There’s something intoxicating about a romance that begins with a death sentence. Amber Hamilton’s debut novel, Seven Deadly Thorns, plunges readers into a world where magic is punishable by execution, yet it thrives in the shadows of Vandenberghe Academy—a crumbling institution trapped within castle walls by poisonous Mists. This is dark academia at its most seductive, where ancient libraries hide dangerous secrets and every candlelit corridor whispers of betrayal.
Viola Sinclair has spent years burying her shadow magic beneath layers of academic excellence and rigid self-control. She’s the scholarship student who belongs nowhere, raised in caverns beneath the castle, fighting for every scrap of recognition in a world designed to exclude her. When her deadly secret is discovered, Queen Maria dispatches her most lethal weapon: her own son, Prince Roze Roquelart. He has seven days, marked by seven thorns tattooed on his arm, to hunt Viola down and kill her—or die himself.
The setup crackles with tension. Hamilton immediately establishes the stakes with visceral clarity. Each thorn that disappears from Roze’s arm marks another day closer to death for one of them, creating a ticking clock that propels the narrative forward with breathless urgency.
The Poison Prince and the Shadow Girl
What elevates this beyond typical enemies-to-lovers territory is how Hamilton crafts her protagonists as mirror images of darkness. Viola and Roze aren’t simply adversaries forced into proximity; they’re two people who have spent their lives hating themselves, seeing in each other a reflection of everything they’ve been taught to fear. Viola’s shadows destroy. Roze’s very touch brings death. Both are considered abominations by the world around them, yet together, they begin to question whether being dangerous is the same as being wrong.
The romance unfolds with delicious slowness. Hamilton understands that true enemies-to-lovers requires time—time for hatred to curdle into fascination, for contempt to transform into reluctant respect, for fear to blossom into something far more dangerous. The fake engagement trope becomes a crucible where both characters must perform love while grappling with genuine feelings neither can afford to acknowledge. Scenes where Roze’s gloved hands brush against Viola’s skin, where stolen glances across dinner tables carry the weight of confession, demonstrate Hamilton’s skill at building romantic tension through restraint rather than excess.
Roze himself is a standout creation. He could have been another brooding, morally grey love interest, but Hamilton gives him surprising vulnerability. He’s arrogant and cruel in public, yes, but privately he’s a young man who believes he’s an abomination—literally created from his mother’s grief and hatred rather than born. His journey toward self-acceptance runs parallel to Viola’s, creating a romance where both parties must learn to embrace their darkness before they can accept love.
A World Built on Secrets and Ash
The world-building deserves particular praise for its complexity. Hamilton constructs a kingdom trapped in perpetual twilight, where the Mists—a weapon from a devastating war—have imprisoned an entire population within castle walls for eighteen years. Vandenberghe Academy becomes a microcosm of this larger society, with its rigid house system, its hidden libraries, and its secret society called the Grimmstones who preserve forbidden knowledge.
The magic system, dividing power into light and dark, creation and destruction, initially seems familiar. However, Hamilton subverts this binary beautifully. The revelation that light and dark magic once coexisted in balance, that their separation has poisoned both kingdoms, adds philosophical depth. The book argues that embracing one’s darkness isn’t corruption—suppressing it is what causes true harm.
The political intrigue threading through the narrative proves equally compelling. Queen Maria, initially presented as a straightforward villain, reveals layers of tragedy. She’s a woman whose grief and rejection curdled into monstrous power, whose attempt to protect what she loves has destroyed it. The revelation of the forbidden romance between the two enemy princes—King León of Castelle and King Alexandre of Aragoa—adds LGBTQ+ representation while deepening the thematic exploration of how love and war cannot coexist.
Where the Thorns Catch
Despite its considerable strengths, Seven Deadly Thorns stumbles in places. The pacing occasionally lurches between breakneck intensity and contemplative slowness. The middle section, while necessary for character development, sometimes feels weighed down by research montages and lengthy historical exposition. Hamilton’s commitment to world-building, while admirable, occasionally overwhelms the forward momentum.
