Ethan didn't know how long they'd been walking. The red glow of Rosaria's blood-flowers lit their way, so time blurred into an endless twilight of shadows and crimson blooms. He was still on edge, but slowly disturbingly his panic was giving way to something else.
Acceptance.
Not the comfortable kind, but the numb, survival-driven kind where your brain just gives up fighting the madness.
Finally, he broke the silence.
"Okay," Ethan said, shoving his hands into his pockets. "So… if you're supposed to be this insanely powerful, can't you do something to make traveling faster? Like, I don't know, teleport us or sprout wings or… something?"
Rosaria turned her veiled face toward him, her lips curving into that soft, maternal smile that always made his stomach twist.
"My summoner grows impatient," she murmured. "You wish to hasten your journey through the thorns of this world?"
"I don't wish to 'hasten my journey through thorns,'" Ethan muttered. "I just… don't want to walk for days in some alien forest. There's gotta be a shortcut."
Rosaria raised one pale hand, blood trailing from her wrist where thorns pierced her skin. The droplets hit the dirt and immediately erupted into black, spiked vines. They grew upward, twisting and curling until they formed a massive, ridged stalk like a natural tower.
"I may travel thus," she said softly, her melodic voice carrying a strange pride. "Riding upon the spires of my Dominion, indestructible and swift. The earth itself bends to my will."
Ethan stared at the monstrous thorn pillar, its surface covered in jagged spikes like a nightmare rollercoaster.
"…Yeah, no," he said flatly. "Not happening. I'd be skewered in three seconds even if you removed the spikes. My body isn't rated for your medieval torture tower."
Rosaria chuckled faintly, like a mother humoring her child. "Fragile, yes. But beautiful in your fragility."
"Stop saying creepy poetic stuff about me," Ethan groaned, dragging a hand over his face. "Alright, compromise. Can you… like… grow a thorn beneath your feet, ride it upward, and scout? See if there's anything nearby?"
Rosaria tilted her head, blood dripping from her veil onto the soil. Tiny roses bloomed instantly.
"A prudent suggestion," she said softly. "Very well. If it comforts you not to be impaled, I shall spare you."
Before Ethan could respond, the ground trembled. Thorns burst upward beneath her feet, carrying her towering figure higher and higher like an obsidian pillar. The vines groaned, stretching skyward until she rose above the treeline, her black-and-crimson form silhouetted against the moons and strange planets hanging in the alien sky.
Ethan craned his neck, slack-jawed. She looked almost divine up there, her veil streaming blood into the wind, petals raining from her body as if the night itself had crowned her in roses.
"Holy shit…" he whispered.
For a fleeting second, he thought about what it would mean if she just… left. If she rode that pillar into the horizon, scouting for civilization, and left him alone in this forest. His chest tightened at the thought. The idea of being stranded here, defenseless, without her it terrified him.
As horrifying as Rosaria was, she was also… safety.
And he hated that he was starting to need her.
A rumble shook the earth. The thorn pillar receded, lowering Rosaria gracefully back to the ground. She landed silently, her nine-foot frame looming above him once more.
"In the far east," she said, her tone gentle but absolute, "I beheld smoke upon the horizon. A settlement, or perhaps a camp. We shall go there."
Ethan exhaled shakily, nodding. "Okay. East it is. Lead the way, Sister Psycho."
Rosaria only smiled, letting his words slide over her like water.
---
Far to the east, beyond jagged rocks and twisted trees, a crude camp sprawled across a clearing.
Dozens of bonfires lit the night, casting monstrous shadows of goblins dancing, feasting, sharpening their rusted weapons. But at the center, within a half-collapsed wooden hall, sat a gathering of hulking hobgoblins each over seven feet tall, their green flesh scarred from countless battles.
They were arguing.
"I say we raid the northern village!" one bellowed, slamming a meaty fist against the table. The wood splintered under his strength. "Three moons have passed since our last captured women died. Our seed rots in our bellies. We need breeders, or our brood withers!"
