The screams went on for hours.
From every corner of the village, voices clawed at the night bandits howling as thorns burrowed into their skin, as roses burst wetly from their mouths, as their dying cries mixed into a symphony of terror.
Amabel and her daughter Talia crouched low in the shadows of their home, hands clamped to their ears. But no matter how hard they pressed, the sound still seeped through the groaning timbers of houses under strain, the shrill begging of men being dragged into Rosaria's garden, the strange, melodic voice of the woman herself murmuring words of comfort that only made the horror worse.
"Don't listen… don't listen, child," Amabel whispered shakily, wrapping an arm around Talia's shoulders. Her own heart hammered so violently it hurt.
Talia's wide eyes stared into the dark. "Mama… it won't stop."
Amabel couldn't answer. She only hugged her tighter and rocked, muttering prayers under her breath until her lips went numb.
Finally, mercifully the chorus ended.
The silence that followed was not relief. It was worse. A hollow, suffocating quiet, broken only by the distant creak of vines shifting in the dark, and the faint drip-drip of liquid somewhere, blood, Amabel was certain.
Talia whispered, "Is it… over?"
Amabel closed her eyes and saw her again the tall, bleeding nun, her veil dripping rivers of crimson, the way the flowers bloomed where her blood fell. That smile. That voice.
"It's not over," Amabel said hoarsely. Her fingers tightened on Talia's arm. "Pack what you can. Clothes, food, anything light. We'll try to slip out when it's still dark."
Talia blinked. "Escape? But Mama, the walls, those thorns"
"I don't care." Amabel's voice cracked, but she forced it firm. "We'll find a way. I won't have you here when she… when she decides she needs something else from us."
Talia bit her lip. She wanted to argue, but the memory of those screams held her tongue. She nodded and stumbled to her feet, fumbling for the small bundle they always kept ready ever since the raids began.
---
Meanwhile, in the ruined square, Ethan stood with Rosaria among the corpses of roses. The night air stank of blood, pollen, and smoke. The Emerald leader's statue of thorns still towered like a grotesque shrine.
Ethan pinched the bridge of his nose. "…Why didn't you finish him immediately?" he asked flatly. "You could have ended it in seconds. Instead half the square collapsed, people were trapped, houses destroyed. You dragged that fight out, Rosaria."
Rosaria turned toward him slowly, tilting her veiled face. She smiled softly, her voice calm and sweet, as if speaking to a restless child.
"Oh, my beloved summoner. There were no casualties."
Ethan frowned. "Don't joke..."
"Not a joke," she interrupted gently. She lifted her pale arm and waved her hand.
At once, vines stirred from the rubble. They slithered beneath collapsed beams and broken stone, carefully prying them apart. Villagers hidden in the wreckage were revealed shaken, but alive, their bodies shielded in cocoons of soft thorn-barriers that dissolved at her gesture.
Rosaria's smile never faltered. "I cradled them in my garden when the stones fell. Not one child was crushed. Not one mother bled."
Ethan stared as the vines began to move again. They gathered shattered stone and timber, fitting the pieces together like patient hands rebuilding a toy. Slowly, walls reformed, stitched together by black vines that bound them tighter than any mortar. Within minutes, ruined houses stood again, wrapped in living ivy.
"Sturdy," Rosaria said softly. "Safer than before. My thorns will hold them when the earth shakes, when fire burns, when storms rage."
Ethan exhaled slowly, uneasy. "…Then why not shield the houses outright? Why not prevent the damage entirely?"
She turned her head toward him, blood dripping steadily from beneath her veil, pattering softly into flowers at her feet.
"Because they needed to see, my summoner. To witness their fragility. To understand their salvation comes from me."
Ethan's eyes narrowed. "…So you let their homes fall so they'd rely on you."
"Not let." Her tone was calm, but unyielding. "I guided. They are safe. They see who protects them now. Their fear becomes faith. And faith, my summoner, is the richest soil of all."
Ethan rubbed his temple. "And how exactly are you different from the Black Crows, then? They wanted the village to depend on them too."
Rosaria's veil tilted, like a mother regarding a stubborn child. "We will not bleed them for coin. We will not take their daughters for sport. We will not grind them until nothing remains. My thorns cradle. Their blades cut. That is the difference."
Ethan opened his mouth, then shut it. His frustration warred with the cold logic of her words. At last, he muttered, "I'll accept it for now. But gods, Rosaria… this is a dangerous path."
She inclined her head serenely. "All paths to salvation are thorned."
Ethan sighed. "…Fine. For now, we wait until morning. Let the fear settle. Maybe then we can talk to them like people, not prisoners."
As the night dragged on, he leaned back against the wall of vines she had shaped into a chair, staring at the dark sky. His thoughts swirled. There are things I can ask her to do… but there are things I'll never be able to change about her.
Before resting his eyes, he muttered, "At least… get rid of the corpses."
Rosaria inclined her head. "As you wish, my summoner."
The ground stirred. Vines dragged the bodies of bandits into the earth, thorns blooming from them until they dissolved into roses, absorbed into her garden. By the time the moon dipped low, the square was nothing but a sea of flowers, glowing faintly in the dark.
---
But not all was calm.
Throughout the night, some villagers tried to slip away. They crept through alleys, holding torches low, clutching what few belongings they could. They made for the walls, where the black barrier of thorns loomed like a living nightmare.
One man swung an axe. The blade rang off the vines as though against iron. Sparks flew. Not even a scratch.
Another tried fire. The flames guttered and died, smothered by blooms that drank the heat.
A woman wept as she pressed herself against the barrier, searching for a gap wide enough to crawl through. The thorns shivered and flexed, closing tighter, whispering across her clothes until she stumbled back, terrified.
None escaped.
Amabel and Talia tried too, slipping through backstreets in the dead of night. They circled the village, testing where the vines met the earth. But the wall was seamless, endless, alive. By morning their hands were raw from pulling, their throats hoarse from crying. Exhausted, they staggered home, despair gnawing at their hope.
And then---
The bell rang.
A clear, resonant toll that echoed through the village, commanding all to gather.
Amabel froze, her face pale. "She's calling us."
Talia clutched her sleeve. "Don't go, Mama!"
"I must," Amabel whispered, trembling. "If we do not answer, she will notice. And she will not like that only a few came."
Talia shook her head fiercely. "But---"
"Stay." Amabel's tone sharpened, rare steel in her voice. She gripped her daughter's shoulders. "Stay in the house. Hide. Whatever happens, don't come out until I return."
Talia's lip trembled. "Mama…"
"Promise me!"
At last, Talia nodded, tears slipping down her cheeks.
Amabel turned, heart pounding, and joined the slow, fearful tide of villagers making their way to the square.
---
When they arrived, they saw her.
Sister Rosaria sat upon a throne of vines, towering yet graceful, her 9-foot frame draped in crimson and black. Ethan sat beside her on a smoother seat of woven thorns, his face grim, eyes shadowed by exhaustion.
Above them, a canopy of flowers arched, their petals dripping dew like jewels, casting shade over their figures.
The villagers froze, dozens of them clustered in the blood-scented square, their eyes drawn to the towering nun.
Rosaria smiled beneath her veil, tilting her head with saintly calm. Blood trickled down her cheeks, feeding the flowers at her feet.
Her voice spread over them, soft as a lullaby, yet inescapable:
"Good morning."
The crowd shivered as one.