"The Thorn King"
The village of Windmere was quiet, tucked between rolling hills and whispering woods. It was a place of soft winds, strong tea, and stories told by firelight. But of all the tales, one was never spoken aloud: the story of the Thorn King.
They said he lived deep in the Weeping Forest, where the trees bled sap like tears and thorns grew thicker than bark. Children who strayed too far chasing rabbits never returned. Crops near the forest withered, and those who dared question it… well, they either left or disappeared.
When Elara’s little brother vanished chasing their dog near the woods, she didn’t wait for the village council to send a search party that would never come. She packed a satchel with bread, her grandfather’s hunting knife, and a small wooden charm her mother had carved to ward off evil. Then she stepped into the forest at dawn.
The Weeping Forest was darker than she imagined. Trees twisted unnaturally, their roots forming claw-like arches over the path. The air was damp, thick with the scent of rotting leaves and distant crying. But Elara pressed on, guided by the soft pull in her chest—a tether only siblings shared.
By sunset, she found the gates.
Massive iron bars twisted with thorny vines towered above her. Beyond them stood a castle, crumbling and covered in bramble, yet pulsing with unnatural life. As if the forest itself had birthed it.
A voice echoed through the trees, low and smooth: “Why do you seek the Thorn King, little spark?”
“I seek my brother,” she called back. “Return him, or I’ll come take him.”
A laugh—cold and cruel—slithered through the woods.
Few had seen the Thorn King and returned. But Elara would.
Inside the castle, time bent. She wandered hours in circles before finding the throne room. There he sat: tall, draped in a black cloak of living thorns, a crown of branches on his head. His face was beautiful, ageless, and entirely inhuman. Eyes like polished obsidian, and a smile that never reached them.
He stood, slow and deliberate. “Brave. Foolish. But not the first.”
“My brother—”
He raised a hand. Behind his throne, children stood frozen in thorn-wrapped pods, dreaming or dead. Her brother among them, eyes closed, peaceful.
“They wanted to run, to fight, to change the world,” the Thorn King said. “So I took their noise and gave them silence.”
“You’re a monster,” Elara hissed.
“No. I am a gardener,” he replied, stepping closer. “I remove weeds before they poison the roots. This world is broken. Loud. Cruel. I offer stillness. Order.”
She gripped her charm. “You offer control.”
He smiled. “And peace.”
She lunged, slicing a vine near her brother with her knife. It screamed—yes, the vine screamed—and recoiled. The Thorn King flicked his fingers and vines shot toward her, wrapping her legs and arms. Thorns pierced her skin, drawing blood.
“You could stay,” he whispered. “You’d never be alone again.”
“I’d never be free again.”
Summoning her last strength, Elara pressed the charm to the vines. Her mother had carved it with ashwood—a tree sacred to the old gods. It burned like fire. The vines shrieked and fell away.
The Thorn King roared in fury, the room trembling.
“You think you can undo me with hope and handmade trinkets?” he bellowed.
“No,” Elara said. “But I can remind them who they are.”
She slashed open her brother’s pod. He gasped, eyes flying open. The charm glowed brightly now, pulsing with life. One by one, the other children stirred, awakened by the light.
The Thorn King reached toward them, but vines recoiled from the charm’s glow. His palace shook, walls cracking.
Elara grabbed her brother’s hand. “Run!”
They burst through the castle gates, the children behind them. As the last crossed the threshold, the forest screamed—and the castle collapsed into a heap of rotting vines.
Windmere saw them return at dawn, Elara leading a group of weary, frightened, but free children. Some villagers wept. Others stayed silent, ashamed.
The Weeping Forest still stands, but no vines reach beyond its edge. And on some nights, when the wind blows just right, it carries a whisper:
“The gardener will return.”
