Chapter 1: The Thorns of Obedience

Part 1

🪷**My Brother Commander Forced Me to Wear Thorns as “Spiritually Frail”—But I Knew His Trials Were Designed to Steal Our Futures.**

Naomi Price had simply requested clarity on the community’s “Ascension Rites” after Brother Commander Hawke publicly ridiculed a younger Sister Aspirant. Two days later, during our own “Trials of Purity,” Hawke forced Naomi to kneel in front of the entire congregation, proclaiming her a “spiritually frail daughter” and demanding she wear a floral garland made of thorny branches.

His venomous eyes burned with an unsettling personal hatred. I knew then this wasn’t just about ritual; it was about crushing dissent.

It had begun a week ago, during the community’s morning prayers. Brother Commander Hawke had singled out young Sister Aspirant Maya for stumbling over a passage.

He’d made her stand before everyone, mocking her “feeble spirit” until her face flushed crimson, tears silently tracing paths down her cheeks.

My quiet query about the “Ascension Rites” process, intended to ensure fair spiritual guidance for all, had clearly landed me in his crosshairs. Now, two days after my question, it was my turn to face the “Trials of Purity.”

“Naomi Price,” Hawke’s voice boomed, echoing across the sun-drenched yard where the entire Flock had gathered. His gaze was a predator’s, unblinking.

“You challenge the very spirit of our teachings. You question the path to purity laid out by the Elders.”

I knelt, my knees pressing into the hard-packed earth, trying to keep my posture rigid. His heavy hand, surprisingly strong, placed the garland onto my head.

Sharp thorns immediately dug into my scalp, a jolt of pain making me clench my jaw.

A few gasps rippled through the crowd, quickly stifled. Most faces remained impassive, eyes fixed on the ground or darting nervously away if they met mine.

The garland felt heavy, a conspicuous mark of shame. It wasn’t just humiliation; it was a visible condemnation, meant to isolate.

I could feel the eyes of Caleb Thorne, a sympathetic Brother Aspirant from my own group, darting towards me, then quickly away, a flicker of worry in his glance.

That evening, the thorns still digging into my skin, I was assigned to scrub the refectory floors. The air was thick with the scent of stale food and fear.

I overheard hushed whispers from a group of lower-ranking Aspirants gathered near the back pantry.

They spoke of past “Trials of Purity” that never seemed to end, trials that had stretched on for weeks, sometimes months.

“Sister Elara,” one whispered, her voice barely audible, “she wore a crown like that for a full cycle of the moon. Then she was simply… gone.”

“And Brother Thomas,” another added, her voice laced with unease, “after his trial, his family’s orchard, his entire livelihood, was ‘re-allocated’ to the community’s care. No explanation, just a new decree.”

The words chilled me, far more than the persistent prickle of thorns on my head. Quiet expulsions?

And their possessions just… absorbed, under the guise of spiritual devotion? It wasn’t just about testing spiritual weakness.

A cold, undeniable certainty bloomed in my gut. The Trials weren’t merely designed to break spirits; they were also a systematic way to identify dissenters and, perhaps, to take something far more tangible from them.

My fingers, raw from the scrubbing, instinctively went to the thorny garland. What exactly was the true purpose of these ‘Trials of Purity’ if not spiritual betterment?

Part 2

The thorns were a constant, dull ache, a physical manifestation of Hawke’s decree. Days blurred, each filled with his cutting remarks and the congregation’s averted gazes.

I continued my chores, the weight on my scalp a heavy burden.

During a water break, Caleb Thorne edged closer, his eyes darting nervously.

He kept his voice barely audible. “Naomi, that garland isn’t just for disobedience. It’s the Crown of Thorns.”

“It’s an ancient ritual, branding sacrilegious whistleblowers who challenge the Flock’s core tenets.”

A cold certainty settled. They weren’t just shaming me; they were signaling to the inner circle that I was a dangerous truth-teller.

My steadfast silence, I now understood, was being completely misinterpreted as submission. I had to find a way to speak my truth.