The Glass Kingdom's Thorn

The Glass Kingdom was not made of glass. Its name came from the way it shimmered under the twin suns, its towering spires and winding streets reflecting light like a fractured mirror. But to Lira, it was a prison.

She stood at the edge of the Royal Garden, her fingers brushing the petals of a blood-red rose. The thorns bit into her skin, but she didn't pull away. The pain was a reminder—of what, she wasn't sure. Perhaps of the life she'd lost, or the one she was forced to live.

"Lira," a voice called, sharp and impatient. "Your presence is required."

She turned to see Captain Renn, his silver armor gleaming, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. His expression was unreadable, but his tone left no room for argument. Lira sighed and let the rose fall from her grasp.

"What does my uncle want now?" she asked, brushing her hands on her dress. The fabric was fine, embroidered with gold thread, but it felt heavy, like a shroud.

"The King does not explain his orders to me," Renn replied. "Nor should he need to explain them to you."

Lira bit back a retort. Arguing with Renn was like arguing with a stone wall—pointless and exhausting. She followed him through the garden, her steps slow and deliberate. The sooner she faced her uncle, the sooner she could return to her solitude.

The throne room was as cold as ever, its high ceilings and stained-glass windows doing little to dispel the chill. King Orin sat on the throne, his crown resting heavily on his brow. His eyes, the same icy blue as Lira's, flicked toward her as she entered.

"Lira," he said, his voice smooth and measured. "You're late."

"I was in the garden," she replied, her tone flat. "I didn't realize my time was so precious."

Orin's lips twitched, but whether it was a smile or a grimace, Lira couldn't tell. "Your time is indeed precious," he said. "Which is why I've decided to put it to better use."

Lira's stomach tightened. She knew that tone. It was the tone he used when he was about to drop her into a pit of vipers and call it a gift.

"You're to be married," Orin continued, as if he were discussing the weather. "To Prince Kael of the Thornlands."

The room seemed to tilt. Lira gripped the edge of a nearby table to steady herself. "Married?" she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper. "To the Thorn Prince?"

"It's a strategic alliance," Orin said, waving a hand dismissively. "The Thornlands have resources we need, and they've agreed to the union. You should be grateful."

"Grateful?" Lira's voice rose, sharp and brittle. "You're selling me off like a piece of livestock, and you expect me to be grateful?"

Orin's eyes narrowed. "Watch your tongue, girl. You may be my niece, but I am still your king."

Lira opened her mouth to argue, but Renn stepped forward, his hand tightening on his sword. She swallowed her words, her chest heaving with suppressed anger.

"The wedding will take place in a fortnight," Orin said, leaning back in his throne. "You will be ready."

Lira wanted to scream, to throw something, to demand why her life was being traded like a bargaining chip. But she knew it wouldn't matter. Orin had made his decision, and nothing she said would change it.

She turned on her heel and stormed out of the throne room, her mind racing. There had to be a way out of this. There had to be.

As she reached the garden, a voice stopped her in her tracks.

"You look like you've seen a ghost."

Lira turned to see a man leaning against a tree, his arms crossed, a smirk playing on his lips. He was tall, with dark hair and eyes that seemed to catch the light in a way that made her uneasy. She didn't recognize him, but the way he carried himself suggested he wasn't just another servant.

"Who are you?" she demanded, her voice sharper than she intended.

The man straightened, his smirk widening. "Name's Jarek," he said. "And you, my dear, look like you could use a friend."

Lira's eyes narrowed. "I don't need friends. I need a way out of this cursed kingdom."

Jarek's smile faded, replaced by something darker, more calculating. "Funny you should say that," he said. "Because I might just be able to help you with that."

Lira's heart skipped a beat. "What do you mean?"

Jarek stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I mean there's a way out of here. A way to escape your uncle, your wedding, all of it. But it's not without risks."

Lira hesitated. She didn't trust him—she didn't trust anyone—but the desperation in her chest was too strong to ignore. "What kind of risks?"

Jarek's eyes gleamed. "The kind that could get us both killed."

Before Lira could respond, a shout echoed through the garden. She turned to see Renn approaching, his expression grim.

"Lira," he called. "The King demands your presence. Immediately."

Jarek stepped back, his smirk returning. "Think about it," he said, his voice low. "If you're brave enough."

As Renn led her away, Lira's mind raced. She didn't know who Jarek was or what he wanted, but one thing was clear: he was her only hope.

And hope, in the Glass Kingdom, was a dangerous thing.