A Vow of Thorns - By Zahra Lulat

Written By: zahra lulat

Category: short story (romance)

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

In the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, Zahra Lulat presents an evocative short story titled "A Vow of Thorns." This gothic romance explores the tumultuous emotions of hatred and love, set against the backdrop of societal expectations. It delves into the courage needed to embrace love amidst personal struggles and societal pressures. Zahra's narrative captivates with its rich emotional depth and complex characters, inviting readers into a world where love and defiance intertwine.

About the Work

"A Vow of Thorns" is a masterful blend of gothic romance and emotional introspection. The story's mood is one of brooding intensity, with a literary style that vividly captures the protagonists' internal conflicts. The narrative is steeped in themes of love, defiance, and the struggle against societal constraints. Zahra expertly uses imagery to portray the haunting beauty of love amidst adversity, leaving readers contemplating the true nature of courage and devotion.

A vow of thorns

Original Submission by zahra lulat

A Vow of Thorns

A gothic romance of hatred, rain, and the terrible courage of being loved.

I had sworn, upon every sorrow my heart had ever endured, that I should hate Rowan Blackwood until my dying breath.

It was a solemn oath, made in the quietest hours of the night, when the candles had dwindled to nothing but trembling flames and the ghosts of my misfortunes gathered about my bed. I had repeated it so often that I had come to regard it as a prayer. Rowan Blackwood was heartless, cruel, and cold; a man whose smile possessed all the warmth of winter marble, whose tongue could cut deeper than any blade, and whose eyes had the extraordinary talent of making one feel both thoroughly examined and entirely condemned.

Naturally, I had fallen in love with him.

Or, at least, that was what I feared most.

My father’s ball was to be the grandest affair of the season, a glittering spectacle of wealth and ambition designed for one particular purpose: to secure a husband for his only daughter. That I should be treated as a daughter scarcely entered into his calculations. I was, to him, an advantageous arrangement waiting to be signed, sealed, and delivered to whichever gentleman possessed the appropriate fortune and the sufficient lack of discernment.

My opinion, as usual, had not been requested.

“Stand still, Ellaria.”

My maid’s hands trembled as she drew the laces of my corset tighter. I gripped the edge of the dressing table, swallowing the small, involuntary sound that escaped me.

“Tighter,” I whispered.

She hesitated. “Miss, you can scarcely breathe.”

“Then I shall have the advantage of appearing delicate. Society is forever praising that quality in women.”

She gave me a sad little smile, but neither of us laughed.

Beneath the silk and the satin lay the evidence of a life I had grown skilled at concealing. Faded bruises. Thin scars. The remnants of my father’s displeasure bestowed whenever I had dared to possess an opinion that did not resemble his own. I had learned to dress as though I were made of porcelain, for porcelain was admired precisely because it concealed how easily it might shatter.

My gown was a magnificent green, the colour of deep forests beneath a moonless sky. Its skirts flowed like dark water around my feet, and its neckline revealed only what propriety permitted. I had chosen it myself, despite my father’s preference for pale colours, which he declared made a young woman appear more agreeable.

I had no wish to appear agreeable.

My short hair, a curious rebellion of its own, fell just above my shoulders. I had arranged it half up and half down, allowing its soft waves to frame my face, while the red highlights caught the candlelight like embers in a dying fire.

I studied my reflection.

A stranger looked back at me.

She was lovely, certainly. Lovely enough to be displayed, admired, and bartered. Her eyes were bright, her mouth composed, and her chin lifted with a defiance that might have been mistaken for pride by those who had never known fear.

But I knew her secret.

She was terrified.

“Your father will be pleased,” my maid murmured.

“My father is pleased by very little that cannot be purchased.”

I rose before she could answer.

The ballroom below shimmered with chandeliers, polished floors, and the glittering jewels of people who had never once worried about the cost of their own happiness. Laughter rose beneath the vaulted ceiling, mingling with the sweet strains of a string quartet. The room smelled of roses, beeswax, and champagne.

I placed my hand upon the banister and began my descent.

And there, leaning against a marble pillar as though the entire world had been constructed for his personal amusement, stood Rowan Blackwood.

He held a glass in one hand. His black evening coat fitted him with infuriating perfection, his dark hair falling carelessly across his forehead. He appeared as he always did: entirely composed, entirely indifferent, and entirely too handsome for the good of anyone who had ever met him.

His gaze lifted.

