words. They shattered her, and in the same breath, made her whole.
She surged forward and kissed him.
It wasn't wild like Lucien's, or a question like Kael's. It was quiet. Reverent. A sacrament. A homecoming.
Thorne held her as if she were the most sacred thing he had ever touched, his arms a sanctuary, his kiss a silent vow renewed.
And for one night, wrapped in the safety of his silence and the power of his love, the curse forgot her name.
---