Page 113 of Crown of Thorns
“Take a seat.”
“Absolutely not.”
“What are the values of the Brotherhood?”
I lick my lips, unease building in my gut. “You know them yourself. I don't have to repeat them.”
“Traditions…” He begins, motioning me to continue.
“Loyalty. Respect. I've been around for a few years, you know.”
“It didn't stop you from disobeying. Now, sit and watch.”
I want to tell him to fuck off when someone shoves me from behind. Hard. I go down with an "oumph," taken by surprise. Turning over my shoulder, I stare into a black mask. He shoves me again, preventing me from getting up.
“What the hell? You fucking fucker.”
“You’re not just breaking the rules. You’re breaking your brother.”
“You like to shake things up. Just like your father, disrespecting established values,” Zachary rasps.
Suddenly, a heavy blow lands against my side. I gasp, stumbling as someone steps from the shadows. It’s another masked figure. Before I can react, a second punch cracks across my jaw. The coppery taste of blood fills my mouth.
Someone else enters the room. I lash out instinctively, but they’re faster. A kick drives into my thigh, and I go down hard. My palms smack the cold stone floor, pain blooming across my knuckles.
Another hit slams into my ribs, and I curl instinctively. Their laughter is muffled behind masks, but I hear it. Each blow is deliberate. Calculated. Ritualistic.
Like the punishments we’re warned about during our initiation ceremonies, but this isn’t a ceremony. It’s retribution. It’s the Brotherhood turning on one of their own and I never saw it coming.
I thought I belonged. I thought I mattered. But in this moment, I'm just another body for them to use, to punish.
And in the back of my mind, I see Noah. Bloody, cornered, helpless. This pain isn’t just mine. It’s his, too, a shared legacy of betrayal and silence.
The shimmer from the projector cuts again. And this time, it shatters me.
The image changes again: a younger Noah running through a graffitied alley. His curls bounce as he stumbles, chased by laughter and jeers. The camera follows as he falls hard, skinning his knees. They surround him, shadows with hands, voices that mock and touch.
I choke on air. My heart claws against my chest.
"No," I whisper, throat raw.
Another clip. A bench. Noah curled around his backpack like a lifeline. A familiar, tattooed hand reaches out. A crow inked on the thumb. It strokes through his hair like he’s a pet.
My fists strain against the invisible bindings of helplessness. My stomach turns. The air feels thinner, like the walls themselves are pressing in.
I can’t watch.
But I do.
It rips something loose. Not just for him. For me. I remember being small, voiceless. Not the same pain, but the same silence.
Tears prick, hot and furious.
Just hours ago, I stormed through these halls like I owned them, like I could fix everything by force of will. Now I’m on my knees, staring at a truth so raw it undoes me.
This is what he never said. What I never saw. What I should have seen.
I was too busy claiming him to protect him. Too arrogant to notice he was already bleeding.