The glass stopped halfway to his lips.

For one treacherous instant, I forgot how to walk.

His eyes travelled over my gown, my hair, my face, and finally settled upon my eyes. Something changed in his expression. It was not quite surprise, nor admiration, though I would have sworn upon my soul that it resembled both.

Then his face closed.

The familiar mask returned.

I hated him for it.

I hated him for possessing a face that could inspire poetry and a disposition that ought to have inspired a firing squad.

Most of all, I hated that I had spent an unreasonable portion of my afternoon wondering whether he would attend.

“Miss Ellaria!” Mr. Berret exclaimed, appearing at the foot of the stairs. “You look positively enchanting.”

Mr. Berret was a perfectly respectable gentleman, a friend and colleague of Rowan’s, and possessed of a fortune that my father had mentioned with alarming frequency over supper. He was pleasant enough, though I suspected that a particularly spirited teapot might provide more stimulating conversation.

Still, he offered his hand, and I accepted it.

“Mr. Berret, how kind of you.”

We had taken scarcely three steps when a voice behind me remarked, “I was unaware that the evening’s entertainment included the auctioning of young ladies.”

I did not need to turn to know its owner.

Rowan.

My fingers tightened around Mr. Berret’s hand.

“Mr. Blackwood,” I replied, turning with a small, perfectly measured bow. “How delightful to discover that even you have been invited.”

His mouth twitched.

“Miss Ellaria.”

His gaze dropped briefly to the hand resting upon Mr. Berret’s arm.

Then his eyes darkened.

I had never seen a man look so murderous over something so innocent.

It was, I confess, rather satisfying.

I offered him my sweetest smile and swept away with Mr. Berret before he could invent some further insult.

The orchestra began a waltz.

Mr. Berret proved an agreeable dancer, and I allowed myself the pleasure of laughing at one of his remarks. It was a genuine laugh, too, and I noticed with considerable interest that Rowan, from his position near the pillars, had stopped speaking to the gentleman beside him.

His gaze followed me through every turn.

Well.

If Mr. Blackwood wished to spend his evening glaring holes into the backs of other gentlemen, I could hardly consider it my responsibility to prevent him.

Indeed, I resolved to be positively charming.

When the dance ended, Mr. Berret bowed and thanked me for the honour. I had barely begun to respond when a familiar shadow fell across us.

“May I have a word with you, Miss Ellaria?”

Rowan’s voice was soft.

That was how I knew he was furious.

“Certainly, Mr. Blackwood. Have I committed some terrible offence by enjoying myself?”

His jaw tightened.

“What, precisely, do you think you are doing?”

I tilted my head.

“Dancing.”

“With Berret?”

“An astute observation. You must be exhausted.”

His eyes narrowed, and I was rewarded with the rarest of sights: Rowan Blackwood, entirely at a loss for words.

I smiled.

It was a wicked little smile, I admit, but I had endured years of his cold remarks and superior airs. I considered myself entitled to the occasional pleasure.

“You cannot be serious,” he muttered.

“I assure you, I have never been more serious in my life.”

“You are enjoying this.”

“Immensely.”

He looked at me for a long moment, and something beneath his anger shifted. His gaze lingered upon my face with an intensity that made my smile falter.

“Dance with me,” he said.

It was not a question.

I raised an eyebrow. “Is that an order?”

“No.”

“A request, then?”

His expression softened by the smallest degree.

“A plea, if you must have the truth of it.”

I ought to have refused.

I ought to have laughed in his face, reminded him that I despised him, and returned to Mr. Berret, whose chief fault was that he had never once made my heart behave like a bird beating itself senseless against the bars of a cage.

Instead, I heard myself say, “The next dance, Mr. Blackwood.”

He bowed.

“Thank you, Miss Ellaria.”

And then, infuriatingly, he smiled.

Not the sharp, mocking smile he so often wore, but something quiet and almost uncertain.

It followed me all the way to the champagne table.

I seized a glass and took a breath.

What the devil am I doing?

I was supposed to hate him.

I had built entire fortifications around that hatred. I had furnished them with every cruel word he had ever spoken, every cutting remark, every occasion on which he had looked at me as though I were an inconvenience he had been forced to tolerate.

And yet, when he had called his request a plea, something in my chest had ached.

I pressed my fingers to the stem of the glass.

“Compose yourself, Ellaria,” I whispered. “He is a man, not a tragedy.”

“Must you always speak of me as though I am a tragedy?”

