Chapter 24: The Gold-Scarred Sky

The Bleeding Petals

The roses wept gold.

Lyra stood in the garden at dawn, her palms upturned to catch the sap dripping from the petals. It pooled in her hands, warm and viscous, humming with a familiar, treacherous rhythm. The scar on her palm pulsed in response, its thorned veins crawling up her wrist like gilded cracks in porcelain.

"They're crying," she signed to Jack, though he already knew.

He knelt beside her, his calloused fingers brushing a wilting bloom. "Not crying. Calling."

In the cellar, the Rosa Noctis had breached the floor, its roots snaking through the estate's foundations. At night, Lyra heard it whispering—not in Seraphine's voice, nor the first vessel's, but in a chorus of strangers.

"We are hungry. We are endless."

The Shadow in the Woods

The villagers brought tales at twilight.

A huntsman, breathless and bleeding from thorn-gouged cheeks, stumbled into the courtyard. "It's him," he gasped. "The dead lord—Liran. He walks the eastern woods. The trees… they bow to him."

Evangeline's dagger stilled mid-swipe across her whetstone. "Describe him."

"Pale as moonlight. Roses for eyes. And he… he smiled."

Lyra's scar flared. The huntsman recoiled, crossing himself. "Gods—your hand—"

She tucked it into her sleeve. "Leave."

That night, she dreamt of Liran's smile, his teeth petals, his voice honeyed rot.

"You wear our crown, little gardener. But crowns are heavy. Let me carry it."

The Pact

Evangeline found Lyra in the crypt, staring at Seraphine's empty coffin.

"You're avoiding me," she said.

Lyra traced the coffin's edge, her scar leaving faint gold smudges on the stone. "I'm listening."

"To what? Ghosts?"

"To the garden." She turned, her eyes reflecting the cellar rose's glow. "It wants me to find the next vessel before the shadow does."

Evangeline gripped her shoulders. "You are not Seraphine. You don't have to answer every whisper in the dark."

Lyra pulled free, her signs sharp. "And if the next vessel is worse? What if it's you?"

The crypt door slammed. Jack stood silhouetted in the threshold, Alaric's journal in hand. "We need to talk."

The Journal's Secret

Alaric's journal lay splayed on the solarium table, its pages defaced with frantic sketches: a rose devouring a sun, a crown of thorns floating above a desert, a figure with Lyra's face and Seraphine's scar.

"He knew," Jack said, tapping a footnote. "About the mark. About the vessels. This isn't research—it's a map."

Lyra's throat tightened. "A map to what?"

"To the source. The origin of the thorns." Jack flipped to the last entry, dated the day Alaric vanished.

The First Garden is a lie. The true root lies deeper, in the heart of a dead star. Find the Eclipse Rose. Burn it. Burn everything.

Evangeline scoffed. "Poetic nonsense."

"Is it?" Jack lifted Lyra's scarred hand. "The gold in her veins—it's not just light. It's starlight."

The Eclipse Rose

They rode at dusk, the woods swallowing the estate's spires.

Lyra led, her scar acting as a compass, pulling her toward the shadow's trail. The trees grew twisted, their branches knotted into archways dripping with black roses. At the forest's heart, a clearing opened—a perfect circle of dead grass, the air thick with the stench of scorched earth.

In its center grew a rose unlike any other.

The Eclipse Rose was a void given form, its petals absorbing light, its stem studded with thorns like shattered glass. Above it hung a crown of bones, rotating slowly, as if suspended by invisible strings.

Lyra dismounted. "This is where he comes. Where he feeds."

Evangeline drew her dagger. "Then we uproot it."

The shadow laughed.

The Crown of Bones

Liran stepped from the trees, his rose-eyed gaze fixed on Lyra. "You're late, little sister. The feast has already begun."

Behind him, the villagers stumbled into the clearing—thralled, their mouths sewn shut with thorns, their eyes hollow blooms.

Jack's sword hissed free. "You're not Liran."

"Aren't I?" The shadow's face rippled, cycling through Seraphine's smirk, Alaric's sneer, the first vessel's skeletal grin. "I am the garden's will. Its hunger. And you, Lyra Vossaire, are the key to its freedom."

The Eclipse Rose shuddered, tendrils lashing out. Lyra's scar erupted, gold light clashing with the void.

"Stay back!" she signed, but Evangeline was already moving.

The Fractured Covenant

The fight was a blur of petals and steel.

Evangeline carved through thralls, her daggers shearing thorns. Jack dueled the shadow, his blade ringing against bone. Lyra grappled with the Eclipse Rose, her scar burning as she wrenched its roots from the earth.

"You cannot kill me," the shadow taunted, reforming after every strike. "I am legion. I am the dark between stars."

Lyra slammed her palm into the rose's core. The scar's light flared, searing through the void. The Eclipse Rose screamed, its petals disintegrating, its crown of bones clattering to the ground.

The shadow staggered, its form unraveling. "This changes nothing. The garden will rise. It will always rise."

Lyra seized the crown, its thorns biting into her flesh. "Then I'll bury it again. And again. And again."

The shadow vanished, its laughter echoing. "We'll see, gardener. We'll see."

The Cost

Morning revealed the price.

Lyra's scar had spread to her elbow, the gold veins branching like lightning. The Eclipse Rose was ash, but its thorns littered the clearing, already sprouting new buds.

Evangeline bandaged a gash on Jack's arm, her voice uncharacteristically soft. "We can't keep doing this."

He watched Lyra, who stood motionless, staring at the crown in her hands. "We don't have a choice."

Lyra turned, her eyes haunted. "Alaric's journal mentioned a dead star. Where the thorns began."

Evangeline's jaw tightened. "No."

"It's the only way."

The Voice in the Dark

That night, the cellar rose sang.

Lyra descended, drawn by its melody—a lullaby Seraphine had hummed in her dreams. The rose had grown taller than a man, its petals edged in starlight.

"Daughter," it whispered. "You shine so bright. But even stars burn out."

She pressed her scar to its stem. The visions came fast:

A dead star, its core split by a thorned spire. A figure in white, planting the first seed. A garden spanning galaxies, consuming worlds.

Lyra woke screaming, the cellar rose's roots coiled around her legs.

"The Eclipse Rose was a seedling," the garden crooned. "Come. Meet your maker."