The forest was quiet, unnervingly so. Not even the cicadas stirred in the branches. Ethan leaned against the rough bark of a broad oak, his body heavy with fatigue, his mind buzzing with unease. The coins from the stag sat in his pouch, but they didn't weigh nearly as much as the guilt pressing on his chest.
He could still hear the village bell, the crack of boots, the jeering laughter of men who had strolled into Korrin as though it belonged to them. And the villagers… silent, bowed, helpless.
"You are troubled, my summoner."
The voice slid through the quiet like honey across glass. Ethan lifted his head.
Rosaria stood a few paces away, framed by the shafts of moonlight cutting through the canopy. She was impossible to ignore, nine feet tall, her habit clinging elegantly to her statuesque form, crimson threads catching the pale light. Blood streamed steadily from beneath her veil, painting her cheeks like eternal tears. Wherever it touched the grass, roses blossomed in its wake.
Ethan tried not to stare. He always tried. But she was… overwhelming. Beautiful and terrifying in the same breath.
He forced a tired smile. "You always sneak up on me like that?"
"I do not sneak," Rosaria said softly, her words a lullaby. "I walk openly. It is not my fault that the world trembles and averts its eyes."
She stepped closer, her heels barely whispering against the soil. Ethan straightened uneasily, feeling his heartbeat quicken.
"You watched them," she continued. "The men who call themselves 'crows.' They gnaw on the marrow of this village. And you watched the lambs kneel."
Ethan rubbed his face. "Yeah. I watched."
"And you hated yourself for it."
Her words weren't a question, they landed like verdicts. Ethan's jaw tightened. "What was I supposed to do? Walk into the middle of that crowd and swing my fists? There's hundreds of them. Armed. Experienced. I'm…" He trailed off, biting down on the words.
Rosaria tilted her head, veil glimmering faintly as more blood streamed down. "You are weak," she said, her tone gentle, as though consoling a child. "But weakness does not mean helplessness. That is why I was given to you."
Ethan's gaze fell to the ground. "And what would you do, Rosaria? What's your version of 'help'?"
At that, she smiled soft, radiant, and bone-deep unsettling. "I would prune the garden."
Ethan let out a dry laugh. "That's one way to put it."
Rosaria stepped even closer, until the scent of iron and roses enveloped him. She leaned slightly, her voice lowering to a whisper. "They are weeds, Ethan. Diseased, choking vines. They strangle the innocent and drink from their fear. Do you not wish to see the garden bloom without their shadow?"
Ethan swallowed, his throat dry. "…Of course I do."
"Then allow me." Her blood dripped to the soil. Tiny thorns erupted in a circle around her feet, curling like living serpents before fading again. "I will cut them down. Each scream they give will water the flowers of salvation."
Ethan shook his head, frustration breaking through. "Rosaria… you talk like pain's some holy gift. Like suffering's a blessing. But these are people. Not vines. People."
"They are not people," she said, still smiling, her tone never wavering from its calm, melodic warmth. "They are carrion crows pecking at the eyes of children. Do you not hear the sobs of those girls they dragged to their laps? Do you not see the way mothers lower their eyes in silence, too afraid to speak? You call that humanity?"
Ethan's fists clenched. He remembered the way Talia had flinched when one leered at her. He remembered Amabel's fury, buried beneath silence. His stomach twisted.
Rosaria's voice softened even further, like a lullaby. "Let me, Ethan. Let me cradle this village in thorns, and no hand will ever bruise it again."
He stared at her, at the endless blood running from beneath her veil, at the pale skin pierced with black thorns, at the strange, divine cruelty of her very existence.
"You'll kill them," Ethan said quietly.
"Yes."
"And you'll… make it ugly."
"It is already ugly. I will make it beautiful."
Her words made his skin crawl, but they also struck a chord deep inside him. He hated himself for hesitating, for even considering it. But the image of the villagers' bowed heads haunted him. He could do nothing. She could.
Finally, Ethan exhaled shakily, his shoulders slumping. "Alright. Do it. Just… don't hurt the villagers."
Rosaria's smile widened, tender and almost maternal. She reached a hand toward him, her long fingers brushing the air an inch from his cheek, never quite touching. "My sweet summoner. I would never let a petal be harmed."
She turned, her veil swaying, and began to walk toward the village. Each step left roses blooming in her wake.
---
The Black Crows feasted in the heart of Korrin. Hundreds of them. Tables had been dragged into the square, piled high with meat and bread. They tore at it with greasy hands, guzzling ale, laughing with mouths full.
Dozens pawed at young women, dragging them onto their laps, slapping, jeering. Others spilled into houses, pulling weeping villagers out into the street. The square rang with laughter, cruelty, and fear.
The Black Crows feasted in the heart of Korrin. Hundreds of them. Tables had been dragged into the square, piled high with meat and bread. They tore at it with greasy hands, guzzling ale, laughing with mouths full.
Dozens pawed at young women, dragging them onto their laps, slapping, jeering. Others spilled into houses, pulling weeping villagers out into the street. The square rang with laughter, cruelty, and fear.
It was into this cacophony that she came.
A tall silhouette emerged at the far end of the square, haloed in moonlight. Step by step, she walked down the cobblestone street, heels clicking faintly. The laughter began to falter, curiosity taking hold.
She was too tall, too still, too wrong.