I nearly dropped the champagne.

Rowan stood behind me.

I turned slowly. “Must you always appear when I am attempting to recover my senses?”

“Would you prefer I announce myself with a trumpet?”

“I would prefer you announce yourself with a considerable distance between us.”

“And deprive myself of your company? Never.”

He held out his hand.

The orchestra had begun another waltz.

I stared at his palm, then at his face.

“Do try not to tread upon my feet,” I said, placing my hand in his. “I should hate to be forced to remember this evening for an entirely different reason.”

“I shall endeavour to restrain myself.”

“An admirable ambition. One can only hope you possess the necessary discipline.”

His laugh was quiet, almost startled, as though he had not expected me to amuse him.

He led me onto the floor.

And then he touched me.

Only my hand, only the small of my back, as propriety demanded. Yet I felt the contact as though the entire room had gone dark and he alone remained illuminated.

His fingers were warm.

I hated that I noticed.

The music rose around us, and we began to move.

“You look beautiful,” he said.

I stumbled.

He caught me immediately, his hand steady against my waist.

“Careful.”

I recovered my footing and stared at him.

“Was that a compliment?”

“I believe so.”

“Are you unwell?”

“Frequently, in your presence.”

I ought to have laughed. Instead, my heart gave a ridiculous little flutter.

“Then perhaps you should consult a physician.”

“I have considered it. Unfortunately, I suspect my affliction is incurable.”

“Your vanity?”

“My attachment to you.”

The world seemed to tilt.

I searched his face for the familiar mockery, for some indication that he was amusing himself at my expense. I found none.

“You must not say such things,” I whispered.

“Why?”

“Because I shall be forced to believe you mean them.”

His hand tightened ever so slightly against mine.

“And would that be so terrible?”

“Yes,” I said, too quickly.

His gaze searched my face.

“Ellaria.”

I looked away.

The chandeliers had become blurred circles of light. The music seemed to come from an extraordinary distance, and I was suddenly aware of the multitude of people surrounding us, all watching, all judging, all waiting for me to become the agreeable young woman my father expected.

“I cannot,” I whispered.

His expression changed.

For the first time in all the years I had known him, Rowan Blackwood looked wounded.

He said nothing more until the music ended.

Then, as the final notes faded, he bowed over my hand and murmured, “Come outside with me.”

I should have refused.

Naturally, I followed him.

The rain had begun in earnest.

It fell in silver threads beyond the terrace, turning the garden into a dark and shimmering wilderness. The scent of wet earth rose beneath the roses, and the distant thunder rolled across the heavens like the restless movement of some ancient beast.

Rowan led me along a narrow path, away from the glowing windows and the voices of the ballroom.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“Somewhere I may speak without an audience.”

“How unfortunate. I had hoped you intended to throw me into a pond.”

“I confess, the thought has crossed my mind.”

“How romantic.”

“I am trying.”

The answer was so unexpected that I glanced at him.

He was not smiling.

We reached a secluded corner of the garden, where an old wooden swing hung from the branches of a great willow. I remembered it from childhood, though I had not visited it in years. The ropes were dark with rain, and the seat swayed gently in the wind.

I sat.

Rowan remained standing before me, rain gathering in his hair and glistening upon the shoulders of his coat.

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

Then he lowered himself onto one knee before me.

I stared at him.

“Rowan?”

He took my hands.

His gloves were damp. His fingers trembled.

“I have been trying to find the right words for this conversation for a very long time,” he said. “I have prepared speeches, discarded them, and prepared them again. I have considered every possible argument, every reasonable explanation, and every eloquent declaration that might persuade you to listen.”

“And how has that worked out for you?”

“Disastrously.”

A small laugh escaped me, though my eyes had begun to sting.

He looked down at our joined hands.

“I cannot bear to watch you dance with every other man in that room.”

My heart lurched.

“Why not?” I asked, lifting my chin. “Am I not entitled to dance with whomever I please?”

“You are.”

“Then you have no right to complain.”

“I know.”

“Nor any right to be jealous.”

“I know that, too.”

“Then what precisely is the purpose of this conversation?”

He looked up.

“Because I love you.”

The rain seemed to stop.

Not in truth, of course; it continued to fall upon the leaves, the stones, and the shoulders of the man kneeling before me. But for one impossible moment, the world ceased to exist beyond his face.

I could hear my own heartbeat.

