There were those who were born on Briar Manor, their youngest years spent squeezing milk from wet nurses they would come to call Madame and Miss.

There were those who had died in Briar Manor, laid to rest in the Brair Graveyard, as rounded mounds of dirt, set before solemn stone tablets, that tethered them to this world, whilst they wandered in the next.

And there were those who were born in Briar, would grow up in Briar, and die in Briar.

For House Briar was not just a house— it was a home— a community, a sprawling estate that was the heart of Stagton, from which life flowed outward in, and inward out. From the settlements of the west to the towers of the north, and surrounded on three sides by the Rosewood that was high and impenetrable like the curtain keeps of a castle.

Tension hung in the air between Bran and Renata, like the pull of a fragile guitar string, ready to snap at any moment. Renata knew Bran did not want to be with her, as much she did not want to be with him but both of them were too proud to admit this.

Renata watched as a group of men lifted a large wooden box onto a wagon attached to a black motor car. Seated at the hood was a small girl, with tawny skin and curly mops of dark brown hair, her legs swaying like the baton of the maestro. Swish. Swish.

A wide grin stretched across her face as she spotted the pair. Any larger, and it might have extended past the sides of her cheeks.

"Hello Renata!"

"Hello Elizabeth. Helping your father out?"

Lizzy's father Ralph, was a contracted courier. A delivery man, for hire if you will. The mercenary type man that would ship anything. His daughter Lizzy, occasionally came along with him on his travels as they passed through House Briar, on their way to Kingston Road—the guarded long stretch of land that would take one to Wyndham. Wyndham was the last town before meeting with the military settlement that bordered the country of Arheimar.

Arheimar.

For the past half a year, the countries of Culorn and Arheimar and had been at war. Arheimar was a massive plot of land, whose ruler King Otto was just as ambitious as his country was big. He ruled with an iron fist, yet his citizens worshipped him with an almost trance like devotion, believing it was Arheimar's divine right to expand their territory to all four corners of the globe. Although it was rumored by some that he had placed a spell over his people. Renata thought that might be true.

Lizzy shrugged. Then, studying Bran in the brazen way only a child had the privilege to, asked, "Is he your betrothed?"

Renata quickly had to remind herself that Lizzy was only seven. (Or, seven and three quarters, if you asked her). Bran on the other hand, responded with such swiftness that Renata was almost offended.

"Absolutely not. Do you know who I am, little girl? Why would I ever be involved with the likes of her?"

Lizzy stuck her tongue out. "First off, I am not a little girl. I'm seven and three quarters. And no, I don't know who you, and I don't want to."

Who better, than a young child, to match Bran's cheek, with their own?

"Well then, little girl, at your big and grown up age you ought to know better than to ask questions like that."

"Renata would never marry someone like you," Lizzy decided. "You're not very nice."

"Forgive me Miss Elizabeth, but if she continues down this path, she'll never get married. And if you continue with the way you're going at this big kid age, neither will you."

Immediately, Lizzy burst into tears.

"You're just terrible, you know that?" Renata snapped at Bran. Even the worst of people, softened their snark when speaking to young children."Don't listen to him Elizabeth. There is no need for neither you nor I to worry about getting married, yet."

One of the men noticed the commotion. He was the largest of the crew, and wore black overalls.

"Lizzy. Wipe those tears off," he demanded. "I thought I told you, you can't cry if you want to continue going on these trips. Head into the car." And with a final swipe of her cheeks, a purse of the lips toward Bran, and goodbye wave to Renata, Lizzy hopped down, and disappeared. She had had the last word.

"Looks like the three of you are getting along, just swell," joked the man. "Master Caradoc. Miss Renata."

"Quite a mouth on that one," noted Bran.

Renata's face burned fiercely. Standing beside Bran, she found herself experiencing a sort of second-hand shame. A guiltiness that came less from being directly involved in the perpetration of a wrong doing, and more from an association with the wrongdoer.

"My apologies, Ralph," said Renata, then, quickly gesturing toward the wagon. "Are those for the war efforts?"

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

"Sure are my lady. Strongmen serums. They're headed for the front lines in Fort Penrhyn. Unfortunately those young men and women will need a lot more then strength to push back the Arheimars. If any a man or woman out there could figure out how to bottle miracles I reckon, they'd be the one we need just about now."

"You don't believe the war will be over by the winter, then?"

Ralph lifted his arm to scratch the back of his neck. "To be honest, Milady, between you and I-, well," he said eyeing Bran, and nearing closer, "Between I and two-, I've heard the troops are having a hard time right now, being volunteers and all. There has been word that King Silas might have to send in some of the trained militia and mages."

Bran snorted. "It's hard to believe King Silas has remained in power for so long. He should have sent trained men to Fort Penrhyn in the first place, instead relying on patriotic volunteers. Arheimar's troops would have been crushed by now. My father has met King Silas before. He says the man is so clueless about strategy or the fight, he should just abdicate and give the throne up to his brother, Grandmaster Faust."

