Page 22 of Thorn Season (Thorn Season #1)

W hen I was seven, Father had spread a card deck face down on his desk and said, “Pick one, but don’t turn it over. Now—do you want to see the card?”

I nodded. Then Father took the card and shuffled despite my protests.

“Does it bother you, my girl? That you’ll never know which card you chose?”

I paused and, for the first time, wondered about myself. It had bothered me.

“I know how you like to Wield your specter,” Father said. “Unlocking doors, sneaking biscuits when the cooks aren’t looking.”

“I don’t mean to be bad.”

“I’m not angry.” Father patted my little hands. “All children make mischief, but not all children are like you. You can’t expect to get everything by Wielding.” I pouted, and Father spread the cards again. “We’ll do this until you no longer want to turn the card over.”

“But why?”

“Because you must learn the art of control. Though you can turn the card, it doesn’t mean you should . You must think before you act, or you could get hurt.”

“They’re only cards,” I grumbled.

Father smiled sadly before bidding me to pick again.

The memory chased me from sleep, leaving me aching.

That had been the first time I’d seen fear in Father’s face.

And, honestly? He’d been right to worry.

I had been a stubborn, reckless child, emboldened by our relation to the Hunters.

As I’d grown, the strain of my power had only roused me to Wield more.

I used to think, upon finding texts in Father’s study about specters and Spellmaking, that he was trying to understand my discomfort through research. Yet I sometimes craved what only my mother could’ve given: the shared experience of having to confine a specter.

I yearned to ask about her—about her power—but Father couldn’t even bear to say her name.

He’d had to mourn her as secretly as he’d loved her, and now his grief was a festering wound, still unhealed.

To some degree, that wound had driven him into the Hunters’ service.

Into choices he loathed but didn’t regret.

And could I blame him for choosing me , his only daughter, over the faceless them ?

Wouldn’t any good father have done the same?

Good father.

Those words didn’t seem congruous with the image I had of him, handing the Hunters that list of Wielders. I wanted to hate him for it.

But when I’d woken to that memory, I’d unapologetically longed for my father. My heart wasn’t built for hating the person I loved more than anything. And that somehow felt like a betrayal to my people.

So, I had to help my people now.

From the start, I’d known I couldn’t return the compass to the Hunters, but last night had hardened my resolve.

As the compass’s keeper, Garret wouldn’t hesitate to expose Daradonian Wielders; even during our childhood mission to steal it, he’d apparently only cared about protecting me .

He may continue to keep my secret. But Hunting under Erik’s orders and Briar’s tutelage, how long until he became as brutal as the copycats themselves?

This is Daradon. Wielders will always have to die.

And maybe he was right. While the Execution Decree existed, only the king could stanch the bloodshed completely.

But even as a child, I’d known that Daradon would be safer for all Wielders if the compass belonged to someone who would never use it as a weapon. .. someone like me.

Erik would punish the Capewells for failing, including Garret—a thought that curdled my stomach. But only the prospect of Father’s punishment had terrified me—had almost convinced me that relinquishing the compass was my only option.

But deep down, I’d known it wasn’t.

If Father’s title couldn’t save him from Erik’s wrath... there was something else that could.

My bleak conviction was still resounding when I noticed a silver card under my lounge door, penned in a familiar script. And though my specter writhed in anxious rebellion, I knew this was the right choice. No matter what he’d done, Father always came first.

I dressed quickly, putting on the short silk gloves I’d set aside last night. The nobles were enjoying tea and buttered crumpets in the courtyard this morning, so I’d hoped to follow the lead of the silver key. But this task was just as important.

So I hid the key inside a riding boot, where even the maids wouldn’t look. And ten minutes later, I stepped into a sun-flushed morning, a lilac chiffon day dress rippling around my legs.

The gardens were exquisite—an eruption of texture and color flourishing half-wild, with wisterias dripping from pergolas and buttercups frothing around water fountains.

I might’ve spent afternoons here, drowsing under a parasol, if not for the rose shrubs teeming from every corner.

Even muddled in the floral haze, their scent carried on the breeze.

But it was always easier to manage when I expected it.

I was lifting my wrist, inhaling my citrus-and-lavender perfume, when a deep, velvety voice rumbled from behind me: “Do you know why Daradon’s symbol is the rose?”