I could hear the faint, unsteady breath he drew before continuing.

“I love you, Ellaria. I love you with a devotion so complete that it has made a fool of every sensible thought I have ever possessed. I love the way you look at me as though you can see every miserable thing I try to conceal. I love your wit, your temper, your stubbornness, and the terrible little smile you wear whenever you have bested me in an argument.”

His mouth trembled into the ghost of a smile.

“I love that you refuse to bow to anyone merely because they expect it of you. I love that you can walk into a room full of people who believe they know your worth and somehow make them all appear very foolish indeed.”

I could no longer feel the rain.

“Rowan…”

“No. Please.” His voice faltered. “Let me finish, for I fear I shall never again find the courage.”

I pressed my lips together.

He drew a breath.

“I have been cruel to you. I have mistaken silence for strength and indifference for dignity. I have spoken sharply when I wished to speak tenderly, and turned away when every part of me longed to come closer. I convinced myself that if I made you believe I cared for nothing, you would never discover how much power you possessed to hurt me.”

His eyes shone in the darkness.

“It was a cowardly thing to do. I know that now.”

I looked at him, this man I had condemned so thoroughly that I had scarcely allowed myself to wonder what sorrow might lie beneath his coldness.

“But you hate me,” I whispered.

“I know.”

“I have spent years hating you.”

“I know that, too.”

“I swore I would hate you forever.”

He gave a broken little laugh.

“Then I have been a fool to hope that forever might prove a shorter period than I imagined.”

A tear slipped down my cheek.

He saw it, and the tenderness that crossed his face nearly undid me.

“Ellaria, I do not ask you to forget every unkind word I have spoken. I would not insult you by pretending that love can erase what has been done. I ask only that you allow me the opportunity to show you that the man who hurt you is not the only man I can be.”

His thumb brushed over my knuckles.

“I cannot promise that I shall always know what to say. I cannot promise that I shall never disappoint you, or that I possess some miraculous gift for making sorrow disappear. But I can promise that I will never ask you to make yourself smaller so that I might feel like a greater man.”

My breath caught.

“I will listen when you speak. I will remain when the world becomes difficult. I will stand beside you when others attempt to decide what your life ought to be, and I will never mistake your silence for consent or your suffering for weakness.”

He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was barely above a whisper.

“And if you should ever allow me to love you, I shall spend the rest of my life endeavouring to make certain that you never have to wonder whether you are loved.”

I had been called beautiful. I had been called desirable. I had been called fortunate by women who envied my gowns and my family name.

Never, not once, had anyone spoken to me of being safe.

My hands began to tremble in his.

“Why now?” I whispered.

His gaze fell briefly to my face, then to the green silk of my gown.

“Because tonight, when I saw you descend those stairs, I realised that I had spent so long preparing myself for a life without you that I had forgotten to consider the possibility that I might still have a chance.”

He swallowed.

“And then Berret took your hand, and I discovered that I possessed rather less dignity than I had previously supposed.”

A watery laugh escaped me.

“He is a perfectly respectable gentleman.”

“I am sure he is.”

“He has a good fortune.”

“I am aware.”

“And he dances very well.”

Rowan closed his eyes briefly.

“Ellaria, I am begging you not to make me suffer through a discussion of Berret's dancing while I am kneeling in the rain.”

I laughed then, truly laughed, and his expression softened as though the sound had granted him something precious.

He lifted my hand to his lips.

“May I?” he whispered.

I knew what he was asking.

My heart hammered so violently that I feared he might hear it.

I nodded.

He rose only enough to meet me, one hand coming to rest against my cheek. His touch was so gentle that I almost wept again.

For a moment, he hesitated, searching my eyes for the smallest sign of doubt.

Then he kissed me.

It was not the sort of kiss I had imagined in my most secret, foolish dreams. There was no triumphant conquest in it, no demand, no certainty that I would surrender everything I had guarded for so long.

There was only a question.

And when I leaned towards him, when my fingers curled into the damp lapels of his coat, he answered it with a tenderness that shattered every cruel assumption I had ever made about him.

His lips were warm against mine. Rain slipped between us, catching upon our lashes and running down our cheeks. One hand cradled my face while the other rested at my waist, holding me as though I were something precious rather than something to be possessed.

I had kissed gentlemen before.

I had never been kissed as though my heart were a thing worth protecting.

When we parted, his forehead rested against mine.

For a long moment, neither of us spoke.