Another snarled, baring his tusks. "And what then, Grash? You think the villagers will just hand over their females? The Empire has doubled its patrols. The last raid cost us hundreds of elite warriors."
A third hobgoblin, his jaw split by an old scar, spat into the fire. "Bah! The Empire bleeds itself dry fighting other Empires across the continents. We take now, while their eyes look elsewhere."
Murmurs rippled through the hall. Some nodded eagerly, others scowled.
"And what of the spoils?" one asked. "If we risk our necks, how are the women divided? By strength? By kill count? Or do we give them to the chieftain first, as is tradition?"
That sparked another wave of growls and shouts.
"The chieftain always takes first pick! We get the scraps!"
"Then kill the chieftain and claim them yourself, coward!"
"Bah, you'd soil yourself before his axe!"
The brawl of words escalated until the entire chamber shook with their roars.
Then a scout burst through the door, panting, eyes wide.
"Chief! Chief! A man and a woman approach from the west!"
The hall fell silent. Every hobgoblin turned, their yellow eyes narrowing.
"A man and a woman?" the chieftain growled. His massive frame rose from his throne of bones. "Adventurers, perhaps?"
"No…" the scout stammered. "The woman… she's unlike anything I've ever seen."
The hobgoblins poured outside, their heavy steps shaking the ground. And then they saw her.
Rosaria.
Nine feet tall, draped in black and crimson, her veil streaming endless blood that blossomed into roses at her feet. Her long legs carried her with elegance no mortal woman could match, her every step both saintly and sinful.
The hobgoblins froze, jaws slack, tusks dripping saliva.
"She's… she's perfect," one muttered, his voice hoarse with lust.
"Those legs… that body…" another growled, clutching his weapon with shaking hands.
But then their excitement curdled into unease.
Because they noticed the blood. The endless bleeding. The thorns curling from her pale flesh. The flowers blooming where it fell.
"What… what is she…?" one whispered.
Before anyone could answer, the ground rumbled.
A thunderous crack split the earth, and from the soil erupted a wall of black thorns massive, writhing, impassable. It encircled the entire goblin camp in seconds, sealing them inside like prey caught in a spider's web.
The hobgoblins staggered back, eyes wide with dawning horror.
At the edge of the clearing, Ethan stood frozen, his heart in his throat, while Rosaria's soft, melodic voice drifted on the wind.
"Do not be afraid, my children… every thorn is but a kiss of heaven."
And with that, the camp was trapped in her Garden of Salvation.
Ethan's throat was dry as he stared at the writhing wall of thorns hemming in the camp. The goblins had been caught mid-feast, mid-argument, mid-lust. Now hundreds no, thousands of yellow eyes flickered in panic behind crude bonfires. Some clawed at the wall, only to be skewered by the living barbs. Their screeches filled the clearing like the wails of pigs in a slaughterhouse.
Ethan turned to Rosaria, voice shaking.
"You… you plan to kill them all, don't you?"
Rosaria lowered her veiled face toward him. The bloody cloth clung to her lips, her smile hidden but not less felt.
"Is that not why you summoned me, Ethan? To deliver you from this savage world? To be your sword, your garden of salvation?"
"That's not..." he stopped, running a hand through his hair. "I mean… this is an entire camp. It's not just a handful of monsters in a forest..."
The nun tilted her head, her pale fingers curling around her rosary of thorns. "And do you object to massacres?" Her tone was gentle, almost like a teacher coaxing a hesitant student. "These creatures" she gestured at the goblins clawing, shrieking at her wall "Their very breath is a blight upon creation. Do you pity wolves when they tear apart children? Do you mourn for vermin when they fester in your food stores?"
Ethan swallowed hard. His fists clenched. Still, some part of him clung to human decency.
Rosaria stepped closer, towering above him, her presence overwhelming. Her voice was velvet, persuasive, invasive.
