CHAPTER 53: THE BIRTH OF THE EIGHTH THORN

The tent still vibrated with the echoes of hammers striking abyssium in the distance. The ground itself seemed to resonate beneath the convoys sinking into the mud. Above the map stained with wine and blood, Sae leaned forward, her icy eyes locked into mine.

— The Gorge is no longer a battlefield, she murmured. It’s a forge. Five days, and already everything burns with your name.

I let out a dry breath, my fingers sliding over the black lines of the roads still under construction.

— Because everything has been divided. Everything has been ordered.

Nyss, leaning against the table, gave a smile that looked more like a bite than an approval.

— Kaelira growls, but she obeys, she said. She supervises the Seven Thorns and the extraction of abyssium with Liora. She pacifies the valleys, hangs the bandits, and watches over the roads as if each stone were a fortress. That’s Kaelira, through and through. The Gorge belongs to her as much as to you now.

Sae raised her chin, as if to cut the air with her voice.

— And I’ve left my scribes to take over. The accounts, the supplies, the numbers: all delegated. I will not be buried under ledgers. I will go with you to the Forge-City. If Kaenira thinks she can impress me with her titles, she is mistaken.

Nyss chuckled softly, her finger tracing a circle around the positions of troops.

— As for me, you gave me carte blanche. So I took everything you offered. The regiments of the East are dissolved, melted into our banners. Every soldier now breathes under the same rhythm. They no longer know if they are from here or elsewhere: they are Thorns. And they will remain so until death.

I fixed my gaze on her, and her onyx eyes met mine without flinching.

— Then you’ve become Minister of Armies.

— Not a minister, Lord. Their executioner and their nurse. I break them and I cradle them. That is the only way to make an army hold.

Sae nodded, her lips curved into a thin, dry smile.

— Everything falls into place. The scholars who remained with the Saint have already begun to build her cult around you. She speaks, they write, and every word becomes decree. Two academies are being born in the White City: Syra for magic, Varkash for war. These are the seeds you planted.

I clenched my fist, my nails biting into my palm.

— Then let them grow. I want the Empire to have roots as deep as its thorns are sharp.

Nyss straightened, her armor creaking with the movement.

— Everything you command is set in motion. But make no mistake: every man, every stone, every banner... all of it holds only because you are here to embody it. If you fall, everything collapses.

I met her warning without looking away.

— Then I will have to remain standing. Higher than all.

A heavy silence followed. Behind the canvas, the hammers struck still, relentless. Sae leaned closer to me, her voice falling like a verdict:

— The Eighth Thorn is no longer a rumor. It is an empire in gestation. And everyone here knows it.

When everything was settled in the Gorge—when Kaelira had taken hold of the mines and the roads, when Nyss had fused the armies into a single block, and when Sae had handed her figures to the scholars who remained—I could finally leave that pit of steel and blood. The future capital of my Empire was already rising on the ruins, white stones and new beams hastily raised, but it was still only a construction site, a promise.

That was not where we were to appear.

The Saint awaited us in the White City, that bastion of her former domain which, for one evening, would become the stage of her public metamorphosis. There, the birth of the Eighth Thorn would be proclaimed officially. Civilians and soldiers alike would gather there, drunk on curiosity, fervor, and fear.

So I set out, escorted by Sae and Nyss, toward that city where we would celebrate not a victory... but a submission.

~

The journey to the White City took place beneath a low sky, heavy with frost, as if winter itself wanted to bar my path. The horses exhaled white clouds with each step, their flanks drenched with sweat despite the cold. Behind us, the convoys stretched into endless lines: wagons laden with food, freshly cut beams, blocks of abyssium still oozing from their rocky shells. Each wheel sinking into the dirty snow rang like a war bell.

When the makeshift walls of the White City finally appeared, it was like seeing a mirage of stone and raw wood rising in the middle of a frozen desert. The city was still only a construction site, a gaping wound hastily closed, but already it had the bearing of a capital. Palisades whitewashed with lime stood in concentric rings, studded with torches whose orange flames licked the gray sky. Atop the unfinished towers, new banners cracked in the wind: the black thorn, crude but everywhere, a symbol born barely a week ago and already engraved in collective memory.

We entered at a slow pace, and at once the crowd pressed along the roads. Men, women, children, all had gathered to see with their own eyes the one they called the Lord of Thorns. Some cried out, their hoarse voices drowned in the tumult; others simply stared, mouths ajar, as if witnessing an apparition. Their patched clothes, their hands blackened by labor, all betrayed their misery. But in their eyes shone something else: a gleam of admiration and fear.

— They acclaim you, said Sae in a low, almost neutral voice, riding at my right. But listen well: it’s not only joy. It’s fear.

Nyss, at my left, chuckled without turning her head.

— Fear is more solid than joy. It doesn’t weaken when the belly is empty. It doesn’t fade when night falls.

I remained silent for a moment, observing the mass. Soldiers in formation beat their halberds against the ground, a martial rhythm that drowned out the clamor. Civilians jostled each other, raising their arms as if to touch a blessing. But behind every feverish smile, I saw the tremor of a silent question: what will become of us if you fall?

Their knees bent without being commanded. Some threw themselves to the ground the instant my eyes met theirs. I saw an old man prostrate himself in the mud, hands clasped, and his gesture dragged an entire line behind him. The Saint’s fanaticism had already done its work: in their minds, I was no longer a man, but a living thorn, on which one willingly cut oneself just enough to bleed and hope for salvation.

