Thorns for Her Crown

Let them call me the villain. I’ll wear it like a title.

They will sing about her, not me.

She was the golden one. Born under a comet, kissed by prophecy, she had the people’s love before she could speak. I came three years earlier, during a storm. No songs. No prophecy. Just silence, and a nursemaid who flinched at my cry.

There are no ballads for shadows.

The court adored her. Elira. Even her name sounded delicate. She giggled, they clapped. She wept, they trembled. She made promises she didn’t know how to keep. I watched from the edge, where the light didn’t reach. When they looked at her, they saw hope. When they looked at me — if they looked — it was obligation.

Not even Father hesitated. When he died, he left the crown to her.

“She has the people,” he said on his deathbed, his voice rasping through clenched teeth. “You have your strength. Use it to protect her.”

That was his curse to me. The role I could never leave.

The day she was crowned, I stood beside her in polished black, hands behind my back. She reached out, fingers brushing mine.

“You were born to protect. I was born to lead.”

She smiled like that was a kindness. Maybe it was. I believed her. For a while.

Elira tried. I will give her that. She wanted peace. She wanted unity. She listened to everyone, and in doing so, obeyed no one. Each new law contradicted the last. The council pitied her. The people blamed her. And I waited.

The first border skirmishes were ignored. The grain riots dismissed. When the first rebellion leaflet reached my desk, I called the generals. Elira called for patience.

“They’re afraid,” she said. “We cannot lead through fear.”

“They’re not afraid enough,” I told her.

She burned the letter in her hearth. That night, I wrote my first reply.

I made alliances. Quiet ones. Lord Wexen, whose mines funded the army. General Harth, who wanted fewer speeches and more soldiers. I gave them purpose. I gave them plans. All while Elira slept under silk canopies, dreaming of peace.

She noticed the troop movements weeks later.

“You’re preparing for war,” she said, pale.

“We’re already in one,” I replied, laying reports before her. “They’re gathering. If we wait, we lose.”

“You went behind my back.”

“I filled the gap you left open.”

She stared like she didn’t recognize me. Maybe she didn’t. But I had never seen her more clearly.

Whispers in court shifted. Her name lost its gleam. Mine sharpened into something heavier. Fear. Authority. I wasn’t crowned, but I was obeyed.

The night she removed me from the war council, she did it in front of the nobles.

“You’ve overstepped,” she said.

“I saved you,” I answered.

She said nothing. The guards escorted me out. Not arrested. Just erased.

Three weeks later, the southern cities starved. Elira issued pardons. The rebels took more land. She sent messengers. They never returned.

When I came back, it was with grain carts and soldiers. I didn’t sneak. I walked through the city gates in broad daylight.

The people cheered.

She summoned me to the grand hall. No throne, no crown. Just her, standing beneath the cracked mural of our ancestors.

“You came to steal what isn’t yours.”

“I came to clean what you let rot.”

“You’re not king.”

“Then why do they kneel?”

She shook her head. “You think you’re saving them?”

“No. I think I’m doing what needs to be done.”

The city shifted. Nobles hosted me, not her. The coin flowed to my accounts. The army pledged to my banner. She passed decrees. They were ignored.

The riots came, just like I warned they would. But this time, the mob didn’t cry her name. They cried for food. For order. For a ruler who would act.

They cried for me.

Her trial was swift. I didn’t speak. I didn’t have to. The accusations were many — misrule, neglect, failure to protect her people. The council voted. Three abstained. The rest turned their seals.

Exile. Not death. That was my only mercy.

The coronation was planned in silence.

On the eve, I visited her in the prayer tower. Where we used to hide from tutors. Where we used to play.

She didn’t look up.

“You’ve won,” she said.

“No,” I answered. “I endured.”

“You became what you hated.”

“And you became too gentle to survive.”

She turned her face away.

“They’ll never love you.”

“They don’t need to.”

“You’re the villain now.”

I didn’t deny it.

“They will sing about you,” she said. “But the songs will change.”

“Let them. I’ll be writing the laws.”

That would have been the end. It should have been.

But nothing ends when you want it to.

Three months into my rule, Wexen demanded the mines be tax-free. I refused. The next day, his men blocked supply lines. I executed two of his captains. He backed down — but not forever.

The army grew restless. General Harth wanted new land. He wanted to conquer the rebels still in the hills. I stalled. He sent assassins. I fed them to the dogs.

And Elira?

She wrote letters. To the provinces. To the people. Her voice, once small, now echoed as defiance. “Your king is no king,” she wrote. “He rules through fear.”

They found her in the old chapel, speaking to peasants. I gave the order.

“Do not harm her,” I said.

They brought her in chains.

This time, she did not plead. She stood in front of the court in rags, but her chin was high.

“You were never stronger than me,” she said.

“No,” I agreed. “Just more necessary.”

“You’ll never stop looking over your shoulder.”

“I don’t need to. I’ve already seen how this ends.”

She laughed.

“You think you’re safe. But you built your throne from ash. And ash doesn't last.”

I should have executed her. Everyone expected it.

But I didn’t.

I let her live. I sent her far, to the outer isles, where no ships come in winter. She vanished from history. But her story remained.

And that’s what haunts me. Not what I did. But what she left behind.

Because every rebellion since then whispers her name.

Not mine.

Now they sing about her. Not me.

Let them. I never needed their songs.

Only their silence.