The supporting cast, particularly Viola’s best friend Cerise, deserves more development. Cerise displays loyalty and wit in her scenes, but she feels underutilized—a sounding board for Viola’s conflicts rather than a fully realized character with her own arc. Similarly, Professor Borges, who plays a crucial role in the plot, remains frustratingly opaque. Her motivations and choices in the final acts feel insufficiently explored.
The magical rules, while innovative, could benefit from clearer establishment early on. Readers may find themselves confused about what Viola can and cannot do with her shadow magic, and why certain limitations exist. The distinction between light and dark magic, creation and destruction, sometimes blurs when the plot requires flexibility.
Additionally, while the fairy tale framing devices between chapters add gothic atmosphere, they occasionally reveal too much about upcoming plot developments. These interludes, written in classic fairy tale prose, can undercut suspense by telegraphing where the story is headed.
The Academic Gothic Aesthetic
Hamilton’s prose shines brightest in atmospheric descriptions. Vandenberghe Academy feels lived-in and decaying, with its “soaring ceiling” of flying buttresses, its secret libraries filled with forbidden knowledge, and its Commons where deadly Mists swirl just beyond glass ceilings. The author has a particular gift for making darkness feel tangible—shadows don’t just appear in this story; they drip, wrap, baptize. When Viola finally embraces her power near the climax, forming a cape and crown of pure darkness, the imagery is both beautiful and terrifying.
Seven Deadly Thorns also excels at intimate moments. A scene in which Roze holds Viola’s hair while she vomits becomes unexpectedly tender. The slow revelation of his bare hands—how he removes his gloves “slowly, deliberately, so I can watch every move”—carries more eroticism than many explicit scenes. Hamilton understands that desire often resides in anticipation and restraint.
Fairy Tales Retold in Shadow
The fairy tale elements woven throughout deserve recognition for their cleverness. The “Prince of Nightmares” and “Girl of Shadows” framework references Snow White while inverting its moral simplicity. Here, the poisoned prince isn’t the villain but the love interest. The girl with skin “as dire as ash” and a heart “as black as death” isn’t the victim but the hero. Hamilton uses familiar imagery to subvert expectations about darkness, beauty, and worthiness.
The seven deadly thorns themselves function as both plot device and metaphor. Each disappearing thorn marks not just time running out, but stages in Viola and Roze’s relationship—from mutual hatred through reluctant alliance to something far more complicated. The countdown structure creates urgency while allowing for character development between each symbolic milestone.
The Verdict: Worth the Thorns
Seven Deadly Thorns is an impressive debut that delivers on its promises: enemies-to-lovers chemistry that scorches, dark academia atmosphere that envelops, and a magic system that challenges simplistic notions of good and evil. While it occasionally stumbles under the weight of its own ambitions, the core romance and Viola’s journey toward self-acceptance provide more than enough emotional resonance to carry the story.
Hamilton’s greatest achievement is making readers believe that embracing darkness—in magic, in personality, in desire—can be an act of liberation rather than corruption. In a genre often concerned with redemption arcs that “fix” morally grey characters, this book dares to suggest that acceptance might be more powerful than transformation.
The ending, which finds resolution in an unexpected place, sets up future installments while providing satisfying closure to the central conflict. Readers will close the book with their hearts racing, already craving more time in this world of shadows and secrets.
For Readers Who Love
- The Cruel Prince by Holly Black (political intrigue and enemies-to-lovers)
- Powerless by Lauren Roberts (forbidden romance in a magical academy)
- These Violent Delights by Chloe Gong (enemies-to-lovers during political upheaval)
- Divine Rivals by Rebecca Ross (correspondence romance and war)
- A Darker Shade of Magic by V.E. Schwab (multiple magical kingdoms and morally complex characters)
- Belladonna by Adalyn Grace (gothic atmosphere and shadow magic)
Seven Deadly Thorns announces Amber Hamilton as a voice to watch in romantic fantasy. For readers willing to embrace darkness alongside its protagonists, this book offers a thoroughly enchanting experience—thorns and all.