I quickly dropped my wrist as King Erik emerged between the shrubs, glistening as though he’d just stepped out of a young girl’s daydream.

“It’s because they despise competing for space and nourishment.

They must fight to monopolize the sunlight, to climb over every competitor.

And they’re spiteful to those who dare to stop them.

” He bowed the stem of a plum-colored rose, revealing the thorns.

“I can’t help wondering,” he murmured, “if your sudden attendance for the season derives from a desire to climb over the competition.”

I held his stare. “You made it clear that I wouldn’t have far to climb.”

Erik smirked. I’d said the right thing. The king didn’t want me brawling over him with the other ladies, like magpies over a jewel. He wanted a chase—a hunt . So I would give him one.

He offered his arm, and I caught the flash of a sapphire ring I’d never seen him wear before.

My specter recoiled, Carmen’s words blaring like a warning in my head.

The Orrenish sent daggers and jewelry and cutlery sets—all doused in dullroot essence!

I didn’t know how many more dullroot-doused items might be lingering around court.

But this was why I’d worn the gloves.

So despite my quivering specter, I took his arm and forced my body to loosen against him. He led me through the gardens, the swaying leaves and trickling fountains murmuring softly around us.

“Well?” he asked at last, looking down beneath thick blond lashes. “Is that an acceptance?”

I gave an airy laugh. “You don’t mince your words, Your Majesty.”

“Erik,” he corrected. “And candor is underrated. Though I admit, I quite chastised myself for my last display of candor. I’d considered riding to Vereen myself if you didn’t respond to my note, so I could apologize.”

I blinked. “Apologize?”

“For springing my intent upon you so brutishly that first night of the season, in view of the whole court.” He lowered his voice, angling closer.

“I was crowned at fifteen. But I learned even earlier that I would never rise among those older and more experienced without first showing my thorns. I therefore acted that night from habit, with the barbed, proprietorial nature of a king... when I should have acted as a gentleman.”

He drew back, and I was stunned into silence. Jarred by his demonstration of tact, along with that soft, repentant smile that made his face so beautiful that I wondered if he’d practiced it in the mirror.

“Do you think,” he asked, “you might forgive my indelicacy?”

I reoriented myself. Then I said, with just enough seriousness that he could be sure of my teasing, “I’m afraid that shall depend.”

His brows rose. “On?”

“Your efforts to win my forgiveness.”

My words sparked like a match between us, forming the first flame of this new dynamic. His lips curved with approval—and then his laughter was shaking his shoulders, shifting my grip on his arm.

“Very well,” he said. “Tell me how I should begin.”

I allowed a coy smile. “I can’t yet accept your offer,” I said slowly. “But perhaps we might start with a trial of compatibility.”

“A courtship, you mean.” His cheek flickered with amusement. “Are my kingdom and countrymen not enough for you?”

“A kingdom is tempting... but I’d have no use for countrymen.” I made my voice dangerously intimate. “I’d only need one.”

Again, I hit the mark. His eyes dipped hungrily over me, his bicep fluttering under my fingers. The longer he cannot have you , Amarie had said, the more he will want you.

Gods, I hoped that was true.

“Well?” I echoed him. “Is that an acceptance?”

As if in response, Erik dropped to one knee before a patch of cloud-puff dandelions, his indigo cape puddling around him.

He pinched a stem and pulled. “My mother taught me to wish upon the seeds. When the final seed sprouts a new flower, the wish sprouts with it.” He stood, offering me the dandelion head.

“Make a wish. Make several, if you like.”

I met his gaze and blew.

I wish monsters like you never hurt Wielders again. I wish you get everything you deserve. I wish I could take back the things you’ve made me do.

The seeds dispersed on the wind.

Erik took my hand; as his ring brushed against my glove, my specter flinched with expectation, coiling tight in my gut. He must have thought I’d worn the gloves to be demure because he raised a brow at my covered fingers, laughter glimmering in his eyes.

His thumb dipped over the hills of my knuckles, teasing, teasing, as if he were about to rip the glove right off—

Then he pressed a kiss to the silk and I exhaled, my specter turning liquid inside me.

“I’ll see that your wishes all come true,” he said, lowering my hand.

Heart still racing, I replied sincerely, “I hope you do.”