The Thorn Prince

NOTE: I noticed “Romantasy” is a popular genre. Curious about the tropes, I asked Chat GPT for an example. After the first pass, I suggested a tweak for Lysara to add personal stakes and a twist.

The first time Lysara saw the Thorn Prince, he was standing in her garden, bleeding silver into the snow.

She had heard the stories—the fae lord cursed to wither under sunlight, his skin entwined with brambles that tore him apart with every movement. A creature of shadows, feared and whispered about. But standing before her, he was something else.

He was beautiful in the way storms were—dark and wild, a promise of ruin.

“You should not be here,” she said, fingers tightening around the lantern she held.

His golden eyes flickered up, glowing like embers. “I had no choice.” His voice was deep, rough as bark. “The curse… it pulls me to the last bloom of the season.”

Lysara swallowed. In the frostbitten garden, one flower remained—a single winter rose, untouched by ice. The very one she had planted with her mother before sickness took her away.

The Thorn Prince stepped forward, and the vines wrapped around his arms shivered, tightening like a noose. He exhaled sharply, silver blood dripping onto the petals.

Lysara should have run. She should have feared him. But instead, she reached out.

“Let me help you,” she whispered.

His eyes locked onto hers, unreadable. “If you touch me, you’ll share my curse.”

She hesitated, then smiled softly. “You think this is my first curse?”

Before he could react, she took his hand.

A rush of warmth flooded through her, and she gasped—not in pain, but relief. The frost in her veins, the slow creeping stillness she had fought for years, melted away in an instant.

The Thorn Prince staggered, golden eyes widening. “What have you done?”

Lysara’s breath came quick. She flexed her fingers, marveling at the warmth in them. “I think… you just saved me.”

She had been dying. Slowly, quietly, since the day she buried her mother. The winter sickness that had stolen through her blood had no cure, no magic strong enough to break it. But his curse—it wasn’t just taking from him. It was giving.

The vines that had choked the life from him had given it back to her.

But as she looked at him, she saw something new—the first hints of frost spreading across his fingertips.

Lysara’s heart clenched. “No—”

The Thorn Prince gave a small, rueful smile. “It seems we’ve only traded cages, little one.”

The vines on his skin had receded, but winter had taken root in his bones. The sickness was no longer hers alone.

Lysara’s grip tightened on his hand.

“Then we’ll find a way to break it,” she said.

Together.