The Thorn That Bled Silver

You ever walk into a night so quiet it feels like the world is holding its breath?

That's what it felt like behind Ravenhold that night. The forest was asleep, or pretending to be. Even the wind was shy, only brushing past the trees with a whisper, as if afraid to wake something older than time.

I remember the moon—low and heavy, bleeding silver over everything it touched. It made the stones look wet, like the ground had been weeping cold tears. That was when I saw her. Seraphina. She stood right at the edge of the woods like she was waiting for something to call her in. Or maybe like she already knew it had.

She hadn't told anyone where she was going. Not Mira. Not even me. But something in my gut wouldn't let me stay behind. So I followed—quiet, careful. She didn't see me, and maybe it was better that way. There was something different in the way she moved… not frantic, not scared. Focused. Like her body remembered the way even if her mind didn't.

The trees seemed to open for her. Not like they were parting out of fear, no—it was reverence. Her magic moved with her, low and humming, parting leaves like water parts for a blade. Her hair was wild in the wind, streaked with moonlight, and the mark on her chest pulsed beneath her collar like a heartbeat turned inside out.

She was chasing something. A memory. Or maybe it was chasing her.

That's when we came to it—the Heart Tree.

Now listen. If you've never seen it, I can't explain the wrongness of that place. It's not just old. It's… sentient. The villagers won't go near it, not even in daylight. The roots crawl over the ground like veins, thick and gnarled, and they say it whispers in the spring and drinks blood in the frost. Its blossoms—those strange silver-red petals—only bloom beneath the full moon, like wounds that never close.

Seraphina stepped into the clearing without hesitation. She didn't flinch. Just dropped to her knees in the dirt, as if her body knew exactly where to kneel.

"Show me," she whispered. Her voice—it cracked like something had broken open inside her.

The moment she spoke, the air around us changed. Stillness thickened into something dense and breathless, like the whole forest was listening. And then—petals. Hundreds of blossoms fell from the Heart Tree like snow, slow and solemn. Not random. Not blown by the wind. Chosen.

And then I heard it.

Not a sound exactly. More like a shift.

The soil beneath her cracked—not loud, just a soft, sinking breath—and from the opening, a vine emerged. Not green. Not natural. This one shimmered silver down its thorns, and it pulsed with something wrong. Beautiful, but wrong. It slithered up her arm, curling tight around her wrist. Wherever it touched her, blood bloomed in delicate beads.

She gasped. Not in fear. It sounded more like… recognition.

I couldn't watch anymore.

"Seraphina!" I stepped into the clearing.

She turned to look at me—and her eyes, gods, her eyes. The color was brighter, not in a glowing way, but like something ancient had stirred behind them. They didn't blink. They just watched me, full of thunder.

"It's showing me what I am," she said. "Who I belong to."

I moved toward her, reaching out. But the vine didn't like that. It reared back, its thorns sharp as glass, hissing like a beast made of roses and hate.

"Don't," she said. Not like a warning. Like a plea. "You don't understand. It was never just a curse. This… it's older. It's legacy. It's blood. And betrayal—deep enough to stain the bones of everyone tied to me."

"Seraphina," I tried to reason, "it's feeding off of you. Look at your arm."

She looked down. And smiled.

A sad smile. A quiet one. "It already has."

Then, without warning, she grabbed the vine at her wrist and tore it free.

Blood sprayed across the grass—thick, silver-tinged, otherworldly. The vine shrieked—not out loud, but the sound was in the air, like a tuning fork against your soul—and then it vanished, curling back into the earth like it had never been.

She swayed.

I ran forward, caught her just as her body crumpled. Her skin was cold. Her breath shallow. But the mark on her chest was lit up like a brand from some unseen fire.

And behind us, the Heart Tree groaned. A low, creaking sound that sounded far too close to pain.

We reached the manor just before dawn, and let me tell you, it wasn't a graceful return. I carried her most of the way. Mira was waiting in the front hall, hair wild, robe untied, panic all over her face.

"Where the hell have you two been?!"

I ignored her tone. She saw Seraphina—saw her pallor—and dropped everything.

Together we got her upstairs. Tucked her into her bed. Her skin was so pale it looked like moonlight had taken her place. Her lips murmured things in her sleep, twitching between names and whispers I couldn't catch.

Mira stayed until she was sure the fever had passed. Then she left me alone with her. I sat by her bedside, watched the candle wax drip slow tears down the holder, and held her hand.

"Seraphina," I whispered. "What did you see?"

Her lips moved, barely. "My mother… she begged the witch to curse me. She thought it would save me."

My chest tightened.

She turned slightly, her voice rasping like she'd swallowed thorns. "The curse was a gift. But it came with a price."

"What price?" I asked.

Seraphina's eyes fluttered open—clear, even in the low light. Her voice came flat, final.

"A heart that can never be trusted. A crown that cannot be worn. And a king I must destroy."

And then she drifted out of consciousness like a tide pulling back.

Later that morning, the front doors opened with a gust of cold wind and ash.

Rowan had returned.

He looked like a man dragged out of war. Ash dusted his coat. His face was drawn tight, beard overgrown, eyes sunken like someone who hadn't slept in days—or years. He didn't say a word. Just walked through the manor like a ghost and headed straight to Seraphina's room.

He didn't knock.

I followed him. I don't even know why. Curiosity. Fury. Fear. All of it.

He stood at the foot of her bed, watching her like she was some relic he'd once believed in and was only now seeing for what she truly was.

Then he spoke, voice low, like he was afraid of waking her.

"She's waking up. Not just from sleep. From everything. The lies. The past. The truth buried in her blood."

I didn't even try to keep the bite out of my voice. "You knew this would happen."

He nodded, eyes still on her.

"Then why the hell didn't you stop it?"

"Because she has to choose," he said. "We can't do it for her."

I clenched my fists. "Choose what?"

Rowan finally turned to me.

His eyes were hollow.

"Which part of herself to kill."