Ayla tugged at the stubborn weeds, her hands raw from hours of work. The soil was rich, but it seemed determined to cling to every root she wanted gone. She leaned back with a huff, wiping the sweat from her brow, and surveyed the rows of vegetables her family relied on for food and trade. The sun was relentless, casting a golden glow over the quaint cottages and stone pathways of the village.

From her position in the garden, Ayla could see the distant silhouette of the manor perched on the hill. It loomed over the village like a silent sentinel, its spires tangled with ivy and its windows glinting like dark eyes. That house, and the noblewoman within it, had always been a source of mystery and fear among the villagers. And then there was Liora, the noblewoman’s ward.

Ayla didn’t hear her approach. One moment she was alone, and the next, a shadow fell over her garden.

“You’re awfully dedicated,” a soft voice said, lilting with quiet amusement.

Ayla looked up sharply, squinting against the sun. Liora stood there, a basket in her hands, her figure framed by the light. Her raven-black hair cascaded over her shoulders, and her pale skin seemed to glow faintly in the sunlight. She was dressed simply, in a faded dress that seemed out of place for someone who lived in a manor.

“You scared me!” Ayla said, sitting back on her heels.

Liora tilted her head, her lips quirking into a half-smile. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to.” She knelt down, setting her basket aside, and gestured toward the weeds Ayla had piled nearby. “Need help?”

“You want to help me weed?” Ayla asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Why not? I could use an excuse to stay out of the manor.”

Ayla hesitated, then shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”

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The two of them worked side by side in the quiet hum of the afternoon, the occasional chirp of birds and rustle of leaves their only company. At first, Ayla wasn’t sure what to say. Liora wasn’t like anyone else in the village. There was an air of mystery about her, something unspoken that made people uneasy.

But as they worked, Ayla found herself stealing glances at the other woman. Liora’s movements were graceful, her long fingers deftly plucking weeds from the soil.

“Do you garden often?” Ayla asked.

“Not really,” Liora admitted. “But I like it. It feels... grounding.” She glanced at Ayla, her blue eyes piercing yet soft. “What about you? Do you like it?”

Ayla laughed. “I wouldn’t say I like it, but it’s necessary. My family’s farm doesn’t run itself.”

Liora smiled faintly, and for a moment, the distance that always seemed to surround her disappeared.

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

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The Crimson Thorn appeared the following week.

The flower was as beautiful as it was ominous, with blood-red petals that seemed to shimmer under the sunlight. It grew in clusters along the edge of the forest, near the village’s eastern border, and every year, its arrival was met with fear and suspicion.

The village elders claimed the Crimson Thorn was cursed, a harbinger of misfortune. They whispered that its appearance signaled a year of bad harvests, sickness, or worse. This year, the whispers carried a familiar refrain:

“It’s her fault. The noblewoman’s ward.”

Ayla clenched her fists when she overheard the villagers gossiping at the market.

“She’s unnatural,” one woman said, her voice low but insistent. “Lady Sybilla should’ve sent her away years ago.”

“I heard she doesn’t age,” another said. “And her eyes—they’re not human.”

Ayla wanted to shout at them, to tell them they were wrong, but she knew it would only make things worse. Instead, she left the market quickly, her chest tight with anger.

She found Liora sitting by the river later that day, her knees drawn to her chest. The sight of her, so small and alone, made Ayla’s heart ache.

“They’re blaming you again,” Ayla said, sitting beside her.

“They always do,” Liora replied quietly. “It’s easier than admitting they’re afraid of something they don’t understand.”

Ayla hesitated, then placed a hand on Liora’s shoulder. “They don’t know you. If they did, they’d see what I see.”

Liora turned to her, her expression unreadable. “And what do you see?”

“I see someone kind and brave,” Ayla said firmly. “Someone who doesn’t deserve any of this.”

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The truth came out on a moonlit night.

Liora led Ayla deep into the forest, to a clearing surrounded by ancient trees. In the center of the clearing grew a single Crimson Thorn, larger and more vibrant than any Ayla had ever seen.

“This is the source,” Liora said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Ayla stared at the flower, its petals glowing faintly in the darkness. “What do you mean?”

Liora hesitated, then took a deep breath. “I’m tied to it. The Thorn. It’s why I don’t age, why the villagers fear me. Every year it blooms, it absorbs their hatred and fear. Without it, they’d tear each other apart.”

Ayla turned to her, shock and confusion written across her face. “But... why you?”

“I don’t know,” Liora admitted, her voice trembling. “Lady Sybilla found me in the woods when I was a child. I had no memory of who I was or where I came from. She said I was a gift from the forest, but I think I’m more of a curse.”

Ayla stepped closer, her hands trembling. “You’re not a curse, Liora. You’re not.”

Liora looked at her, something raw and vulnerable in her eyes. “You should stay away from me, Ayla. If the village turns on me, I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Ayla said fiercely. “We’ll figure this out. Together.”

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Their search for answers led them to an ancient shrine hidden deep within the forest. The shrine was overgrown and crumbling, but its presence was undeniable.

A spirit resided there, its voice resonating like the rustle of leaves in the wind.

“To sever the bond with the Thorn,” the spirit intoned, “a guardian must take its place. The flower cannot exist without an anchor.”

Liora stepped forward, determination in her eyes. “I’ll continue as the guardian. It’s my burden to bear.”

“No,” Ayla said, her voice breaking. “I won’t let you do this alone. I’ll take your place if I have to.”

Liora turned to her, horror etched on her face. “You don’t know what that means. You’d lose everything—your family, your life.”

“I’d still have you,” Ayla said.

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In the end, they found another way. Using the shrine’s power, they shared the burden, becoming joint guardians of the Crimson Thorn. Their bond grew stronger, forged in sacrifice and love.

The villagers never knew what truly happened that night. They only knew that the Crimson Thorn continued to bloom, but its ominous shadow seemed to lessen.

And though Ayla and Liora were no longer entirely of the mortal world, they had each other—a light in the darkness, blooming among the thorns.