The adventurers followed the path of roses in silence, their boots crunching softly on dirt and fallen petals. None dared step directly on the flowers; even Torren, usually careless, carefully kept his great boots away from the trail as though the blossoms themselves were alive.
The moonlight bathed the path in silver, and the black forest loomed around them like a cathedral of shadows.
"Too close," Neria finally whispered, her bow half-drawn though no target yet showed itself. Her hawk circled above, letting out a faint cry before retreating into the trees. "We shouldn't walk right along the trail. Whatever left this wants us to follow."
Kaelen smirked faintly, though his fingers gripped his staff tighter than usual. "What, and you're afraid of flowers? They're pretty enough."
Neria shot him a glare. "Pretty things kill, Kaelen. Ask any hunter."
Garrick raised a gauntleted hand to still them. His voice was low, firm. "She's right. We stay off the flowers. Follow parallel to the trail, twenty paces left. Eyes sharp. Something's ahead, I can feel it."
They adjusted course, moving in grim silence.
After what felt like an eternity of cautious steps, they turned a bend around a giant oak tree and froze.
A tall figure stood waiting.
She was impossibly tall, nearly nine feet, her silhouette long and statuesque against the pale moon. A black-and-crimson habit clung to her frame, its floral embroidery catching the light. A white silken veil covered her face, but crimson tears streamed endlessly from beneath, pattering softly against the flowers blooming at her feet.
The forest seemed to hush around her.
Rosaria.
"Greetings, wayward children," she said softly, her voice a melodic lullaby that carried across the clearing like a prayer. "You have walked far along my garden. Tell me did you come to admire its beauty… or to be part of it?"
The six adventurers stiffened as one.
Garrick raised his shield, sweat beading his brow. "By the gods…"
Lyra swore under her breath, twin blades half-drawn. "What the hell is that?"
Brother Aldous clutched his sun-etched emblem, muttering a prayer. His voice trembled. "That is no woman. That is a blight."
Neria's bowstring tightened with a sharp creak. "Stay back," she hissed. "Don't move another step."
Kaelen, to his credit or his foolishness stepped forward, eyes gleaming with fascination rather than fear. "Not a demon… not an elemental… what are you? Your presence hums with that's truly... unnerving..."
Rosaria tilted her head gently toward him. "Existence is not mine to decide. It is merely given. As is yours…"
The calmness in her tone broke the group's resolve. Kaelen raised his staff high, crackling blue lightning flaring between his hands. "Enough riddles!" he shouted.
"Kaelen, wait!" Garrick barked.
But it was too late. A huge bolt of roaring lightning tore through the forest, illuminating the clearing in blinding azure light.
At the same moment, Neria loosed three menacing arrows in rapid succession, the shafts cutting clean arcs toward Rosaria's chest.
Rosaria did not flinch.
With a delicate motion, she flicked her wrist. The arrows snapped in half mid-flight, tumbling harmlessly into the flowers. She then raised her palm toward the big lightning and caught it.
The crackling energy split across her pale hand, sparking violently, but she only smiled faintly beneath her veil.
"Such lovely hymns you sing with your hands," she murmured. "But lightning and iron are not songs I cannot silence."
Kaelen staggered back, eyes wide. "Impossible…"
The others, gripped by terror, drew steel. Torren roared, axe raised. Lyra's sabers flashed in the moonlight. Garrick's shield braced forward, Aldous whispering desperate prayers.
"Fall back!" Garrick commanded, his voice breaking. "Fall back now!"
But before they could retreat, the ground shuddered.
Black thorned vines erupted in a circle around the clearing, twisting upward like towers. In seconds, a living cage surrounded them, walls of spikes and blossoms sealing every escape.
"Caged already," Rosaria cooed, her voice serene. "Do not fear. In this garden, your suffering will bloom most beautifully."
Panic seized them. With no choice, they charged.
Lyra was first, blades slashing in dazzling arcs. "Die, monster!"
Rosaria raised a single hand. Her thorned fingers caught one saber between two slender digits. With effortless grace, she snapped the blade in half like a brittle twig. Lyra stumbled back in horror.
Torren bellowed, swinging his great axe in a brutal overhead chop. Rosaria sidestepped with flowing elegance, her veil fluttering. The axe buried into the soil, vines wrapping instantly around its haft. Torren roared in frustration, trying to tear it free.
Garrick slammed his shield forward, a bulwark of steel. "Back, fiend!"
Rosaria's hand pressed gently against the shield. The knight strained, veins bulging—until the shield crumpled inward with a screech of metal, as though pressed by a mountain. Garrick staggered back, stunned, his arm trembling from the force.
Kaelen hurled another bolt of magic, Aldous raised his emblem and cried, "By the Sun's light, begone!" Holy radiance burst outward yet Rosaria only walked through it, thorns sprouting at her feet with each step, flowers blooming in her wake.
"Your light is kind," she whispered to the cleric.
They fought. Spells burst, blades clashed, arrows whistled but Rosaria flicked them aside like raindrops. She moved with calm inevitability, every gesture delicate yet absolute.
Minutes dragged into agony. One by one, the adventurers faltered.
Kaelen collapsed first, his mana drained, falling to his knees in disbelief. Lyra panted, her broken blade clattering from limp fingers. Garrick knelt with one knee, shield-arm shaking. Neria's quiver lay empty, bowstring frayed. Torren, still straining against vines, finally slumped with a guttural growl. Aldous tried to raise his holy emblem, but his arms shook too violently.
All of them knelt in exhaustion, chests heaving, faces pale.
Rosaria smiled kindly, her veil stained darker with her ceaseless tears of blood. "Your struggle is precious. Every gasp, every drop of sweat it is prayer made flesh. You resisted beautifully."
Thorned vines slithered from the ground, curling gently around wrists and ankles, looping across torsos. They lifted the adventurers softly, not piercing flesh but binding firmly.
The adventurers still resisted weakly, gritting teeth, straining against the binds but their exhaustion betrayed them.
Trees toppled around the clearing, torn apart by the clash of magic and vines. The air was heavy with the perfume of crushed flowers and ozone.
Then, at last, part of the thorn wall split open like a door.
Ethan stepped inside.
He froze at the sight the six adventurers bound, kneeling among the ruined grove, Rosaria standing tall and serene above them.
"…Rosaria," he said quietly. His voice carried both fear and weary exasperation. "Had your fun?"
Rosaria turned her veiled face toward him, blood-tears glistening in the moonlight. Her smile was soft, devoted.
"For you, my summoner," she said gently, "there is no fun. Only salvation."
The adventurers stared between Ethan and the towering figure in disbelief, their fear mingling now with something else confusion.
And perhaps, a spark of dread curiosity.
The cage of thorns closed silently behind Ethan as he stepped fully into their garden.