It stood alone.
A single bloom, untouched by wind or time, rising from a bed of scorched stone. Its petals shimmered faintly with red, like blood diluted with light. The stem was dark, almost black, and pulsed with a slow, rhythmic glow. The air was thick with a strange, unnatural fog. Where Colors twisted in ways they were never meant to.
Alchemists call it a relic of transmutation gone wrong. Legends claim it was forged not by nature, but by greed and contempt—an anomaly birthed from corrupted desire. They say it grants eternal youth, formidable strength, and the fire of gods. But all of it comes at a devastating cost.
The old texts speak of sacrifice, but never its shape. No formula. No record. No survivor. Whatever price it demands, it is paid in silence.
The air around it was unnaturally still, as if the elements themselves refused to stir. The ground bore faint sigils—burned into the stone, remnants of containment glyphs long faded. The flower remained untouched.
Then—a sound. A breath. A step.
He lunged forward and snatched the flower with desperate speed, the moment his fingers closed around it, the air fractured.
He ran.
The swamps blurred around him, twisting into something unreal. Trees bent unnaturally, shadows stretched too long, and the ground pulsed beneath his feet like a living thing. The world had shifted—distorted, surreal.
That creeping sense of sonder gnawed at him—the sudden, brutal awareness that he was not alone. Not even close. His instincts screamed louder than thought, louder than fear. His limbs ached. He was coughing blood. One arm hung useless, broken. But he didn't slow down.
They came.
Ominous beings spilled from the fog—wraiths with hollow eyes and mouths stretched too wide, their limbs jagged and wrong. They flowed through the fog. They clung and leapt.
One latched onto his shoulder, its fingers like rusted iron. Another burst from the ground, shrieking, its face a blur of bone and ash. He tore through them, stumbling, breath ragged, the cursed bloom still clenched in his fist.
He stumbled out of the swamps, breath ragged, legs barely holding. Mud clung to his boots, blood to his skin. The cursed flower pulsed faintly in his grip, its glow casting warped shadows across the broken path ahead.
He began to slow. Nothing could follow him here—not yet. He slipped the flower into his bag and kept moving, though each step felt heavier than the last.
Buildings emerged—first as silhouettes, then as husks. There were no people. No voices. Only the sound of his breath and the distant hum of something unseen.
Stone gave way to fractured brick and exposed beams. The architecture grew sparse and skeletal, like the bones of a city long buried. Bridges had collapsed entirely, leaving jagged gaps between rooftops. Windows were shattered. Doors hung loose on rusted hinges.
He slowed further.
The cobblestones beneath his feet were slick with moss, cracked and uneven, littered with debris—glass shards, rusted nails, fragments of things no longer whole. This part of the undercity had been abandoned long ago, ever since the flower began to bloom. It was a catastrophe. A place which became feared by the living.
He stopped beneath a broken archway, panting. The flower pulsed again—faint. He looked down at it, then up at the ruins around him. The silence was absolute.
He could barely hold himself together. But he knew he couldn't stay. So he walked, though it felt like crawling.
Light.
Sunlight.
He stepped forward. The ruins began to thin. The air grew warmer. The shadows retreated.
And for the first time in a month, he saw the sun.
His body was frail from extreme hunger, his limbs trembling with every step. One might call it a miracle he was still alive. What were the odds? That an ordinary man could retrieve the flower no one could touch in thousands of years.
He let out a happy breath and fell on his back on the ground, surrounded by flowers. He started to laugh.
He did it.
He sacrificed everything, and his sacrifice has paid off.
Eyelids heavy, he closed his eyes and surrendered to sleep.
Time passed—how much, he couldn't tell. When he woke, the sun had shifted, and the ache in his body had dulled to a quiet throb. He rose slowly, limbs stiff, and began the long walk back to Ashveil.
The path was familiar, but everything felt different now. The cursed flower was tucked deep in his bag. As the ruins gave way to the outskirts of the undercity, his heart began to stir. Buildings he knew began to appear—cracked walls, crooked lanterns, the scent of ash and iron.
Home.
His chest tightened with joy so sharp it almost hurt. It felt like flying—like his soul had leapt ahead of his body, rushing toward the one place that still held warmth.
When he reached the door, he hesitated. Then he opened it.
White-silver met him first—light hair catching the dim glow of the room. She turned, startled, and then her face lit up with something beyond happiness. Radiant. Uncontainable.
He nearly collapsed from the sheer relief of seeing her again. Those emerald eyes. That face. She was his angel. And for a moment, the cursed flower didn't matter. Nothing did.
Is this what they call love?
His knees buckled, and she rushed to catch him, arms wrapping around him before he hit the floor. He leaned into her, waiting for comfort, for warmth—but the first thing she did was snatch the bag from his shoulder.
Then—darkness.
When he woke, soft light filtered through the room. He was met with two emeralds and an angelic face, bent over him, tending to his wounds. Her hair fell like a silver curtain between them, brushing his cheek as she leaned closer. The scent of her—familiar, calming—wrapped around him like a memory.
She hadn't stopped smiling since he returned with the flower. But it wasn't joy. It was something deeper. Something fragile.
At the edge of the bed sat their daughter, watching him with wide, worried eyes. She was a mirror of her mother—same silver hair, same emerald gaze, same quiet intensity. Her small hands were clenched in her lap, her lips pressed tight. She hadn't spoken.
It was all for love.
"I found it for you, my love," he whispered, voice cracked and raw. "I wanted to prove to you that I adore you." He took a pained breath, and she leaned in, alarm flickering in her eyes. "I sacrificed myself for you," he continued, "but it doesn't feel like enough. If I could, I'd sacrifice the world for you. I'd do anything just for you, my angel" he lifted his hand and gently brushed her face.
She felt the sting behind her eyes, but held it back. Her lips trembled.
"Oh my god, Aman," she whispered, shaking her head. She stood, crossed the room, and retrieved the flower potion. When she returned, her hands trembled.
This time, she cried.
She met his eyes, tears streaking down her cheeks. "I'm so sorry. Please forgive me."
His eyes widened, and his chest tightened in panic, in disbelief. "NOo.." he tried to scream and reached for her, but it was too late.
She raised the vial—and drank.