They crowned me in thorns.
The ritual was meant to break me. The Brides gathered in the chapel, their masks lowered in silent dread. Nobles pressed forward into the shadows, eager to see the lesson carved into flesh. The High Priest stood at the altar, iron mask unyielding, voice echoing like a blade striking stone.
"The Veil does not bend. The Bride does not resist."
The mask of thorns was brought again, heavier now, sharpened, its inner ridges gleaming faintly in the candlelight. It had already tasted me once. Now it would claim me entirely.
I did not struggle as it descended. The weight pressed down, the thorns drove in, each breath a reminder of what they demanded—silence, surrender, erasure.
But I lifted my head.
I stood before them, bloodless yet burning, my gaze cold as the marble floor. The mask did not consume me. It crowned me.
The Brides flinched at the sight. Servants trembled, then stilled. Even the nobles shifted, unease breaking through their rigid poise.
The High Priest's proclamation rang out:
"She is bound. She is ours."
But I saw it in their eyes. They knew. The Veil had tried to claim me, and I had turned its chains into fire.
For the first time, I did not hide the defiance in my silence. I let it gleam through the iron slits of the mask, sharp and unmistakable.
The rebellion no longer whispered in shadows. Tonight, it breathed in every chamber, every gaze, every pause too deliberate to be fear.
The Veil thought it had bound me.
Instead, it had crowned me.