Every flower has its time to bloom. Even the cursed ones.

—

The sky was bleeding.

A crimson moon loomed over the ruined battlefield, bathing the dead in a ghostly red glow. Once, this land had been fertile—a lush valley where warlocks cultivated flora-magic in harmony. Now, it was a garden of decay, littered with corpses tangled in vines that drank their blood like water.

At the center of it all stood a man. Or what was left of him.

His body was breaking apart.

Dark petals peeled away from his flesh, carried by the wind like ashes. His arms, once strong, were now lined with cracks, from which delicate vines slithered free. His breath was ragged, and with each exhale, flowers grew from his lips. He was blooming—and not in a way that meant life.

A figure stepped forward from the shadows. Cloaked in white robes, a staff in hand, eyes sharp as a dagger's edge.

"You never should have touched the Blood Lotus," the figure murmured.

The man—what remained of him—laughed. It was a hollow sound, tinged with sorrow. He raised a trembling hand. The last of his fingers crunched into petals.

"It wasn't the flower that cursed me," he rasped. His voice was fading, like leaves carried by the wind. "It was the roots underneath it. The thing we buried long ago."

A silence settled. The figure's grip on the staff tightened.

"…Then it's true," they whispered. "The garden is waking up."

The cursed man smiled, but there was no joy in it. Only resignation.

"You don't understand," he said softly. "It was never asleep."

His final breath came, and with it, the last of his body dissolved into a storm of petals. The wind carried them away, scattering his existence across the battlefield.

Where he had stood, only a single flower remained.

A Blood Lotus.

And it had begun to bloom.