Watching him die slowly did not make my heart sad.
I felt no sympathy for him. Not even a little.
What I saw was a man who thought women were objects, who believed he could call them whatever his filthy heart desired.
And now he met his end by a woman's hand. By a woman's creation. By the beauty of her power.
That was justice enough.
What I watched was the beauty of my power.
The vines had tightened around him, thorns sinking deep as they drank him dry.
Roses had swelled from the bleeding vines, blooming across his bound body.
Ivory petals had quivered, then darkened, turning crimson one by one, as if the flowers themselves were drunk on his life.
The sight made my chest burn, my lips curl. My eyes widened, gleaming like a flame catching wind, sharp and hungry. It was beautiful. It was alive. It was mine.
It made my heart… What was it called?
Happy?
Alas, I couldn't tell. Dying again and again, reborn again and again, had scoured the feeling from me long ago. Pain, joy, sorrow — all of them had blurred into one grey haze.
And yet, I thought I knew.
It was excitement.
An electric buzz ran under my skin, crawling through my chest, sparking at the tips of my fingers.
Not happiness, not sadness — just the thrill. The thrill of blood feeding me, the thrill of power answering me.
But the thrill faded, and my eyes blinked.
What lay in front of me now was only the body of the servant.
Blood was still stuck to the vines, dripping on the floor. His face was pale, his eyes wide open, frozen in fear even in death.
My chest felt heavy.
What do I do?
If my father or mother finds out, I will be in trouble.
What will I say to them?
My heart began to race. Each beat pounded louder, faster, until it hurt inside.
Panic spread through me. My hands shook as I looked at the body.
I could already see it — my father's eyes, sharp and filled with anger. His voice was booming, demanding answers.
And my mother, her face pale, her hand covering her mouth in horror.
No. I couldn't let that happen.
I needed to make it vanish. Quickly.
But how?
The Bloodthorns shivered.
I could feel it — no, I could feel them, and they could feel me. They trembled with the panic in my chest, the rush of my breath, and the pounding of my heart.
In that moment I understood. They weren't apart from me. They were my limbs, my nerves, my blood stretched outward. When they trembled, I trembled. When I breathed, they breathed.
We were not apart. They were me, and I was them.
"Consume it…"
"Consume it…"
The whisper slid into my ears, soft and cold.
The vines moved on their own, yet I knew it was me. My hands, my will, my hunger. They showed me how to erase him, how to wipe away every last trace.
I understood what they were saying in my ears.
I grabbed the dagger and slit my finger again. More drops fell to the floor.
'Bloodthorns', I whispered.
This time my mind imagined a single, huge vine. Not sharp at the tip, but split open at the end like a mouth.
And the vine answered.
It rose from the floor, thick and black, its mouth widening, stretching until it looked like it could swallow a man whole.
It crawled toward the body and opened wider, its inside slick and dark.
The servant's body slid toward it, drawn in without a sound.
His limbs vanished first, then his chest, then his pale face.
In a breath, he was gone.
The vine shuddered, then sank back into the floor, leaving nothing but a faint red mark where it had been.
I staggered, my hand on the wall.
Energy rushed through me, hotter than before. My stomach, which had felt hollow, now felt full.
I realised it then — blood quenched my thirst. And bodies quenched my hunger.
Now I knew how to become stronger.
I was not yet ready to face either prince — the Prince of Greed or the Prince of War.
But I had found the path.
And I was ready. My resolve was already clear.
What lay in front of me was a path of thorns.
But those thorns were mine.
How fascinating.
My lips widened into a grin, and I ran my tongue slowly across them, wiping the blood from the corner of my mouth.
I closed my eyes, and when I opened them again, I was back in the void.
The same place.
The same ivory rose floating in front of me.
I looked at its petals. One of them, half pearl white before, had grown a little more red.
I knew it then. The more blood it drank, the redder it would become.
Excitement stirred in my chest.
What power would I gain when even a single petal turned fully crimson?
And what would it mean when the whole ivory rose turned blood red?
I shivered. I could not stop the thrill running through me.
Then I heard it.
A whisper.
"More…"
"Feed me…"
The voice was soft, curling inside my ears, sinking into my chest.
The rose moved, glowing in pulses, like it was breathing. Like it had a heart of its own.
A grin crept over my face.
"Yes… my child," I whispered. "I'll feed you again. I'll give you more."
The words left me soft, like a lullaby. Not cruel. Not cold.
But like a mother promising her child the world.
The rose glowed brighter, as if it had heard me, as if it was pleased.
I reached out my hand, but there was nothing to touch. Only the light.
Still, I imagined it — cradling it, holding it, like a mother rocking her child to sleep.
How much more blood would it need?
How much more power would it give me when every petal turned crimson red?
The thought made my chest tremble. My mouth watered.
I could already see it.
The whole ivory rose, dripping in red, shining like a crown.
My crown.
And I would be its mother.
The Blood Rose Princess.