The morning came with a stillness unlike any Maribelle had ever felt before. The world was silent, as if holding its breath. The air was heavy, full of anticipation, and the earth beneath her feet seemed to hum with a life of its own.
Maribelle stood at the edge of the forest, gazing out over the village that had been her home for so long. The sun had barely risen, its golden light creeping over the hills, touching the distant trees with a soft glow. It was a peaceful sight, a quiet scene that had become familiar in the years she had lived here. But today, everything felt different.
Mistress Elira had not tried to stop her from leaving. She knew this was a journey Maribelle had to take alone—one she had to walk with her own two feet, with the weight of the crown heavy on her soul. The old woman’s words echoed in Maribelle’s mind.
The land will demand its due.
Maribelle had no idea what that meant, but she could feel it in her bones. The crown was no longer a distant idea, something from her past. It was a reality that she was stepping into with each passing moment.
Her hands brushed against the vine-wrapped necklace she wore—the same one that had been with her since she was a child. The golden berry at the center had never glowed so brightly as it did now.
The time had come.
She turned away from the village and began her journey toward the Heart of Thaloria. The ancient forest, the one where the first seeds of the kingdom had been planted, awaited her.
As she walked, the forest seemed to respond. Trees leaned toward her as if whispering secrets, their leaves rustling with a voice that felt all too familiar. The path she took was no longer the one she had walked in childhood, but it felt like the earth had made this path just for her.
It took days to reach the Heart of Thaloria, the heart of the ancient kingdom. But Maribelle did not tire. The land carried her, and with every step, her power grew stronger. The berries on the vine necklace pulsed with life, and she felt the connection to the earth deepen. The air became thick with magic, and the trees whispered her name like an ancient chant.
When she finally reached the clearing, she stopped. The Heart of Thaloria lay before her—a vast circle of golden vines that stretched high into the sky, creating a canopy of shimmering fruit. The land hummed, vibrating with an energy that she had not felt in years. This was her kingdom.
But something was wrong.
The air had grown heavy, and there was a deep, throbbing silence, as if the land itself was waiting.
Maribelle took a step forward.
The ground beneath her feet shifted, and a low, guttural growl echoed from the shadows. A figure stepped forward from the mist, cloaked in black. His eyes glowed with an eerie, pale light—the same eyes she had seen in her memories.
It was him.
Her heart clenched.
The man in the fog.
He smiled at her with a cruel, knowing grin. “You’ve come, I see.” His voice was smooth, like silk wrapped around a knife. “I thought you would. The land always calls to its true heir.”
Maribelle’s hands clenched into fists, but she did not move. “You stole what was mine.”
His eyes flashed with amusement. “What you never truly understood, Maribelle, is that I never stole anything. I simply took what was rightfully mine. You were never meant to rule this land. I was.”
The words hit her like a physical blow, but she stood tall, her heart steady. “I will not let you keep it.”
He stepped closer, his form shifting in the mist like a shadow. “You think you can just walk in here, claim what’s yours, and leave? You have no idea what you’re up against. The land doesn’t simply give its crown to anyone—it demands sacrifice. It demands blood.”
Maribelle felt a cold chill crawl up her spine.
Sacrifice.
That was the price the land would demand. She could feel it now, a deep, aching pull inside her chest, like the earth itself was calling for something.
Her mind flashed to the vines she had seen growing in the garden—the vines that were now blooming with ruby-red fruit, each one pulsing with a strange, otherworldly energy.
The land had been waiting.
And now, it was asking for her to choose.
Her thoughts turned to the crown of thorns—the one she had seen in her visions, the one she was meant to wear. She could feel it now, the sharpness of the thorns, the weight of the power it would give her. But it would not come without cost.
The man in the fog laughed, his voice dark and cruel. “You think you can just walk in and take it back? You think you can take the crown and leave this place unscathed? The land does not belong to you anymore, Maribelle. It belongs to me.”
Maribelle’s eyes burned with fierce determination. “You’re wrong.”
The ground beneath them shook, and the vines began to stir, twisting and writhing like serpents. The trees groaned as the land responded to her command.
She had come to claim what was hers. And she would not leave until it was.
The vines spread outward, wrapping around the figure, but he grinned as the shadows seemed to thicken around him. “You can’t win, Maribelle. Not this time.”
Maribelle’s heart raced. The land had chosen her. She was the land. The vines that had begun to twist around the figure were part of her power—part of what had been stolen.
It was time to claim it back.
Her hands stretched out, and the vines erupted from the earth, surrounding her, pushing the man back. The air crackled with energy as she called on the power buried deep in her soul. The crown was not just an object; it was a part of her, a piece of her essence.
The vines tightened, and the figure in black staggered, his smug expression faltering.
“You were never meant to hold this power, Maribelle,” he spat. “But you’re too late. The land has already chosen its king.”
But Maribelle’s voice was steady, stronger than it had ever been. “No. The land has chosen its queen.”
With that, the vines surged forward, and the man in the fog was swallowed by the earth. His scream was lost in the wind, fading away as the power of the land consumed him.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Maribelle stood alone in the clearing, the golden vines around her glowing brightly. The crown of thorns emerged from the soil, the weight of it calling to her like a distant memory.
She stepped forward, reaching for it.
The moment her fingers brushed the thorns, the earth seemed to breathe. The vines wrapped around her, lifting her high into the air, their glow intensifying as the crown settled on her head.
And in that moment, Maribelle knew.
She had returned.
And the land was hers.
ns 15.158.61.16da2
