2. Kaelen
KAELEN
The once-eternal roses of my court are dying, their petals blackening from the edges inward, curling and dropping to the marble floor. Where the blackened petals touch the ground they crumble to ash, smoke trailing into the air.
I stand in the center of my private chambers, watching the last of the petals fall, and try not to let the sight break me open and hollow me out.
These walls have been covered in living roses for over four centuries—climbing, flowering, filling the air with their perfume.
They were the first magic I ever mastered, the simplest expression of what it means to be Thorn Court, a place of life and beauty as well as danger.
Now the vines hang limp and brown, their thorns brittle, their magic as drained as everything else in my dying realm.
I reach out with power that once could coax flowers from stone, focusing on a particularly stubborn vine near the window that still has green stems. Energy flows from my fingertips—golden light that should spark new growth, should flood these chambers with the riot of color and scent that marks my court's dominion and represents my power as a prince among the Fae.
The vine trembles. A single bud forms, swells, and begins to open.
Then it withers, crumbling to ash that drifts to the marble floor like gray snow.
"Fuck." The word escapes before I can stop it, sharp with five centuries of accumulated frustration. "Goddamn Sundering."
I've been the Prince of Thorns for six hundred and forty-seven years.
I've seen empires rise and fall, watched human civilizations bloom and fade like seasons.
I've commanded magic that could reshape landscapes, led armies that made the land tremble, charmed omega queens and conquered alpha lords with equal ease.
And now I can't keep a single fucking rose alive.
The weight of that failure sits in my chest like a stone, heavy and cold and growing larger every day.
My people are counting on me. Have been counting on me since the Sundering tore our worlds apart and left us to slowly starve on whatever magical energy we could scrape together from this diminished realm.
They don't know how close we are to the end of our court once and for all.
They can't know.
I straighten my shoulders, smoothing my expression into the calm mask of confident authority that marks me as a prince.
Through the tall windows that line the eastern wall, I can see the court below—Fae going about their daily routines, never speaking of the dying roses or their sputtering magical powers.
They trust me to find a solution to the blight. I'm their prince, after all. They've always trusted me.
The question that haunts my sleep is whether that trust has been misplaced this time. For once, I seem to have no answers.
A soft knock interrupts my brooding. "Enter."
Captain Lorien steps through the heavy oak doors, his expression schooled to neutrality even as he takes in the dead and dying roses at my back.
At two hundred and thirty-four years old, he's young by Fae standards, but he's been my right hand for the past century and he knows the situation as well as I do.
The blight is spreading—and there is only one way to reverse it.
"My lord." He bows precisely, black hair catching the afternoon light filtering through the windows. "The morning reports."
I gesture for him to continue while moving to my desk—a massive piece carved from a single piece of heartwood and inlaid with silver thorns. Once, those thorns would have gleamed with their own inner light. Now they're as dull as ordinary metal.
"The agricultural yields continue to decline," Lorien says, consulting his leather-bound notebook. "The eastern orchards are producing roughly a third of the fruit they used to provide. The wheat fields are worse—maybe twenty percent at most, and much of our grain storms are infected with blight."
I keep my face impassive while something cold settles in my stomach. "And the population?"
"Stable, but..." He hesitates.
"Speak freely."
"Three more births in the lower districts. All stillborn."
The cold in my stomach turns to ice. Fae births have always been rare, precious things. But stillborn children are almost unheard of among my people. Were almost unheard of, until the past decade when our magic began failing and the vitality that our court is known for slipped from our fingers.
"That makes eleven this year," I say quietly.
"Yes, my lord."
Eleven children who will never laugh or love or add their magic to our fading realm. Eleven families destroyed by my failure, as my court dies all around me.
"What else?"
Lorien flips a page. "There have been more border skirmishes with the Stone Court territories. Nothing major, but their patrols are ranging closer to our boundaries than usual. They may be testing our ability to respond."
Of course they are. The other courts aren't blind to our situation, no matter how carefully we've tried to hide it. Predators always sense weakness, and the Fae courts have never been known for their mercy.
Our people are predators, through and through. If the other courts sense that our decimation may increase their power, they will come for our blood. And as weak as we are now, they may very well be able to destroy us.
"Double our patrols along the eastern border," I tell him. "Make sure they know we're still capable of defending what's ours."
Even if we're not. Even if our guards are running on willpower and pride rather than the magical strength that once made them legends.
"Understood." Lorien makes another note. "There's also the matter of the human delegation."
And there it is. The gamble I've been planning for months, the desperate play that will either save my court or destroy what little remains of it.
"What's their current position?"
"Approximately four hours out, traveling the western road as expected. Our scouts report the convoy includes six guards, two diplomats, and the potential bride.”
The potential bride. Such a simple term for the young woman who represents my court's last hope for survival.
Lady Rosalind Whitmore, daughter of General Robert Whitmore, trained diplomat and unwitting key to an ancient prophecy. Auburn hair, green eyes, and, according to my spies, is descended from the bloodlines we've been tracking for generations.
She has no idea what she really is, of course.
The humans lost that knowledge during the Sundering, reduced omega nature to something out of myth and legend.
They think it's about weak women being easily compelled by fae magic, and that they’ve lost those markers since separating from our world.
They’re completely unaware of the inevitability that an omega’s awakening becomes in the face of fate and magic intertwined.
They definitely don't know that certain bloodlines carry the potential to restore dying Fae magic through a properly completed claiming bond.
"And she's definitely traveling with the convoy?" I ask, though I already know the answer. My network of human informants has been tracking her movements for weeks.
"Confirmed. Our source in the diplomatic corps verified her presence this morning."
Perfect. Everything is proceeding exactly as I've planned, from the carefully orchestrated "border crisis" that required immediate diplomatic intervention to the specific invitation requesting a human cultural liaison with her particular qualifications.
I've been manipulating this situation for six months, pulling strings in human government circles, creating exactly the right combination of circumstances to bring her here without raising suspicions.
It's been delicate work—too obvious and the humans would never have sent her, too subtle and they might have sent someone else entirely.
But she's coming. My prophesied omega is traveling toward Thorn Court territory, probably telling herself she's going to witness some diplomacy, maybe negotiate with me herself at times, and go home with better understanding of the fae. Little does she know that her attempts at “understanding” will turn her into my willing and eager submissive mate, and she’ll never go home again.
The irony would be amusing if so much didn't depend on the outcome.
“What are our positions?" I ask.
“I have two sets of assassins waiting along the ambush route. A third team is waiting our signal to… cleanup the remains.” Lorien's voice remains professional, but I catch the slight tension around his eyes.
He knows as well as I do what we're planning, and he knows what it could mean if we're wrong.
"And our... justification?"
"The weapons cache was planted yesterday evening. Concealed but discoverable upon investigation. Enough firepower to support the narrative of a preemptive strike against Fae interests."
Weapons that will never be found, of course, because the humans carrying them won't survive long enough for a proper investigation. But the illusion of justified self-defense needs to be maintained, if only for my own people's peace of mind.
I've become quite good at creating narratives out of thin air and rumor.
"Excellent work," I tell Lorien, though the praise tastes like ash in my mouth. "That will be all, Captain."
He bows and withdraws, leaving me alone with my dying roses and the weight of an entire civilization's survival resting on my shoulders.
I move to the window, looking out over the sprawling beauty of my court.
Even diminished, even fading, the Thorn Court remains a wonder to behold.
Marble terraces cascade down the hillside in perfect symmetry, connected by graceful bridges and bordered by gardens that still hold echoes of their former glory.
Fountains dance in the courtyards below, their spray catching the afternoon light in gorgeous displays.