Chapter 18: The Ashen Bloom

The road to the Vossaire estate was a scar cut through the land.

Jack and Evangeline traveled in silence, their horses picking through the ruins of what had once been villages. The air tasted of ash and iron, the sky a bruised purple where smoke from the Capitol's collapse still lingered. Evangeline rode stiffly, her frostbitten hand tucked into her coat, the other gripping the reins like a weapon. Jack kept his gloves on, though the scar beneath his collar had not stirred since the labyrinth.

"The garden remembers."

Oren's final words haunted him, sharp as the thorns he'd once commanded.

They crested a hill at dusk, and the estate came into view.

It was worse than Jack had imagined.

The manor's spires were now jagged spines of blackened bone, their peaks crowned with Rosa Noctis that glowed faintly in the fading light. The gardens had mutated into a forest of writhing brambles, their thorns longer than swords, their roots coiling like serpents across the barren soil. The air hummed with a low, resonant drone—the sound of a thousand bees nesting in the roses' hearts.

Evangeline dismounted, her boots sinking into ash. "It's alive."

Jack followed, his pulse quickening. "Not alive. Hungry."

They found the bloom in the solarium.

The glass dome had shattered, shards embedded in the walls like crystal teeth. At its center, a single Rosa Noctis grew from a crack in the marble floor, its petals veined with gold, its stem throbbing as if pumped with blood. Around it lay the remains of the rebels who'd stayed behind—skeletons draped in tattered Vossaire livery, roses blooming from their ribcages.

Evangeline knelt, brushing a finger over a skeletal hand. "They were loyal to the end. Fools."

Jack's scar itched. "This isn't Seraphine's work. It's… older."

The bloom shuddered, releasing a cloud of pollen that glinted like powdered gold. Evangeline coughed, stumbling back. "Don't breathe it in."

Too late.

The world tilted.

Jack stood in a garden of light.

Sunlight dappled through emerald leaves, birdsong weaving through the air. A child's laughter echoed—his laughter. A woman knelt among the roses, her back to him, her hair the color of wheat.

"Mother?"

She turned. Storm-gray eyes, a scar through her brow. Not his mother. Seraphine.

"Hello, vessel," she said, offering a rose. "Did you miss me?"

Jack recoiled, but the vision shifted.

Evangeline stood before him, her dagger buried in his chest. "It's the only way," she whispered, tears cutting through the blood on her face.

He woke gasping, pollen coating his tongue like burnt sugar.

Evangeline crouched over him, her dagger drawn. "You seized. Like the thralls."

He batted her blade aside. "I'm fine."

"Liar." She nodded to his chest.

The scar had split open, gold sap oozing down his ribs.

Nightfall brought whispers.

They camped in the estate's kitchens, the hearth cold, the copper pots green with rot. Evangeline sharpened her daggers by candlelight while Jack paced, the scar's itch deepening to a burn.

"We should burn the bloom," he said.

"And if it's the last one?" She tested a blade's edge with her thumb. "It could be a key."

"To what? Another apocalypse?"

Her gaze flicked to him. "To understanding what you are."

The words hung between them, sharp as her steel.

He left before she could see him flinch.

The estate's library was a tomb of forgotten sins.

Jack lit a candle, its flame guttering in the damp air. Shelves leaned like drunkards, their volumes bloated with mold. He found the diary's twin tucked behind a portrait of Seraphine—its pages crisp, its ink fresh.

"The vessel is but a door," he read aloud. "The garden eternal. To destroy one bloom is to sow ten. The covenant demands not death, but union."

A floorboard creaked. Evangeline stood in the doorway, her shadow long and jagged. "Union?"

He snapped the diary shut. "Poetry. Nothing more."

She stepped closer, her frostbitten hand brushing the cover. "You're a terrible liar."

The candle died.

They kissed in the dark.

It was not gentle. It was teeth and desperation, her dagger digging into his back, his hands tangling in her braids. The scar between them burned, roots coiling beneath his skin, but for once, the thorns were silent.

She pulled away first, her breath ragged. "This is a mistake."

He traced the frostbite on her wrist. "We've made worse."

Dawn exposed the truth.

The bloom had grown overnight, its petals now large as shields, its thorns dripping sap that ate through marble. At its base lay a fresh corpse—a rebel scout, half-consumed by roots.

Evangeline circled it, her dagger glinting. "It's feeding. On us."

Jack's scar throbbed in agreement.

A voice slithered from the bloom. "Join us, vessel. Become the crown."

Evangeline lunged, but the roots repelled her, hurling her into a pillar. Jack caught her, the impact jarring his ribs. "We need fire."

"No." She wiped blood from her lip. "We need answers."

She plunged her dagger into the bloom's heart.

The estate screamed.

The walls bled black sap, roots erupting from every surface. Jack's scar tore open, thorns spiraling out to form a shield around them. Evangeline gripped his arm, her fingers icy.

"Control it," she ordered.

"I can't—"

"Try."

He focused on her voice, on the press of her body against his. The thorns stilled, forming a cage of gold and shadow.

The bloom laughed. "You see? You are ours."

Evangeline drove her dagger into its core again. The bloom shattered, petals dissolving to ash.

The roots retreated, the estate's roar fading to a whimper.

Jack collapsed, the scar sealing once more.

They buried the rebel scout at noon.

Evangeline spoke no eulogy, but she left a dagger on the grave—a Vossaire tradition. Jack stood apart, the diary heavy in his coat.

Union.

He knew what it meant now.

Chapter 18 End.