Bran was right. Although both of them were far too young to have ever had seen war, those who had grown up during the time of King Silas' grandfather, King Brenner, knew what war meant: war was not a game of trial of error, like chess or checkers where mistakes were encouraged, as some lessons could only be gained by loss. In the real world, gambling with pawns and pieces was not as forgivable, and loss was almost always in the form of death.

Morgana had often complained, with the shake of a head or the tut of her tongue, that this was the problem with the younger generation. How they all sat behind tables in front of black boards, listening to professors talk about what have and what nots, ifs and in a perfect worlds. "What you read in your books," Morgana had one said to Renata, "is a reality experienced by one person. What you learn out there, is a truth, experienced by many."

And what was truth to to Renata? Truth was what she observed—what she saw. But was also what she felt, in her gut. Intuition. The biggest truth in life, she had learned so far—had not come from her life experience. In fact it came from the lack thereof. It had come from the time she had spent with Bran Caradoc, her years at OxynBrooke and the endless berating from her father.

The biggest truth, Renata had learned in her life was most people would spend their entire life running away from it.

Including herself.

And maybe she preferred it that way.

———-

They sometimes called it the Old Rose.

When the Briars settled in Stagon, more than 200 years ago, it was here, in Old Rose, located on the periphery of the Rosewoods where they decided to clear the trees, flatten the land, and slowly make their home.

Decades of over cultivation had driven the outlying forestry to a grey blur of trees. In the Old Rose, it was only the roses that survived.

Only the roses.

Renata had once asked her mother how it was among all of these towering trees, that the roses grew.

Magic, she had replied simply. It was magic.

Or, thought Renata, the spirit of the Briars that once lived here.

Grey trunks stretched into the sky, and branches curved and overlapped like the interlocking of fingers. Ravens perched in the canopy of the trees. Squirrels and wood mice scattered across the forest floor. Sunlight fell through various gaps, like a filtered and purified light. Beneath Renata and Bran's footsteps was the resounding rustle, rustle of shriveled leaves and broken branches.

And with the Red Bloom having passed through, remnants could be seen all around. Some of the more resilient roses had remained and were scattered across the forest floor in dashes of red. And as Morgana had said, the monarchs were plentiful, appearing as orange fans with black stripes and white dots floating around them. Renata knew once the summer was over, they would begin to leave as the colder weather came in.

"What is that?" Bran pointed towards a small house, that nearly blended in with the forest surrounding it. Thick vines were scattered across the roof, and a small porch was collapsing into the ground. Renata had passed by the house many times before, but she had never felt compelled to take a closer look. In fact, it rather frightened her. She assumed it had been one of the houses built from when the Briars had first set their feet in the Rosewoods. There were a few of those around.

"Remnants from earlier settlements, perhaps."

"Let's take a look at it." And without warning, Bran rushed towards the house. Tentatively, Renata followed, knowing if something were to happen to Bran, she would be responsible.

Bran headed immediately for the entrance. The door was a mahogany with opaque panels. Bran pressed his face against the glass.

"I can't see anything." Then he reached downward and frowned.

"That's odd."

"What is?"

"There's no door handle."

Renata realized Bran was right. "Maybe, there's a door in the back." She searched the perimeter of the house, but to no avail. When she returned to the entrance she found Bran peering through the keyhole.

"Can you see anything?"

"No." Bran lifted himself up and dusted his trousers. "It's pitch black."

Renata looked through the keyhole. Darkness. Then, Bran knocked the door. Once. Twice. Silence.

"Do you think someone lives in there?" He asked her.

If anyone had asked Renata before today, she probably would have said no. Now, she wasn't so sure.

"Maybe the key is hidden nearby," Bran suggested it could be underneath the stairs, or elsewhere. Renata volunteered to check the back.

She sifted through broken branches, and slipped her slender fingers beneath loose panels and ran her index against windowsills. The more Renata thought about it the less things made sense. A house without a handle? Windows without light? Perhaps there truly was someone living in there. And if so, wouldn't it be better to respect their privacy?

Renata was wondering whether or not to tell this to Bran when she heard a loud rustle, in the dense shrubbery in front of her. As leaves shifted she thought perhaps it had been an animal. But as the leaves continued to move, she caught peek of white blonde hair, almost the color of bloomed dandelions. Then, behind shaded thickets a pair of icy blue eyes blinked back at her. She rushed towards the bush, but by then, whoever- or whatever had been there was gone. Renata rubbed her eyes, wondering if for a brief moment this was the magic of Rosewood her mother had told her about.

She then rushed back to the front, where Bran was kneeling beneath the porch. When he saw her, he shot up.

"Did you find anything?"

"No." Renata shook her head. "But I could've swore I saw a person, hiding in the bushes."

"A person?" Bran squinted his eyes and lifted a thin, sparse brow. "Why would someone be hiding in the forests? Do you realize how mad you sound, right now?"

"I swear!" Renata insisted. "There was someone there. And when I went to look- they were gone. I think we should leave, Bran."

Something shifted in Bran's expression. Skepticism and disbelief seemed to be tainted with a sudden unease.

"Fine, lets go. This place was stupid anyway."