Rosaria stopped at the edge of the firelight. Her veil shimmered faintly, blood streaming down her pale cheeks in endless rivers. Where it touched the stones, crimson roses burst into bloom, roots cracking through the cobbles as if the earth itself bent to her presence.
The Crows went silent.
The villagers went pale. Some gasped, others dropped what they carried and scrambled back into their homes. Mothers yanked children inside, bolts slamming. Amabel froze in the shadows of the tavern, her hand gripping Talia's wrist hard enough to bruise. The moment she saw the flowers sprouting in Rosaria's footsteps, her blood ran cold.
"Inside," she whispered sharply, dragging the younger girl away.
Across the square, a father bundled his children with shaking hands, muttering frantic prayers. A woman abandoned her basket of food and fled.
But before any of them could make it far, the ground trembled.
All around Korrin, black thorned vines erupted skyward, tearing through soil and stone. They twisted together, rising higher and higher until they formed a living wall encircling the entire village. A prison of thorns, their tips glistening with venom and moonlight.
The villagers froze in horror. Their way out was gone.
In an alley, Ethan pressed a hand to his forehead and sighed.
Rosaria raised her head, her voice carrying with unnatural clarity:
"Leaving the village at night is dangerous."
The Black Crows muttered among themselves. Dozens of blades were drawn. A few laughed nervously, though none stepped forward.
At last, a man rose from the largest chair, brushing grease from his beard. His armor gleamed with silver trim, and across his chest hung a crow-feathered mantle. His eyes were sharp, cold, his posture that of a predator.
The infamous leader of the Black Crows.
"Well, well," he said, voice carrying amusement. "What have we here? Some holy or unholy nun come down to scold us?" He spread his arms wide, showing off the hundreds at his back. "You're strong obviously. I can smell it from here. Gold, maybe Emerald, just like me. But even someone like you should know better than to stroll into my nest."
Rosaria tilted her head, smiling beneath her veil. "You flatter me. And yet, you misunderstand. I do not stroll into your nest."
She raised her arms, thorns cracking the earth as roses bloomed wildly.
"You have wandered into my garden."
The leader frowned, then chuckled. "You've got presence, I'll give you that. So let's talk terms. Why waste blood, hm? You're powerful, I could use someone like you. Stand with me, and you'll have gold, food, men, anything you---"
Rosaria laughed softly, a sound like the chiming of bells in a funeral dirge. "Why would I make a deal with carrion?"
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. The leader's smile faltered. He gestured to his men, voice sharp. "Do you have any idea who I am, woman? I am a living Emerald ranker. I've crushed knights, burned cities, and walked away laughing. My men" he waved to the crowd of hundreds "are killers born. Among them, gold-ranked warriors. You can't kill us all."
Rosaria extended her arm gracefully, her thorns shimmering like serpents waiting to strike.
"Then… attack me."
Silence.
The leader's eyes narrowed. He wasn't stupid. Sending fodder would be pointless anyone below Silver would be mulch before they even touched her. Instead, he raised a hand.
"Fall back," he ordered, his voice low but hard. "Golds only. No sense wasting bodies."
Two men stepped forward from the crowd. One was a towering brute with a maul slung across his shoulders, scars across his arms and chest. The other was leaner, clad in blackened chainmail, twin curved blades gleaming at his hips. Both exuded killing intent, their aura rippling across the square.
"Crush her," the leader growled.
The brute roared and charged, swinging his maul like a falling boulder. The ground cracked beneath his stride, the air whistled with the force of his strike.
Rosaria did not move.
At the last instant, a thorn sprouted from her palm, catching the maul mid-swing. The brute's eyes widened as the impossible happened his gold-rank strength halted like a child tugging at an iron gate.
Rosaria's voice was calm, almost sweet. "Do not be afraid, child."
The thorn spread, cracking apart the maul like rotten wood. Before he could react, black vines coiled up his arms, piercing flesh. Roses bloomed from his wounds, petals dripping with his blood.
He screamed.
The second man darted in, blades flashing. His strikes were fast, precise slashes aimed at her throat, her heart, her wrists. Steel sparked as the blades struck the veil, only to rebound uselessly as if she were made of stone.
Rosaria tilted her head. "Your cuts are delicate. Do you wish to carve me… or worship me?"
Vines shot from the ground, catching his ankles. He twisted, leaping back, only to find thorns erupting from his own wounds where her blood had splattered. His arms convulsed as black roses burst from his veins.
"No! NO!" he screamed, slashing wildly at his own body.
Rosaria stepped between them, her presence towering, serene. "Every thorn is a kiss of heaven. Bleed beautifully."
The brute collapsed to his knees, his body strangled by vines until he was nothing but a pillar of roses. The leaner man convulsed, hands clawing at his throat until crimson flowers erupted from his mouth. He toppled, his last scream muffled by blooming petals.
The square fell silent.
Hundreds of Crows stood frozen, eyes wide, the stench of fear replacing the stink of ale.
The leader's lips trembled. He had seen death, had delivered it by the thousands. But this this was mockery. His gold-ranked killers had been treated like insects, toyed with, their agony prolonged into art.
Slowly, he stepped forward. His hands clenched, hatred burning in his gaze.
"You…" he spat, his voice shaking with rage and disbelief. "You think you can make a fool of me in front of my men?"
Rosaria turned her head slightly, blood continuing to stream beneath her veil, her smile unbroken.
"I do not think," she said softly. "I know."
The leader's body trembled, Emerald aura igniting around him like a storm. His voice roared across the square:
"I'll tear you apart!"