A true connection, a bond meant to endure the cruelest seasons, only takes root between two souls cast from the same mold. This truth, etched into the very stones of the Obsidian Court, was my compass. I believed in its cold, unyielding logic. Similar standing, a shared lineage, an echo of ambition, a mirror of erudition—these were the threads that wove the fabric of happiness, the surest path to enduring dignity. I, Elian Vane, a studious child born to a lesser branch, understood this as the expressway to a place at the high table, a shield against the creeping shadow of ostracization. Then, a chill autumn, the year I saw my eighteenth winter, a truth colder than the season seeped into my core. My carefully constructed world fractured. I found myself in the throes of an extraordinary attachment, a pull I could not name. Perhaps it had been a phantom touch from our first meeting, a current I only now acknowledged. But my mind, trained in the rigorous disciplines of logic and reason, recoiled. A scholar’s distraction, I told myself, a mere intellectual puzzle to be cataloged and dismissed. A fleeting fascination, nothing more than a high schooler’s first crush, unworthy of prolonged thought. Still, this unnamed feeling, a coiled viper within my chest, tightened with each passing week. It blocked my throat, a phantom noose, and, in the end, threatened to choke me. Its weight pressed into my palm, a heavy obsidian shard, cool and smooth. A single, silent messenger had appeared from the gloom of the predawn, placing the token there before melting back into the shadows. Its message, unspoken yet searingly clear, felt sudden and intrusive, like an unplanned appointment forcing itself into my nascent peace. I saw a number, etched crudely onto its polished surface. Sat upon my bed’s edge, I watched the first grey light filter through my chamber’s tall, arched window. A muttered curse escaped my lips. No one stirred below in the Vane estate; the house staff slept, their dreams undisturbed. No chance anyone would mark my absence. So, despite the gnawing reluctance, I decided to go. Stepped into the chill air beyond my family’s gate. A pale sickle moon hung low, a spectral presence above the slumbering rooftops. Across the shadowed lane, an unfamiliar gate bore a crude, ancient carving. A serpent swallowing its tail, etched into the weathered iron – a symbol of endless cycles, of self-consumption. The townhouse behind it remained dark, silent. A year past, the old occupants had vanished with barely a whisper, a new family settling into the cloistered anonymity. I had never encountered them, a typical privacy for this ward of the Court, with its towering walls and guarded courtyards. Yet, that solitary, self-devouring serpent, so out of place amidst the ornate Vane crests, reminded me of something within myself. A peculiar, almost crude symbol, left exposed to the elements or perhaps chained to a corner of the alley. I stared at it briefly, a pang of recognition, before turning away to enter the waiting, discreetly hired coach. During the slow, creaking journey, I fixed my gaze on the passing cityscape. Old cobbled streets, still slick with night’s dew, reflected the growing light. But soon, the rocking motion and the stale air inside the carriage stirred the knot in my stomach. A familiar nausea began to churn. I closed my eyes, pressing a palm to my forehead. Something had felt amiss, within me, for nigh on a year. A constant unease, a difficulty in digesting not food, but the very essence of my days. A sigh shuddered from my lungs, a futile attempt to ease the persistent tightness lodged in my chest. I had cultivated a habit of ignoring emotions that threatened to unsettle my composure. With disciplined effort, I had managed to maintain an unblemished facade, a mask of cold rationality, all this time. Just as I did now, stepping from the coach into the narrow, unlit alley of the Crimson Alchemist’s Den. Inside the Den’s dim, smoky antechamber, I bit hard on my lip. My fist clenched at my side, then slowly released. Its cold weight, the obsidian shard, remained clutched in my other hand. Found the number inscribed there, its rough edges biting into my skin, and approached the corresponding door. Wood felt cool beneath my knuckles. Slowly, I knocked three precise times. “Kaelen. You craven idler. Unbar this door.” Silence answered me from the other side. A deep, heavy void. My eyes narrowed, fixed on the unyielding oak. Irritation, sharp and brittle, pierced through my carefully constructed calm. I exhaled a sharp, frustrated breath. Raised my fist again, this time striking the door with more force. “I said, open the damn door!” This entire situation—it was a putrid mess. A sickening charade. Imagining what might have transpired within these walls, overnight, made my skin crawl. The scent of cheap perfume, the lingering warmth of a borrowed bed, the echo of whispered indiscretions—it was all a vile affront. Yet, I could not stop myself from knocking. Lord Kaelen, reckless and dissolute, had demanded my presence. I endured this repulsive scene, this debasement, because he was the one who had infected me with that first, insidious malady. He had awakened this profound, consuming ache. “Why in the name of the Silent Empress do you summon me when you’re off whoring with some lesser house’s courtesan, you worthless scoundrel?” Gods, this is unbearable. The life of an eighteen-year-old in the Obsidian Court. A gilded cage, yet sometimes, the bars felt like shackles of my own making.

The First Thorns