Thorns & Wildflowers

CHAPTER 3: THREE HUNDRED

The dawn had not yet broken.

The rain had stopped, but a heavy mist rolled low against the earth, cascading down the hillside.

Cain sat propped against the door frame, his knees pulled tight, his arms resting over them. He hadn't slept a wink. His ears stood erect, swiveling every few moments to sweep the damp stillness.

Eve remained huddled in the corner. Her oversized hoodie was pulled low, her face buried deep in the collar, her breathing light and agonizingly slow.

Then, a sound sheared through the fog. It wasn’t the wind. It was the crunch of gravel underfoot—many of them—moving up the slope. Crunch, crunch. Loose stones skittered downward, clicking against one another in the dark.

Cain bolted upright, his hand bracing against the door frame until his knuckles turned stark white.

"Eve."

She didn't stir.

"Eve."

The hood slipped, exposing half her face, her eyes still pressed shut.

"We have company. A lot of them."

Her eyes snapped open.

Outside, the marching ceased. A voice tore through the mist—thick, guttural, rasping like sandpaper against rusted iron.

"Cain Greymane. Step out."

Cain didn't move. He took a heavy sidestep, blocking the threshold, burying Eve completely in his shadow.

A man materialized from the fog. He stood two meters tall, a mountain of scarred flesh bound tight in black tactical gear. A jagged line of torn skin split his face from brow to jaw, the healed meat gleaming in the damp dark. His left eye was a dead thing—a sphere of gray glass that remained perfectly fixed—while his right eye narrowed, scanning the temple entrance.

Behind him, more figures emerged in a slow, relentless tide, packing the hillside wall-to-wall. Black combat suits. The red axe insignia. Some shouldered heavy rifles; others gripped long blades. A few coiled iron chains around their forearms, the links clinking sharply against their thighs as they shifted.

The mist swirled violently around their boots.

Eve peeked out from behind Cain’s shoulder, counted the perimeter, and pulled back.

"How many?"

"Three hundred."

"...Can we outrun them?"

"No."

Cain didn't look back. His voice was flat.

"I'll buy you time. You take the rear exit. Head due east, keep walking, there's a town—"

"I'm not leaving."

"Eve—"

"I'm not leaving," she said softly. "I told you. You’re mine. I won't leave you behind."

Cain turned his head to look at her.

She had stood up straight. Her hoodie was crumpled, her flaxen hair a tangled mess, and her left cheek bore the red impression of the floorboards from sleep. Yet she looked right back at him, unblinking.

Cain’s Adam's apple bobbed. He turned back to face the hill.

Outside, the scarred commander advanced two paces, tilting his head to study them. His glass eye remained dead, but his organic eye raked over the pair.

"Well? Have you two settled it? Who goes first?"

Eve stepped out from behind Cain's shadow, walking straight to the threshold. She stood square on the wooden beam, nearly two heads shorter than the giant before her. Pulling up her oversized sleeves, she exposed her thin wrists.

"Hey, mister."

The Butcher looked down.

"If you let us leave, I won't have to kill you."

The mist hung thick in the air, swirling lazily along the mud.

The Butcher stared down at her. His gray glass eye was motionless; his right eye twitched slightly.

"...Heh."

A laugh tore from his throat—a short, ugly sound, like a man choking on water.

Behind him, three hundred mercenaries joined in. The mockery rolled down the hillside, echoing off the ridge, lying into a deafening, vibrating din that made the very earth beneath their boots tremble.

The catcher wiped the corner of his eye. "Little girl, do you have any idea who I am?"

"I do," Eve said flatly. "A dead man."

The laughter died instantly.

The grass moved. It wasn't the wind. Across the entire hillside, the wild blades flattened against the earth simultaneously, driven down by an immense force rising from deep within the earth.

Thick vines erupted from the soil. They were nothing like the small barriers from the night before—these were as thick as a man's arm, black as forged iron, and bristling with dark red barbs the size of fingers, their tips catching the dim dawn light. They burst through the earth at the catcher's boots and at the feet of every single man behind him.

Three hundred thorns. They locked onto three hundred pairs of wrists, ankles, and throats, coiling around them in a single, fluid heartbeat.

The Butcher looked down at his ankles. The vines constricted, the barbs biting deep into his flesh. Crimson instantly leaked over the leather of his boots, dripping into the mud—splat, splat.

He opened his mouth to roar—but a vine whipped upward, sealing his jaws shut.

Three hundred men. Three hundred vines. No one could move; no one could scream. A rifle slipped from paralyzed fingers, hitting the ground with a dull thud. A heavy iron chain slid loose, clattering once before falling silent.

The thorns kept tightening. Bones were forced down, snapping and cracking under the weight. Blood seeped through the cracks of the coiling vines, tracing down their necks and pooling into their collars.

Eve stood on the threshold. Her eyes had turned entirely gold—not a shimmering sheen, but a solid, terrifying metal, like two coins burned red-hot in a forge. No pupils. No whites. A blinding radiance bled from her sockets, illuminating her entire face.

Her flaxen hair drifted upward, though there was no breeze.

The vines gave a final, violent wrench. Three hundred corpses were dragged down into the subterranean dark. The ruptured earth sealed itself shut behind them, smooth and unbroken, like ripples smoothing out on the surface of a pond. The flattened grass sprang back upright, leaving not a single trace behind.

The mist continued to roll.

Eve remained on the threshold. The solid gold began to drain from her eyes, receding like water into sand, patches of darkness fading away until the pale green flooded back from the edges.

She blinked several times, then lowered her gaze to her hands. She turned them over, examining her palms, then her knuckles. There was mud on her skin, packed tight beneath her nails.

"Did I... kill people again?"

Cain found no words.

She turned her head to look at him, tilting it slightly. "We need to run."

Cain stared at her. The morning mist washed around her form, her hoodie soaked through on one side, her hair standing up in wild, tangled strands.

She reached out and grabbed his wrist. Her fingers were cold, her grip light.

"Let's go."

Cain let himself be pulled, stepping over the threshold and into the thick mire.

She didn't run fast. Her waterlogged shoes squelched loudly with every step, forcing thick mud up through the seams to splatter against his pant legs.

Tethered to her grip, Cain looked back.

Through the shifting fog, the silhouette of the abandoned temple was already dissolving. The crooked door frame, the rotting door, the missing tiles on the roof—and inside, the stone statue still stood. Its hands held the bundle of flowers, its blind face turned precisely toward the path they were taking.

For a fraction of a second, the mist parted.

The statue’s face—the exact curve of the jaw, the slope of the brow, the tilt of the shoulders.

It was identical to hers.

Cain snapped his gaze forward. Eve ran ahead of him, never looking back. Her shoulders rose and fell in a frantic rhythm, her breathing heavy and labored.

"Did you see it?" Cain asked.

"See what?" she called out without turning around.

"The stone statue in the temple."

"What about it?"

"The face."

"What about the face?"

"...Nothing."

She didn't press him. Her boot caught the edge of a jagged rock, and she stumbled, her knee buckling before she forced herself upright again. As she steadied herself, her hand slipped from his wrist, sliding down into his palm, her fingers locking tightly with his.

Her palm was slick and wet, a mixture of cold sweat and rain.

Cain didn't pull away.

Together, they broke through the base of the hill as the mist closed in behind them, swallowing the temple entirely.

Eve’s hand remained anchored in his. Her fingers were thin, her knuckles prominent against his skin, and through her palm, he could feel her pulse. It was hammering, wild and fast.

Cain said nothing. Eve said nothing.

They kept running.