The sun bled across the horizon, its sinking glow turning the sky into a wound of orange and crimson. Six figures moved in single file down the dirt path, their shadows stretched long and jagged against the hillside.
They were adventurers grizzled, scarred, and wary.
The leader, a man with dark hair tied back in a rough knot, raised a hand. His leather armor creaked as he slowed. "There," he muttered. His voice carried the low grit of someone who had seen too many campaigns. "The goblin camp should be just ahead."
The woman beside him, her sword slung at her hip, narrowed her eyes. "About time. We've marched all day. If those green bastards haven't killed each other, we'll finish the job before nightfall."
The others shifted uneasily. A younger archer with freckles rubbed the back of his neck. "Something's… wrong, isn't it? Where's the smoke? The noise? Goblin camps don't go this quiet."
The leader frowned. "Quiet or not, we'll see."
They crested the ridge then stopped dead in their tracks.
At the edge of the goblin valley stood a wall of thorns. Not a hedge, not a bramble, but a fortress of black, twisting vines, thick as tree trunks and knotted with hooks like serrated blades. The mass stretched as far as the eye could follow, curling upward in jagged spires that glistened faintly with moisture.
One of the adventurers, a burly man with an axe, blinked and spat. "What in all the hells is that? Goblins don't build walls like this."
The freckled archer swallowed hard. "They… couldn't have. Not with wood, not with stone, and sure as hell not with thorns. This... this is something else."
The burly man grunted, hefting his axe. "We'll see just how tough it is."
Before anyone could stop him, he swung with all his strength. The blade struck the wall with a dull crack then rebounded violently, the shock running up his arms. Not so much as a scratch marred the black vines.
He snarled and swung again, this time harder. The impact jolted him to his knees. His axe-head cracked where it had struck, the metal spider-webbing with fractures.
"What in the gods' names." he hissed.
The woman with the sword stepped forward, pressing her palm against the wall. She flinched instantly, yanking her hand back. A thin line of blood welled across her skin where the thorn had grazed her.
"It's alive," she whispered.
The youngest of them, a bright-eyed mage, leaned in, her fingers twitching with the instinct to trace the vines. "Not just alive. It's… hungry. Do you feel that? It's not a wall. It's a cage."
The leader grimaced. "Then where's the door?"
"Over here!"
The call came from their scout, a lithe woman with cropped hair who had strayed along the thorn line. Her voice carried a tremor of unease. "I've found… the other side."
"What do you mean?" the leader demanded, striding toward her.
But when the group reached her, she didn't answer right away. She just pointed, her face pale.
They followed her gesture then froze.
The valley floor beyond the thorn wall was a massacre.
Corpses littered the dirt in grotesque poses. Goblins and hobgoblins, hundreds of them, torn apart and pierced through with thorns that sprouted roses from their wounds. Petals the color of fresh blood fluttered in the air like dying moths. Black lilies curled from ribcages, blossoms spilling from eyeless sockets. The entire camp was transformed into a garden of the damned.
The burly man gagged, stumbling back. "Holy! what the fuck!"
The freckled archer dropped to his knees, retching violently.
Even the hardened leader faltered, his jaw tightening as he took in the sight. "This wasn't a raid. This wasn't war. This… this was slaughter."
The mage covered her mouth with both hands, eyes wide with terror and awe. "This is… magic. Old, cruel magic. I've never never seen its like."
The woman with the sword gripped her hilt, her knuckles white. "Whoever did this wasn't human. Not a mage. Not a man. This is the work of a monster."
A heavy silence followed. The breeze whispered through the thorn wall, carrying with it the faint perfume of blood and blossoms.
Finally, the scout swallowed and spoke, her voice unsteady. "We shouldn't go in."
"We have to," the leader said. His tone was iron, though his eyes betrayed unease. "The guild sent us to deal with the goblins. Whatever did this might still be here. If we return with nothing but a story, they'll think us cowards. But if we bring proof..."
"Proof?" the burly man spat. "What kind of proof do you bring back from hell?"
The leader's jaw clenched. "Profit, if nothing else. Whoever did this left behind corpses. And corpses wear loot."
