The rose's second bud unfurled at midnight, its petals black as a starless sky. Jaren felt its call in his bones—a hum that matched the rhythm of his nightmares. He crept back to the forest's edge, lantern trembling in his grip.
"Don't," his mother begged, clutching his sleeve. "That flower… it's wrong."
But the boy with storm-gray eyes had his father's stubbornness. He slipped into the trees, lantern light carving shadows that slithered like veins.
The rose pulsed as he neared. This time, the vision struck harder:
A man with golden scars, bleeding into soil. A woman with amber eyes, screaming as thorns devoured her. A voice—his voice—whispering, "I'll save you."
Jaren collapsed, dirt staining his knees. When he looked up, the rose was gone. In its place stood a girl his age, her hair streaked with crimson, her palms scored by thorns.
"You felt it too," she said. "The whisper."