Chapter 1 Coronation of Thorns
# Chapter 1: Coronation of Thorns
The weight of the crown draws blood from my brow as I kneel on the cold stone floor of the cathedral. I can feel it trickling down my temple—a single crimson tear marking the beginning of my reign. How fitting.
"With this sacred oil, I anoint thee, Adelaide von Habsburg, rightful sovereign of Austerlitz." Bishop Alaric's voice echoes through the vaulted ceiling as he pours the oil over my head.
I catch the faintest whiff of nightshade mixed with the holy chrism. My own concoction. The old bishop has no idea he's participating in my little charade. The poison won't kill—not today—but it will leave a mark that only I can see. A signature.
Just like the one I left three nights ago.
---
"More wine, Lord Regent?" I had asked, my smile as practiced as my posture. Lord Heinrich Brandt—the man who raised me after my parents' "tragic accident"—nodded appreciatively.
"You've grown into such a gracious hostess, Adelaide." His eyes—calculating even in relaxation—scanned my face for weakness. "Tomorrow you become queen in name. Remember who made it possible."
I poured the deep burgundy liquid with steady hands. "I could never forget my debts, Lord Heinrich."
"Good girl." He sipped. "The people will adore you. A beautiful puppet for an aging empire."
"And you'll be there to guide me." I raised my own glass. "To teachers."
He never saw the irony in my toast. Never noticed how I didn't drink.
Within the hour, he was gasping, clutching at his chest. Not dying—no, that would be too merciful, too obvious. Just suffering enough to understand.
I leaned close as he convulsed, whispering into his ear: "You taught me kindness is the deadliest blade." I pressed a vial into his palm. "The antidote. Should you choose to live under my rule."
His eyes widened with a cocktail of fury and respect. He drank it greedily.
"Long live the Queen," he rasped.
---
The cathedral bells toll, pulling me back to the present. Bishop Alaric finishes his blessing, his weathered hands trembling slightly as he lifts the crown. Whether from age or guilt, I cannot tell.
"Rise, Your Majesty," he intones.
I stand, feeling the weight of centuries settling onto my shoulders. The nobility bow in practiced unison—a choreography of fealty I know is as hollow as their hearts.
At nineteen, I am the youngest monarch in three generations. They think me malleable, naive. A pretty doll to dance on Heinrich's strings.
I scan the faces in the crowd, noting who meets my gaze and who averts their eyes. Power is a language spoken in glances, in the micro-expressions of those who covet it. I've studied it since I was twelve, when I first realized my parents' death was no accident.
And then I see him.
Standing against a pillar, refusing to kneel. Elias. My first love, now the leader of the rebellion seeking to overthrow me. His jaw is set in that familiar stubborn line, his eyes boring into mine with an intensity that still makes my breath catch.
He wears the uniform of a revolutionary now—simple, practical, stained with the blood of my guards. A woman stands beside him, her hand possessively on his arm. The wedding ring on her finger catches the light from the stained glass windows.
I allow myself one moment of weakness—a single heartbeat of pain—before I school my features back into royal indifference.
"Your Majesty," Heinrich appears at my elbow as I process down the aisle, his voice a low murmur beneath the choir's triumphant anthem. "We have a situation requiring immediate attention."
"Can it wait until after I've waved to my adoring subjects, Lord Spymaster?" My smile never falters for the crowds.
"I'm afraid not." His tone is clipped. "There's been a development regarding the succession."
I turn slightly, allowing him to walk beside me. "I am the succession, Heinrich. Or have you forgotten whose blood runs in my veins?"
"That's precisely the issue." His lips barely move as he speaks. "A claimant has emerged. A boy."
I laugh softly, making it appear as casual conversation to onlookers. "Another pretender? How tiresome."
"This one is different." Heinrich's eyes narrow. "He has documentation. And supporters within the church."
I don't need to ask which churchman. Bishop Alaric's blessing still feels oily on my skin.
"Bring him to court," I say dismissively. "I'll deal with him as I've dealt with the others."
Heinrich hesitates—something I've rarely seen him do. "There's more, Your Majesty."
We reach the cathedral doors. Sunlight spills across the threshold, illuminating the sea of faces waiting in the square. I pause, preparing my most benevolent smile.
"What could possibly be more pressing than my coronation, Lord Brandt?" I ask through clenched teeth.
Heinrich leans closer, his breath hot against my ear. "The boy claimant has your father's eyes."
My heart stutters. For a moment, the crowd, the cathedral, even Elias fades away. There's only Heinrich's words and the sudden, terrible possibility they represent.
I step into the sunlight, raising my hands to acknowledge the cheering masses. My first royal wave as Queen Adelaide, perfect in its execution.
No one sees how my fingers tremble.
Is this how you felt satisfactory? Would you like me to proceed with Chapter 2?