Then I whispered, “But no. You cannot.”

He drew back.

The hurt that crossed his face was immediate, and I hated myself for causing it.

“My father—”

“Your father does not decide whom you love.”

“You do not understand. He will never permit it.”

“Then he may learn to endure disappointment.”

A laugh escaped me, half hysterical, half disbelieving.

“You make it sound so simple.”

“It is not simple.” His voice softened. “But I would rather spend my life fighting for the privilege of standing beside you than spend another year pretending that I do not wish to.”

He looked down at our joined hands.

Then, with a breath that seemed to cost him every ounce of courage he possessed, Rowan reached inside his coat.

“Ellaria, there is something else I must ask you.”

I stared at the small velvet box in his hand.

The rain fell steadily around us.

He opened it.

Inside lay a delicate ring, its centre stone a deep green that seemed to hold within it the very heart of the forest. Tiny diamonds surrounded it, catching the faint light from the distant ballroom windows.

I forgot to breathe.

“I purchased this months ago,” he confessed. “Then I spent months persuading myself that giving it to you would be an act of extraordinary selfishness. I told myself that I had no right to ask for your hand when I had not yet learned how to offer you my heart.”

He looked at me, and there were tears in his eyes now. He made no attempt to hide them.

“But I have come to understand that courage is not the absence of fear. It is the decision that something matters more than the comfort of remaining afraid.”

He took my left hand.

“Ellaria, I cannot promise you a perfect life. I cannot promise that there will never be storms, or that the world will cease to be cruel merely because we have found happiness in one another. But I can promise you this: I shall never ask you to endure cruelty in silence. I shall never raise my hand against you, never use your love as a weapon, and never make you feel that you must earn the right to be treated with tenderness.”

His voice broke.

“I want to know every version of you. The girl who laughs until she cannot breathe, the woman who argues with me over the smallest absurdities, and the one who lies awake at night believing herself too difficult to love. I want to be there for the days when you are brilliant and the days when you are tired, when you are brave and when you have no strength left to pretend.”

A tear slipped down his cheek.

“And if you should ever find yourself standing before a mirror, wondering whether you are worthy of being cherished, I want to spend every remaining day of my life reminding you that you were worthy long before I ever learned how to love you.”

My lips parted, but no words came.

He bowed his head over my hand.

“I have loved you through every argument, every insult, and every foolish attempt to convince myself that I could be content with merely knowing you. I have loved you when you were furious with me. I have loved you when you would not look at me. And I suspect, with considerable humiliation, that I shall love you even when you are old and grey and still informing me that I am the most insufferable man in England.”

I let out a sob that might have been a laugh.

His eyes lifted to mine.

“So, Miss Ellaria, if it is not too presumptuous of me to hope, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?”

The question hung between us, fragile as a candle flame in the wind.

I looked at the ring.

Then at the man who had once seemed to me as cold as a winter grave, now kneeling in the rain with tears upon his cheeks and his heart laid bare before me.

I thought of all the years I had spent believing love must be earned through obedience, that tenderness was a luxury granted only to women who never displeased the men who claimed to care for them. I thought of my father's voice, my father's temper, the scars beneath my gown.

And I thought of Rowan, who had not promised to rescue me from my own life, but had promised to stand beside me while I reclaimed it.

“Rowan,” I whispered, “you are an absolute fool.”

His face fell.

“I had rather hoped for a slightly more favourable response.”

I laughed through my tears and cupped his face between my hands.

“Yes.”

He went utterly still.

“Yes?” he repeated.

“Yes, you ridiculous man. Yes, I will marry you.”

For one extraordinary moment, Rowan Blackwood appeared to have forgotten every language known to mankind.

Then his face crumpled.

He laughed, a breathless, disbelieving sound, and pressed his forehead against my hands. His shoulders shook once, and when he looked up, his eyes were bright with tears.

“You have no idea,” he whispered.

“Then you must tell me.”

He slid the ring onto my finger with hands that trembled so badly I feared he might drop it into the mud.

“I shall tell you every day,” he said. “For the rest of my life.”

I bent towards him and kissed him again, laughing when he nearly lost his balance on the wet stones.

“Careful, Mr. Blackwood,” I murmured against his lips. “I should hate for my future husband to perish before the wedding.”

“Your concern is deeply touching.”

“I am nothing if not a devoted fiancée.”

He laughed, and I discovered that his laughter was a sound I wished to hear until the end of my days.

