Chapter 1: First Comes Marriage
Thorn Garden is a visual novel praised for combining darker themes with a romantic storyline. It centers around seven brothers, seven princes, all with fascinatingly different personalities.
The worst of them being the seventh prince.
The black rose.
If the game's theorists conspire over the other brothers' lore, they obsess over Valerius—the character that gave the game its reputation. His route is hidden, unlocked only after finishing a number of niche accomplishments.
The reason why he's so beloved?
The seventh prince is deranged. Malicious schemes wait behind his grin, the blood of hundreds drying on his hands. He's a praised military weapon, but once his route starts, he's consumed by his sick devotion to the player—single-minded in his love.
At the beginning of the game, he's married to the general's daughter. Purely transactional, although the poor girl is hinted to want more.
He kills her when she tries to harm the heroine. It's a horrific scene. A cold, merciless monster taking the life of his bride to appease the subject of his twisted love.
That's the fate that awaits me.
There's no reason for me to exist in this world. My memories are a blur, but if there's anything I'm sure about, I'm supposed to be in the afterlife, the place that follows death.
Not here. Not in Thorn Garden, dressed in wedding garments, a familiar sigil attached to my sleeve.
I gulp. Out of all the princes, why him? Why Valerius?
"Penelope," A man dressed in uniform enters through the door. His hair is gray, eyes tired. "You look beautiful."
The maids around me bow and leave the room. My mind sobers in an instant, no longer distracted by the fiddling of a dozen hands.
"Father." I utter. The voice is mine, it sounds like mine—unexpected.
As if sensing my nervousness, he places a hand on my shoulder. Firm, heavy, his warmth seeps through the layers of fabric. Where comfort should be, instead, I feel the pressure of a withering man's expectations. It's heavy, almost as heavy as the dress.
"You understand what you have to do, correct?" He asks.
I nod. There's no question—be obedient, marry the prince, be the perfect wife. It's a life set in stone. There aren't many options for women in historical settings.
"The entire empire's military power is to be passed down to him." Father states. "This is a good opportunity. Don't waste it, don't let him be swayed by temptation. Men are simple beings. Access his heart and you will have full control over his mind."
The advice is unexpectedly wise for what the story is. It would've been appreciated in any other context, but knowing what's to come, it's meaningless.
Valerius will never want the general's daughter. He will never want Penelope. He wants the heroine, the coveted main character of Thorn Garden. Penelope's life, my life, stands in the way.
I have no choice but to play along. For now.
"I understand, father."
He smiles, satisfied. "I'm proud of you."
There's an inexplicable sadness that washes over me when I realize that Penelope's never heard those words before.
-
He's handsome, auburn hair and silver eyes. Tall, built, years of combat shown off through his sculpted figure. His military experience isn't something that can be discredited.
The prince's disinterest is obvious throughout the entire ceremony, which is an awkward affair for both me and the guests. The queen is glaring, scrutinizing her son's blatant disrespect. He remains unaffected.
I'm not even offended, just exhausted as the priest reads out more lines about sacred bonds and eternal love. They're empty words. There is no love here.
My eyes narrow as I stare at the prince. Valerius, you sick bastard. How much suffering has been inflicted by your hands?
In this marriage, it's kill or be killed. The sooner I formulate his downfall, the better chances I have at surviving.
"Do you take this woman to be your wife, to live together in holy matrimony, to love her, to honor her, to comfort her, and to keep her in sickness and in health, forsaking all others, for as long as you both shall live?" The priest asks.
He's not even looking at me when he answers, "Sure. Yeah."
His audacity is stark, sticking out like a light beam in a dark cathedral. How comedic. He brings the entire room alive by being an asshole. The hold he has on people needs to be studied.
The priest coughs, baffled by the tension.
"And do you take this man to be your husband?"
"I do." My voice remains firm despite the trembling of my hands. Sweat dribbles down my neck as we exchange lies in front of a watchful audience.
The prince is unfocused, uncaring as his eyes study the crowd—is he looking for her already? Has the heroine entered the story?
Probably not. It's too early.
Even then, he doesn't care to look at his wife.
Good.
He won't see it coming when the dagger strikes, when the drop of poison finds itself in his cup. There are no thorns that can discourage a persistent pest, after all. Roses wither and die too.
It leaves me wondering if he bleeds red or bleeds black. In the end, it won't matter.
The ceremony gets excessively slower, making me feel like a sack of meat sluggishly hanging onto a bony structure. Then, the dreaded words arrive,
"You may kiss the bride."
I almost flinch when he approaches to remove the veil. His hands are covered in black gloves, made to match his uniform—even then, I could distinguish their intimidating size.
The kiss is unmotivated, emotionless, as he puts his lips to mine.
The prince's lips are unexpectedly soft. For a moment, I sink into the feeling of tenderness, missing the moments when I didn't fear for my life. It spans seconds, but it feels like eternity.
Then, a sharp sensation pulls me from the blissful daze.
The psychopath bit me, my blood decorating his bottom lip. What the hell.
A baritone voice tickles my ears, "You're enjoying yourself."
He smirks, knowing that he's elicited the reaction he wants. His amusement makes me want to suffocate him even more. I can attempt to choke him here. He'll overpower me in the struggle, probably, but it's tempting to test my chances.
Fine. If that's how he wants to play, then it's in his best interests to be ready for revenge.
The wedding bells ring against the cathedral's walls. They're beautifully morbid—a song of death.