I straightened my shoulders, letting the dark cloak unfurl like a wing in the icy wind.

— Admiration or fear, I murmured, it doesn’t matter. As long as they bow.

Nyss slowly nodded, her smile stretched to the point of contempt.

— Then look at them, Lord. They are already bowing.

Then, once we reached the heart of the castle, we came to the great hall, whitewashed for the occasion. The walls, still stained in places by old soot, gleamed under new torches.

The flickering flames cast golden halos on the draperies, simple but fresh, stretched between the pillars. The air smelled of new wood and burning wax, laced with roasted meats and spiced wine.

The tables, aligned in long rows, were laden with food: enough to impress, not enough to seem decadent. Everything had been arranged to give the ceremony a solemn gravity, almost sacred.

Around us, local nobles, scholars, commanders, and a handful of representatives of the people had taken their seats. Each played their role in this political liturgy.

Their faces strove for impassivity, but their eyes told everything: curiosity for some, apprehension for others, fascination for many. The silence was broken only by the creak of benches, nervous throat-clearings, and the discreet rustle of cloth.

When I entered, escorted by Sae and Nyss, a breath ran through the hall. Heads turned as one, and I felt that already familiar mixture: admiration and fear, fervor and mistrust. I walked slowly down the aisle, my boots striking the pale stone. Each step seemed to resonate louder than the last.

At the center, the Saint awaited me. Her long white hair cascaded over her shoulders like a stream of light, and her plain robe, almost monastic in its simplicity, contrasted with the usual flamboyance of the nobles around her. She took a step toward me, then another, her scarlet eyes shining with a fever that was no longer human.

And suddenly, without warning, she threw herself to her knees. Her palms slammed against the stone, her forehead bowed until it touched the cold floor. Her voice rang out, clear, vibrant, quivering with ecstasy.

— Lord of Thorns... I give you my faith, my flesh, my name. There is no longer a Saint. There is only the Eighth Thorn!

A shiver ran through the hall, visible, almost tangible. The murmurs died instantly. For a second, everyone remained frozen, stunned by this public prostration. Then, like a wave, the reaction spread.

A noble dropped to his knees, striking the ground with his fist in a sign of submission. Two scholars followed, their ink-stained quills falling to the floor. A company commander bowed his head heavily, planting his sword before him like a cross. Then it was the whole assembly, without hesitation, without order, without even reflection: dozens of bodies prostrated themselves, striking the ground with their foreheads in a dull, repeated thud.

I remained standing, alone in the center, and the contrast struck me. They, kneeling, mouths open with babbled prayers, eyes wet with fervor or hypocrisy.

Me, upright, dark, a solitary figure above a flattened crowd. The hall had ceased to be a banquet: it had turned into a temple.

Sae, at my right, observed the scene with that thin smile that revealed nothing, but her icy eyes gleamed with a light I knew was calculation. Nyss, at my left, had not smiled: her features were those of a she-wolf watching the pack bow beneath the Alpha’s authority.

I simply raised my hand, and the silence, already heavy, became suffocating. Every gaze lifted to me, imploring, submissive.

I let my breath fill the hall, then slowly drew my sword. The rasp of metal against the scabbard tore the air like a scream. A shiver ran through the assembly, visible, almost animal: some recoiled imperceptibly, others held their breath. The bloody reflection of the torches slid over the bare blade, as if it were already drinking in the crowd’s adoration.

I stepped toward the Saint. Still on her knees, her forehead against the stone, she trembled with a mixture of fervor and ecstasy. I laid the tip of the sword on her left shoulder, then on the right.

— So be it, I said in a grave voice, each syllable resounding against the whitewashed walls. From this day forth, you are no longer the Saint. You are the Eighth Thorn. Blade and root of my Empire.

A breath of stupefaction rippled through the hall. Foreheads pressed lower into the stone. The torches seemed to waver, as if they too bent down.

At my right, Sae stepped forward. In her slender hands she held a small ornate casket, dark wood bound with iron. She opened it with a precise gesture. Inside, on a bed of black velvet, rested a ring of pure abyssium, polished until it reflected the red glow of the flames. Sae took it and knelt as well, presenting the ring in the hollow of her palms.

— As has been done for every Thorn, she proclaimed, her clear voice ringing like a declaration, so shall it be given to the Eighth: this seal of loyalty.

I took the ring and, with a firm motion, slid it onto the Saint’s finger. She gasped as if the burning metal had suddenly fused to her flesh, her lips parting to let out a breath of adoration. She raised her eyes to me, and in her scarlet pupils now shone the icy certainty of belonging.

— My Lord... she whispered in a broken voice. I am yours. Body, blood, and faith.

The entire hall erupted at once. Dozens of fists struck the ground, the dull rhythm of an improvised liturgy. All cried out in unison:

— Thorn! Thorn! Thorn!

I raised my sword high above my head, and the voices redoubled, shattering the solemnity to transform it into wild devotion. Before me, prostrate, adorned with the black ring, the Eighth Thorn had risen as a living icon.

The ritual was now sealed. The sword, the anointing of steel, the ring of abyssium. A rite of blood and iron. A rite I would repeat, again and again, until every Thorn, one by one, came to plant itself into the body of the world.

The Eighth Thorn had been born. And nothing, from now on, could erase it.