We returned to the ballroom some twenty minutes later, damp, breathless, and quite incapable of looking at one another without smiling.

I had scarcely crossed the threshold when my father's voice cut through the music.

“Ellaria. A word.”

Rowan's hand tightened around mine.

For the first time that evening, I did not feel the old instinctive terror.

My father stood near the centre of the room, his expression darkening as his eyes fell upon our joined hands. His gaze travelled to the ring.

“What,” he demanded, “is the meaning of this?”

I felt Rowan begin to move, but I gently squeezed his hand.

Then I stepped forward.

“It means, Father, that I have accepted Mr. Blackwood's proposal.”

His face reddened.

“You will do no such thing without my permission.”

For years, those words would have been enough to silence me. I would have lowered my eyes, apologised, and waited for the storm to pass.

But tonight, beneath the chandeliers, surrounded by the very people before whom I had been displayed like a prize, I discovered that something had changed.

Perhaps courage was not a grand and glorious thing.

Perhaps it was merely the moment in which one grew too weary of being afraid.

“I am grateful for the concern you have shown regarding my future,” I said, my voice steady, “but I am not an arrangement to be negotiated. I am your daughter, and I shall decide whom I marry.”

His hand twitched at his side.

Rowan stepped beside me.

“Miss Ellaria has given me her answer,” he said coolly. “That is the only answer that matters.”

My father looked as though he might strike him.

But he did not.

Not with a ballroom full of witnesses, not with Rowan Blackwood standing beside me, and not with the quiet, unwavering determination I had never before permitted myself to display.

I lifted my chin.

For the first time in my life, I did not wait for my father's permission to be happy.

Instead, I turned to Rowan.

“Shall we dance, Mr. Blackwood?”

His expression softened into something so tender that the room seemed to fade around us.

“With the greatest pleasure, my love.”

He led me onto the dance floor.

The orchestra began a waltz, and I placed my hand in his. His other hand settled at my waist, gentle and sure, and we moved together beneath the glittering chandeliers.

“You know,” I whispered, “I still intend to argue with you quite frequently.”

“I should be disappointed if you did not.”

“And I shall not always be agreeable.”

“I have never once expected you to be.”

“And if you ever again make me believe that you possess the emotional warmth of a tombstone, I shall personally see to it that you regret it.”

He smiled.

“Then I shall endeavour to be a more attentive husband.”

I looked at him, at the man who had once been my greatest enemy and had become, somehow, the person before whom I no longer feared to be seen.

“Rowan?”

“Yes, my love?”

“I think I have loved you for a very long time.”

His steps faltered.

“Ellaria, you cannot say such things while I am attempting to dance with dignity.”

“Why ever not?”

“Because I have already made a spectacle of myself by weeping in a garden, and I should like to preserve what remains of my reputation.”

I laughed, and he drew me closer.

Outside, the rain continued to fall, washing the garden clean beneath the silver light of the moon.

And for the first time in my life, I did not mistake the storm for a warning.

I understood, at last, that not every dark thing was a harbinger of sorrow. Some storms arrived to break the oppressive heat of a life lived in fear. Some nights were dark not because the light had abandoned us, but because dawn had not yet come.

I had sworn to hate Rowan Blackwood forever.

Yet as he pressed a kiss to my forehead and whispered that he loved me, I found myself considering that forever might be a rather dreadful length of time to spend being wrong.

So I abandoned my vow.

And when he asked what had become of the girl who once swore she would never love him, I smiled against his shoulder and answered:

“She died the moment you kissed me.”

He drew back, alarmed.

“Ellaria!”

I laughed and touched his cheek.

“Do not look so horrified, darling. You have merely killed my hatred.”

His eyes softened.

“And what, pray, has taken its place?”

I rose upon my toes and kissed him beneath the golden light.

“Something far more dangerous.”

“Indeed?”

I smiled.

“Forever.”

And this time, when I spoke the word, I was not making a vow born of pain.

I was making one born of love.

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar is a prestigious platform celebrating literary expression across genres. It brings together writers from around the world, fostering creativity and cultural exchange. This competition serves as a beacon for emerging and established writers to showcase their talents and share their unique voices with a global audience.

We extend heartfelt thanks to Zahra Lulat for her poignant contribution, "A Vow of Thorns," to the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. Her evocative storytelling and exploration of complex emotions offer readers a profound experience. We look forward to witnessing more of her creative journey in the literary world.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.