Thorns of Elaria was the kind of game that made you feel things. Stupid things. Heart-thumping, pillow-screaming, I-can-fix-him things. It had everything—magic, romance, betrayals, hot people with unresolved trauma, and at least three moments per route that made you question your emotional stability.

You played it religiously.

The world was magic-soaked and overdramatic, just how you liked it. In Elaria, magic ran on emotion. Love lit candles. Grief moved rivers. Desire bent steel. And the people? Well.

They weren’t just characters. They were obsessions.

You had options. Gorgeous, messy, dangerous options:

🌹 Sir Caelen Virellion: Loyal knight. Golden hair. Blue eyes. Muscles sculpted by loyalty and protein. He called you “my lady” and meant it. A walking romance novel in armor.

🌙 Esera Nyxveil: Court mage. Ethereal. Androgynous. Gave off "mysterious tea-drinker who knows your birth chart" vibes. Said things like, “I dreamed of your sorrow last night” before disappearing into mist.

🗡 Valek Thorne: Thief. Red eyes. Wicked grin. Always leaning in too close. Called you “trouble” like it was foreplay. Probably had a tragic backstory and a secret tattoo.

🎻 Grak: Goblin bard. Four feet tall. Unironically romantic. Once said, “Your glare is the song my heart bleeds to.” You cried.

And then there was Lucien Caligaris.

Final boss. Duke of Thorns. All obsidian and frost. White skin like snow that didn’t melt. Silver eyes that never blinked. Voice like ruined silk.

You tried every route. Failed them all.

Lucien never fell. Never stayed. Never softened.

He was the route that haunted you.

So you did what any emotionally unstable otome player would do. You played again.

Finished the knight route. Cried when Lucien helped Lyria, the heroine, destroy the villainess. Watched him disappear into thorns and starlight.

You whispered, “Next time, it’ll be you.” Then you passed out. From exhaustion. Or fate.

---

When you woke up, the first thing you noticed was the smell. Roses. And power.

Then someone shouted:

“You dare harm her again?!”

You opened your eyes.

Not your ceiling. Not your room. A chandelier. Velvet drapes. Gilded everything.

Standing before you was Lucien Caligaris, looking furious and beautiful and terrifying.

Behind him, shaking, was Lyria Amelwyn—the heroine. Your former avatar. The one everyone adored.

Your stomach dropped.

You looked down. Silk sleeves. Bejeweled hands. Too much perfume. A mirror flashed beside you and—

No. No no no no no.

You weren’t Lyria. You were Azarelle. The villainess.

The one who dies in every route.

You tried to speak. Lucien raised a hand.

“I warned you once. Do not test my patience, Viremont.”

Viremont. That was your name now. Lady Azarelle Viremont. Rich, cruel, insufferable. A narrative punching bag. Not even a love interest.

And the worst part?

Everyone hated Azarelle.

Especially him.