The courtyard was silent except for the crackle of the fire.
Victor sat in a chair, a heavy cigar clenched between his teeth, watching them.
The girls nursed their bruises, cuts, and bloody knuckles. Yet none of them complained. Not anymore.
Finally, Victor spoke, voice like gravel grinding against stone.
"It's time."
They looked up, alert.
"You've survived what would have broken lesser beings," he said. "You are no longer children. No longer victims. You are weapons. Each of you a blade I have sharpened."
He rose to his feet, towering over them.
"But blades unused rust. It's time you become something more. A brotherhood. A sisterhood. A family."
Aurianna exchanged a glance with Ivy, then with the others.
Victor reached into his coat and pulled out a black box. He opened it slowly. Inside rested six rings — black as obsidian, etched with the symbol of a thorn wrapping around a rose.
Aurianna stepped forward first.
Victor slid the ring onto her finger, his hands rough, but surprisingly gentle.
"You are the Queen of Shadows," he said, voice low. "Regina delle Ombre."
One by one, he gave each girl her ring, murmuring a title with it.
"Stella, Queen of Light."
"Flora, Queen of Roots."
"Tecna, Queen of Codes."
"Alexa, Queen of Blades."
"Ivy, Queen of Ghosts."
When he was finished, the girls stood together, the firelight flickering in their bruised but unbowed faces, their rings gleaming darkly.
Victor looked at them — really looked at them — and for the first time in years, something like pride flickered across his battle-hardened face.
"You are The Black Thorns now," he said. "The world will fear you."
Aurianna's emerald eyes burned in the firelight. She turned to the others, her voice low, dangerous, full of promise.
"They made us monsters," she said. "Now we show them what real monsters look like."
The others nodded, silent and deadly.
And that night, under the twisted stars, the Black Thorns were truly born.
---
Months passed.
Their missions became more dangerous.
They took down small-time traffickers, corrupt politicians, crime lords.
Each mission was signed with their silent mark — a black card, bearing a golden rose wrapped in thorns, and the chilling words:
You've been kissed by the Thorns.
No one knew who they were.
No one suspected they were women.
No one lived long enough to find out.
They moved like wraiths — unseen, unstoppable.
---
One evening, after a particularly brutal mission, the girls sat around the long table in the compound's strategy room.
Blood still stained their clothes. Flora was stitching a gash across Alexa's arm with quick, efficient movements.
Stella stared into her cup of black coffee, silent.
Ivy leaned against the wall, arms crossed, black eyes smoldering.
Aurianna paced the room like a caged lion.
Victor entered, a thick dossier in hand.
Without a word, he dropped it onto the table.
The girls leaned forward.
"New contract," Victor said. "High-profile. Dangerous. Worth millions."
Aurianna opened the dossier. Inside were photographs, maps, security codes.
Their target: An arms dealer named Miguel Donatello, who ran weapons through Europe and the Middle East, leaving a trail of blood and fire.
"He's a monster," Victor said. "And he's planning something big. Take him out, and you cripple half the underworld in Europe."
Aurianna's mouth curled into a cold smile. "When do we start?"
Victor met her gaze. "Tomorrow."
He turned and strode out, his coat billowing behind him.
Aurianna snapped the dossier shut and looked at the others.
"Gear up," she said.
They moved without hesitation.
Tomorrow, another king would fall.
---
Late that night, Aurianna couldn't sleep.
She stood on the balcony outside her room, the cold wind slicing through her shirt, staring out at the black sea beyond.
Victor joined her silently.
"You doubt yourself?" he asked.
Aurianna shook her head. "I'm ready."
Victor lit a cigarette, the glow briefly illuminating his scarred face.
"You'll kill many more before this is over," he said. "It doesn't get easier. It just gets... quieter."
Aurianna didn't reply.
Victor looked at her, a rare softness in his eyes.
"You remind me of myself," he said. "Before the world broke me."
Aurianna's voice was a whisper. "Maybe I'm already broken."
Victor smiled grimly. "Good. Broken things are sharpest."
He turned and walked away, leaving her alone with the darkness.
---
The next day, they struck.
Dressed in sleek black suits, their faces hidden behind masks, the Black Thorns infiltrated Donatello's heavily guarded estate.
Tecna disabled the security systems in under three minutes.
Ivy took out the outer guards silently.
Flora laced the party's champagne with a powerful sedative she had engineered herself.
Stella covered the rear from a sniper perch half a mile away.
Aurianna and Alexa moved through the halls like shadows.
They found Donatello in his private study, drunk and laughing, a pistol on his desk.
He barely had time to rise before Alexa shot him in the knee.
He went down screaming.
Aurianna crouched beside him, her emerald eyes glittering behind her mask.
"Beg," she whispered.
Donatello sobbed, blood pouring from his leg.
She placed the black card on his chest and whispered into his ear.
"You've been kissed by the Thorns."
Then she slid the knife between his ribs, straight into his heart.
He died with her name on his lips.
---
Back at the compound, they debriefed.
Victor sat at the head of the table, silent as Aurianna finished her report.
When she was done, he nodded.
"Good work," he said. "The world will bleed tonight."
The girls exchanged glances — not of fear, not of guilt.
Of satisfaction.
Of triumph.
--
That night, back at the compound, Victor watched his girls — no, his warriors — celebrate their latest victory.
He felt something strange stirring in his chest.
Not pride.
Not happiness.
Something deeper.
Something darker.
Hope.
Maybe, just maybe, these broken little girls had grown into something the world couldn't destroy.
Maybe they would be the fire that burned the rotten kingdoms to ash.
Maybe they would be the vengeance the world so desperately deserved.
Victor crushed his cigarette under his boot and turned away from the window, his coat whispering around his ankles like a shroud.
The war was coming.
And the Black Thorns would be ready.