The Black RoseIn the fog-laden alleys of Valtheris, a city consumed by despair and shadow, lived Lysandre, a young woman of ethereal beauty. Her pale skin reflected the moon's dim glow, and her gray eyes seemed like mirrors to a gentle soul. She wore fine, almost translucent garments and walked as if floating—a delicate presence amid the city's decay. But hunger devoured everything around her. The land was barren, the crops withered, and the livestock had vanished. People wasted away, trapped in a cycle of misery and madness. And Lysandre, despite her fragility, needed to survive.She sold flowers—fragile petals in a world of iron and blood. Her specialty was the Black Rose, a rare flower that only she could cultivate. The nobles paid fortunes for them, enchanted by their scent, which seemed to whisper secrets. But none of them knew the truth: the roses did not grow from the earth, but from flesh.
The Dark Garden
It all began when Lysandre accepted a gift from a hooded man. A seed, small and dark as coal. "Plant it with something precious," he had said. Naïve, she cut her own finger and let the blood drip onto the soil. The next day, a single black rose bloomed. Enchanted, she repeated the process, watering the roots with drops of her own life. Each flower that grew was more beautiful than the last.But soon, blood was not enough. The seed demanded more. Her once delicate fingers became stained. Her once clean nails turned into claws, dirtied with soil and flesh. When the pain became unbearable, Lysandre used a rat. Then a cat. A dog. But the seed wanted more. It wanted warm, fresh, pulsing flesh.Then, a man.The roses had never been so beautiful. Their petals whispered praises, and the entire city marveled at their intoxicating perfume. But Lysandre had changed as well. The gentle light in her eyes faded, replaced by an insatiable emptiness. Her body began to wither, skin stretched over fragile bones. Yet, while others starved, she remained alive, nourished by the secret of her crimson garden.The Price of Blood
The nights brought screams. People disappeared. Their bodies were never found, yet Lysandre's soil grew ever more fertile. The perfume of the black roses became more addictive. Nobles and commoners alike sought her out, craving the beauty and pleasure her flowers provided. No one suspected that, as they inhaled their fragrance, they were breathing in the last sighs of the lost.Her eyes sank into their sockets, her cheeks hollowed. Eating became a nauseating experience. Common food—dry bread, salted meat—tasted like ash in her mouth. Only the scent of the roses brought her satisfaction. Only the essence of death gave her strength to go on.Then, the city began to suspect. The disappearances were too frequent. The flowers, too perfect. One night, Lysandre found a woman bent over her garden, inhaling the hypnotic scent of the roses. Before she could step back, Lysandre felt an uncontrollable urge. She buried her fingers into the woman's soft flesh, feeling the warm blood seep between her broken nails. The victim screamed only once before being smothered by the thorny stems. By morning, the black roses bloomed a deeper shade, their petals glistening like raw flesh.The Final Harvest
Lysandre's secret could not remain hidden forever.One evening, a duke invited her to a banquet in honor of her flowers. On the great marble table, only one dish was placed before her. As she lifted the silver lid, she saw a pulsating heart—the seed's final gift. The veins still throbbed, pumping the remnants of a lost life.She smiled.And then, she ate.But something was wrong. Her body trembled. Her eyes rolled back. A searing pain tore through her insides, and her nails scraped against the wood of the table. The duke watched in silence. The entire hall observed, impassive, as Lysandre began to convulse.Her skin began to crack. Her bones snapped, elongating. Thorns burst from her arms like roots twisting beneath her flesh. Her dark hair fell away, replaced by black petals sprouting from her scalp. Her scream was muffled by her own body as it transformed. The seed she had nurtured for so long finally claimed its price.When the transformation was complete, Lysandre was no longer human. In the center of the hall, where once stood a young woman with gray eyes, now loomed a grotesque fusion of flesh and plant, twisted thorns protruding from her spine, her face forever frozen in the horror of what remained of her humanity.The guests applauded.The duke rose and made a toast: "To the new Black Rose!"Lysandre tried to scream, but now, her mouth exhaled only perfume.