"They are talking, yes but are they human? No. They feel no love as you do, no hope as you do. They worship only hunger, violence, rutting, lust, instincts. You mistake animation for humanity, Ethan." Her bloody hand reached, softly brushing his cheek. "Would you rather let their claws dig into your flesh one day? Their tusks into the soft bodies of your daughters if ever you lived long enough to have them?"
Ethan flinched but didn't move away. The weight of her words pressed into his chest like a stone.
"That's… manipulation," he muttered weakly.
Rosaria's smile widened beneath her veil.
"It is truth and if truth manipulates you, it is only because your heart already knows it."
The goblins' shrieks rose in pitch. Dozens tried climbing the thorn wall; jagged vines impaled them like skewers, their bodies writhing before being dragged into the living barricade. Blood sprayed across the barbs, absorbed eagerly by the roses that bloomed in its wake.
Rosaria leaned closer, her voice dropping to a tender whisper.
"Then let me carry the insanity for you. Close your eyes, Ethan. Whisper the word, and I will cleanse this place. You need only say 'go.' Let me be the monster so you do not have to be."
Her words slid into his ear like poison dressed as honey. His fists trembled at his sides. His humanity screamed at him to resist, but another part the terrified, pragmatic part knew she was right. These things would never leave them alive if given the chance. They weren't people.
His throat tightened. At last, he muttered it.
"…Go."
Rosaria's bloody smile bloomed radiant. "Ah… as you wish, my beloved summoner."
---
The panic spread like wildfire through the goblin camp. Screams, snarls, the clang of crude iron against living thorn. Archers loosed volley after volley at the wall, but the arrows snapped on impact, useless. A handful of goblin shamans raised their staffs, chanting guttural words, casting flickers of flame and frost against the barricade. Nothing.
Then the ground shook with heavy steps.
The chieftain emerged.
He was a mountain of green muscle, nearly nine feet tall, draped in furs and armored with scavenged steel. His jagged axe was wider than Ethan's torso, its edge crusted with old blood. Behind him trudged his honor guard massive hobgoblins with scarred hides, wielding iron mauls and crude shields.
The goblins' panicked shrieks quieted at his presence, hope flickering in their eyes.
The chieftain spat on the ground, glaring at the wall of thorns.
"Tsk. A powerful mage indeed," he growled, voice deep as rolling thunder. "But no mage can raise such a wall without bleeding themselves dry. Whoever cast this is already spent." He turned to his warriors. "We hold fast. The wall will wither."
Then a scout stumbled toward him, gasping for breath.
"Chief! Chief! There's only two! A man… and a woman!"
The chieftain froze, then threw his head back and laughed. A booming, guttural sound that made Ethan's skin crawl.
"Two? Hah! Two little mages think to trap my horde? Then tonight, we feast on their marrow!"
But his laughter cut short when he saw her.
Rosaria stepped into view.
Nine feet of veiled divinity, her every motion elegant and terrible. With each step, red roses blossomed where her blood dripped, carpeting the ground in crimson petals. Her veil streamed ceaselessly, crimson tears painting her chest and soaking the soil. The sight of her silenced the entire camp.
The chieftain's yellow eyes narrowed. His instincts screamed. This was no ordinary sorceress. No mortal. No elf. No witch he had ever heard of. Something older. Something wrong.
He raised a hand sharply, signaling his archers and shamans.
"Hold," he barked. "Do not loose. Not yet."
The camp hushed. Even the fires seemed to flicker weaker in her presence.
Rosaria stopped just beyond the outer bonfires. The thorns around the camp writhed higher, locking into place like the bars of a great cathedral cage. Her bloody veil curved upward as she smiled.
The chieftain cupped his hands around his tusked mouth, shouting across the clearing.
"What do you want, witch?"
Rosaria tilted her head, her voice carrying like a hymn across the field.
"Only to give you what you deserve."
And the roses bloomed brighter, drinking in the fear.