The crown's glow lingered long after Aelwyn returned to the palace. Its thorns no longer hovered lightly above her hand but seemed to pulse with insistence, weaving themselves into her heartbeat. She had thought she understood its power the night before, but now, with morning sunlight filtering through the crystal windows, the truth pressed against her chest like a living thing: touching the crown came with a cost.
Her fingers tingled as though etched with invisible burns. Every time she thought of the crown, she saw flashes of Thornwilde, of the moon's dying light, and the shadows of beings she could neither name nor fully comprehend. Whispers followed her from the corridors, soft, urgent, and unrelenting:
"Remember… remember what you are…"
Aelwyn shivered. Her mother, Queen Seraphine, noticed immediately. The queen's gaze, usually soft and maternal, hardened with worry as she approached the girl in the nursery.
"Child," Seraphine said, voice trembling. "You must tell me what has happened. The crown… you have touched it."
Aelwyn hesitated. How could she explain what she barely understood herself? "I… it called to me. It—" Her voice faltered. "It feels like it knows me… and I don't know it."
The queen's face paled. "Then the prophecies… they are true. My daughter, you were not born for a cradle or a nursery. You were born for the world beyond these walls, and I fear it is not a place that will forgive innocence."
Meanwhile, the forest whispered. Thornwilde stirred. Kethrin Nine-Laughs, the fox-shifter, padded through the undergrowth, unseen by any human eyes. The child had awakened the crown, and with it, a chain of events that the forest had long awaited. Kethrin paused at the edge of a glade, listening as the wind carried snippets of fate:
"Aelwyn Thornbloom… chosen… yet unready… danger… draws near…"
She tilted her head, ears twitching. The forest would bend to the crown's will, she thought, but only if the bearer survived the cost.
Far across Lumeria, in a shadowed chamber lined with maps and runes, Caeron Vael knelt. His eyes, cold and focused, traced the crown's path through the kingdom. He had felt the pull in his chest all night, the thrum of magic that could not be ignored. Every step he took toward the child felt heavier than the last, as if invisible chains of fate clung to his limbs.
The sword he carried—etched with the memories of the souls it had claimed—throbbed with the same pulse that now radiated from Aelwyn. Each rune on the blade shimmered as though recognizing her presence, whispering a warning that he could not ignore: the crown did not merely choose—it demanded.
Back in the palace, Aelwyn struggled to contain the crown's power. She sat in the nursery, her small frame curled against the floor, and tried to will it into stillness. But the crown pulsed, brighter, sharper, until her chest ached with every heartbeat. The air around her shimmered, and suddenly, the nursery walls were no longer empty.
Shadows flickered across the floor—ghostly figures of beings long dead. One stepped forward, cloaked in silver and thorns. Its eyes gleamed like stars, cold and unwavering. Aelwyn's breath caught. It was not a dream. It was the first warning: every touch of the crown drew attention from realms that remembered.
"You have touched what remembers," the figure intoned. "Every memory you hold now belongs partially to it. Every thought you dare keep private is no longer yours."
Aelwyn's hands trembled. "I… I didn't mean—"
"It does not matter," the figure said, fading like mist. "The crown never asks. It only takes."
That evening, as twilight fell over the kingdom, Mireth the Veil-Born appeared again, stepping from the shadows like a living silhouette. Her eyes glinted, reflecting the silver of the crown's glow.
"You see it now, child," she said, voice soft but edged with steel. "Every choice you make will echo in places you cannot yet imagine. The crown will demand more than courage. It will demand sacrifice."
Aelwyn's eyes widened. "Sacrifice? What… what kind of sacrifice?"
Mireth's smile was unreadable. "Memory. Trust. Love. The crown remembers everything—and it forgives nothing."
From the corridor behind Mireth, Caeron stepped into the light, sword in hand. "And it will test you in ways that will make even me question my oath," he said quietly, almost to himself. Then, fixing his gaze on Aelwyn, he added, "But you will not face it alone. That much I swear."
Aelwyn's chest swelled with conflicting emotions—fear, hope, and a strange, unnameable determination. The crown pulsed again, as if acknowledging her resolve.
Outside the palace, the first storm of Thornwilde began. Trees bent unnaturally, their leaves twisting into shapes of eyes. The air shimmered with silver motes of magic. Something ancient and patient watched from the darkness, waiting for the crown's bearer to make her first mistake.
The whispers grew louder:
"The crown chooses. The forest remembers. The world awakens. And the first thorn has been planted."
Aelwyn gripped the pillow under which the crown now rested, her small hands trembling but her resolve firm. "If it chooses me," she whispered to herself, "then I will learn to choose it in return."
And for the first time, she felt the weight of destiny—not as a burden, but as a challenge.
Chapter Ending:
Somewhere deep in the shadows, unseen and silent, a pair of eyes gleamed with intent.
"So it begins… the story that will tear the kingdoms apart."
The crown pulsed once more, faintly humming like a heartbeat that would not stop—and the world of Eirathae shivered in anticipation.