Dark Forest Rose

De: Darlene Zagata

Narrado por: Virtual Voice

THE LAST BEARER

One hundred years ago

They found what remained of her in the temple garden, beneath the flowering dogwood where she had taken her vows.

The priests said she had ascended. That the divine fire had consumed her mortal shell and returned her essence to the gods, as it should. As it always had.

But those who prepared her body for the pyre knew better.

Her name had been Miriam Ash, and she had been sixteen when the black rose chose her. Beautiful, they said. Obedient. Perfect for the honor of bearing the gods' flame.

For ninety-nine days, she had carried the fire. It burned behind her eyes, visible as a golden light that never dimmed. It hummed in her veins like a second heartbeat. The crops flourished. The rivers ran pure. The people sang hymns of gratitude in the streets.

On the hundredth day, she was led to the sacred grove.

They dressed her in white silk. Wove roses into her hair. Anointed her with oils that smelled of myrrh and ash. The high priest spoke words in the old tongue, words that made the air shimmer and the ground tremble.

And then they waited for her to burn.

But Miriam did not burn quickly.

She screamed for three days before the light finally consumed her.

The priests sealed the grove afterward. They planted the dogwood over the scorched earth, hoping beauty would grow where agony had ended. They told the people that Miriam had gone willingly, joyfully, into the gods' embrace.

They did not mention that her fingernails had been torn and bloody from clawing at the ritual circle's stone. They did not speak of the words she had gasped in those final moments, her voice raw and breaking:

"They're not gods. They're hungry. They're so—"

The fire had taken her before she could finish.

For one hundred years, the world bloomed. The seasons turned. The people prospered and forgot the cost of their blessings. The gods slumbered in their ancient places, sated by Miriam's light.

But now the roses were withering.

Now the fire was waking once more.

And deep in the Dark Forest, where Miriam's final scream had never quite faded, the trees remembered. They waited. They whispered to one another in the language of root and rot:

The next one is coming.

Perhaps she will run.

Perhaps this time, the fire will burn in a different direction.