My life, from its very beginning, has been a tale of elegant suffering—a tragic opera draped in velvet and lit by moonlight.
I am Marie de Rias, the only daughter of a minor baron whose pitiable title—Baron of the Twilight's Edge—was the only thing remotely romantic about him. The island he ruled was a jewel of misty cliffs and silver lakes , a place worthy of a princess. And I, in all my beauty and brilliance, was born into it like a rose in a cracked vase.
The first true sorrow of my life came at the tender age of five. I had requested, with perfect grace and clarity, a pet baking spirit as my birthday gift. A simple, charming thing—fluffy, sparkling, capable of crafting divine macaroons at will. But my father, in a stunning display of failure, claimed it was "too costly to commission a new one." I was devastated. He had, in that moment, proven himself unable to provide even the smallest joy to his only daughter.
And I was not the only one to see his inadequacy. Prince Hanes Bullard, third son of the high king, rejected my generous and entirely reasonable proposal of marriage. Naturally, I was heartbroken—but only until the age of seven, when my mother arranged my engagement to Viscount Honig's eldest son.
Berry.
Ah, Berry. With his honey-gold hair and eyes like polished topaz, he was a boy spun from sunlight and sugar. I claimed him as mine the moment I laid eyes on him—and of course, I understood immediately that something so exquisite would draw lesser attention. So I acted accordingly.
By the age of fourteen, I had already sculpted myself into a flawless jewel at the Noble Academy. The boys, bewitched by my ruby-red hair cascading to my lower back, my graceful figure, and my perfectly pouty lips, worshipped me openly. The girls, wide-eyed and whispering, looked to me for guidance—for style, for charm, for the sharp tongue I wielded like a jeweled dagger.
I punished threats with precision. Jasmin von Arc, for instance, once dared to speak over me during rhetoric class. An act so insolent, so barbaric, that I ensured her punishment was... memorable. Her hair should have grown back by now. Probably.
I had, by all accounts, risen above the mire of my low-born lineage. No duchess's daughter could outshine me, and no tutor dared contradict my brilliance. I, Marie de Rias, had overcome every obstacle laid before me—until she arrived.
Abigale.
That name alone is a stain. A girl of no lineage, no grace, no breeding—a peasant harlot dragged into our academy like mud on a silk shoe. She claimed to be of common birth, yet carried herself with arrogance unfit even for a scullery maid. I should have had her expelled upon sight, but alas, the law protected all students, even the filth.
She dared approach me. Smiled with her crooked little teeth and offered me a cupcake—homemade. Homemade! As if I, the jewel of the academy, required her charity. As if I could be bought with sugar and pity.
I punished her, naturally. A clean cut, scissors through her filthy locks—left her looking like a farmboy. But the girl refused to fall into place. She refused to kneel. Instead, she began to worm her way through the school with vile cunning, seducing students and teachers alike with that smarmy commoner's charm. Whispers began to spread. That she was clever. That she was talented. That her cupcakes were "delicious." Disgusting.
She cheated her way to the top, I'm certain of it. Rumors say she spread her legs for favor—like mother, like daughter, I suppose. My loyal followers began to waver. Even my beloved pet lizard, Citrine, refused my commands. The rot was spreading.
So I acted. I spread the truth—or what any decent person would assume was the truth. I laid bare her treachery. And I was confident, so confident, that justice would prevail.
But I underestimated her cruelty.
At the Midwinter Ball—the night meant to cement my brilliance—she ruined everything. She wore white, as if purity could be painted on. She clung to Berry's arm like a viper to a prince. And then, with the theatrics of a second-rate actress, she announced to the entire ballroom that I had bullied her for years. That I had tormented her. That she was my half-sister.
My half-sister.
As if such filth could share my blood.
The fallout was catastrophic. My parents, weak-willed fools that they are, believed her. They believed *her*. They disowned me, threw me from the main estate, stripped me of everything but a minor holding—a satellite island orbiting Twilight's Edge—and a single heirloom: the Jade Chain of Leaders. Useless without the presence of others to bind it. A relic meant for queens, wasted on a girl cast out.
I was sixteen.
My title, my love, my reputation—gone. Stolen by a common-born succubus in sugar-powdered gloves.
But my tale of tragedy did not end there.
No, at eighteen, my disgrace was made complete. My father—the very same man who could not gift me a baking spirit—sent me away with the tithe. Tradition, he called it. Said all noble houses must send their firstborn to the crown in times of need.
He sent me away like baggage.
And so I stood at the docks, tears streaking down my cheeks like melted pearls, dressed in mourning black, clutching a stupid ten-pointed star given to me lowly soldier and the heirloom chain—neither of which would hug me back.
Abandoned. Alone. With nothing but bitterness in my heart and a beauty too sharp to be wasted.
Let them think me ruined.
Let them think me dead.
I, Marie de Rias, am no wilted bloom.
I am the thorns.