That cold pragmatism silenced the group. One by one, they nodded, though none looked eager.
So they entered.
---
The closer they walked toward the center of the camp, the worse it became.
Thorns impaled goblins like skewers. Flowers bloomed from skulls. Entire huts were split apart, their wooden beams crushed beneath vines. The dirt was slick with blood, the air heavy with rot and perfume.
The mage whimpered softly. "The closer we go, the worse it feels. The magic… it's in the ground itself. It's in the air."
The scout gagged, pressing a sleeve over her mouth. "Gods, it reeks."
The archer doubled over and vomited again, his face pale as parchment. "I can't... I can't do this."
The leader grabbed his shoulder, forcing him upright. "Hold it together. We're almost through."
Then the burly man stopped, pointing. "Look. A trail."
Sure enough, winding between the corpses and flowers was a narrow path of blossoms. Roses, lilies, violets all sprouting in a perfect line, leading out of the camp into the wilds.
The mage knelt, her trembling fingers brushing a petal. "It's deliberate. A trail left behind."
The leader's eyes narrowed. "A trail means a quarry. Whoever did this walked away, and they left us their path."
The sword-woman frowned. "You're suggesting we follow it?"
"Think," the leader snapped. "If we bring this to the guild, we're just witnesses. If we track whoever did this, we're hunters. That means more gold, more recognition, and answers. Would you rather turn your back and wonder if this… thing is following us instead?"
The group exchanged uneasy looks. The mage chewed her lip, the scout swore under her breath, the archer wiped bile from his chin.
Finally, one by one, they nodded.
The leader smirked grimly. "Good. Then we follow."
---
Meanwhile, far ahead, Ethan and Rosaria walked the flower-strewn path at a measured pace.
The moon had risen high, pale light spilling across the fields. Ethan's legs ached, his throat was dry, and his mind reeled from the memory of the goblin chieftain's agonizing end. Still, he forced one foot before the other, because Rosaria walked beside him with the same unhurried calm as always.
They had eaten little only fruits plucked from bushes and trees and slept less, taking short rests in the cover of rocks or trees. Rosaria seemed tireless, her crimson habit swaying, her veil weeping endless threads of blood.
On the second morning, as pale dawn stretched across the sky, Rosaria stopped suddenly. Her veiled face tilted, as if listening to something distant.
"What is it?" Ethan asked, nerves crawling through him.
"Six humans," she murmured. Her tone was calm, but her voice carried a sharp edge. "Following. They walk along my trail of flowers."
Ethan's heart lurched. "Humans? Adventurers?" His pulse quickened hope flaring, only to falter. "That means… we can ask for help. We can..."
Then dread set in. His stomach knotted. The goblin chieftain's last words echoed in his skull. You're no human. No spirit. No demon I've seen.
If the goblins saw Rosaria as a monster, what would humans see?
Rosaria's head tilted further. "You're too quiet, my beloved summoner. You think as I do that they are not friends. That they mean harm."
Ethan's throat went dry. "…Maybe. Or maybe they're just curious."
Her thorned fingers flexed, the vines at her wrists tightening like coiled serpents. "Do you want me to silence them? It will take only a moment. They will not follow us again."
"No!" Ethan blurted, stepping in front of her. His hands shook. "Don't hurt them. Not unless..." He swallowed, forcing his voice steady. "Not unless they are bandits."
Rosaria regarded him silently, her bloodied veil stirring in the breeze.
He pressed on, desperate. "Listen, we can't just keep running. If this is really like a fantasy world then they're likely to be adventurers, they'll track us no matter what. If they see what you did to the goblins, they'll panic. We have to… to talk to them... S
Show them you're not what they think."
Her lips curved faintly beneath the veil. "Capture, but not kill. And I am to restrain myself?"
"Yes," Ethan said firmly, though his heart thundered. "Promise me, Rosaria. Don't hurt them."
For a moment, she was quiet. Then she bowed her head, hands clasping before her chest as though in prayer. "As you command, my summoner."
But as they stood there, listening to the distant crunch of boots on soil, Ethan couldn't shake the unease gnawing at him.
Six humans walked closer with every step.