Prologue

They say the world won’t end in flame, but in ash made of petals.

Old tales whisper of a flower that blooms once every hundred years in the heart of the Mistwood —

not to bring life, but a curse woven from forgotten dreams.

I am the Druid who watched the cycle close once, a century ago —

and now I see it beginning again.

Back then, a fool, blinded by greed, tore the miracle from its roots,

leaving only dying beauty and poisoned tears behind.

But what if those tears were not the end, but a beginning?

What if from the ashes of innocence, something rose —

something as merciless as it was magnificent?

She walks the world now. And where she steps, it is not only blood she leaves behind.

There is ash.

Ash where hope once bloomed.

And above the world, Velvayne rises.

I pray this will be her final cycle.

Chapter 1

The air inside The Drunken Goblin tavern was thick as tar, steeped in the stench of sour ale, acrid smoke, and cheap perfume that clung to the throat like the sins of a port town.

Laughter, curses, and the clink of mugs merged into a deafening hum that made the candles tremble and the floorboards creak beneath the boots of the drunken crowd. Faces flickered in the chaos — human, flushed and sweaty, and others less so. At the bar, a gnome-like bard plucked a greasy lute, playing a crooked melody, his potato-shaped nose and eyes full of ancient sorrow. Goblin messengers darted between tables, dodging boots and spilling trays, their high-pitched voices lost in the din. In the far corner, chained to the wall to avoid confusion with regular patrons, stood an ogre bouncer, his chest rising and falling slowly as his single eye sleepily scanned the room.

Most unnoticed, yet everywhere, were the house-spirits, skittering under tables, gathering crumbs with their wiry little paws at supernatural speed.

Behind a velvet curtain, in a private chamber, sat Gwen — always the center of attention. His golden hair, usually immaculate, now tousled, his unbuttoned silk collar only adding to the air of careless charm. Eyes like summer skies, usually full of mischief, now glinted with wine and thrill.

This was his stage. The Drunken Goblin was where Gwen played his lead role, scripting glances and gossip, the king of midnight revelry. Here, rumors gathered like stormclouds, and gold opened every door. Gwen was in his element — mage, rogue, legend.

Kristina leaned against him, her beauty sharp as a polished blade. Golden curls spilled over her bare shoulder, and her painted eyes glittered with greed. Every glance, every breath was calculated to hold attention. She was Gwen’s latest conquest, but her heart beat for the promise of power she saw in his audacity.

Around the table sat the usual crew — all drawn to glory and gold. Rickard, the red-faced merchant, roared with laughter, slamming his mug as if to drown out doubt. Drunk beyond reason, he'd believe any tale that promised treasure.

Across from him, Morgan, a gaunt mage with narrowed eyes, simmered with contempt. He despised Gwen’s “dirty” magic — wild and raw — a disgrace to his academic pride. Every word Gwen spoke, Morgan weighed, dreaming of his fall.

Elara, healer’s daughter, sat apart. Her dark hair tightly bound, a counter to Kristina’s flowing waves. Her eyes clung to Gwen, heavy with worry. She’d grown up on stories of cursed places — and the Mistwood was one of them. She hated taverns, but she feared Gwen’s recklessness more.

Chapter 2

Through the laughter and racket, a strange rhythm threaded its way from the warped strings of the bard’s lute. He muttered a chant in a language unknown. Morgan raised a hand — silence.

“You into drunken songs now?” Gwen smirked, pulling Kristina closer. But when he saw Morgan scribbling hastily on a napkin, he fell silent.

Elara leaned in, curiosity shifting to dread. “It can’t be,” she whispered.

The bard’s voice faded. The lute let out a final whimper and fell quiet. By some odd magic, so did the tavern.

The salamander curled deep into the coals, the ogre stopped snoring, and the house-spirits squeaked and vanished beneath the floor.

In the hush, Morgan stood and read aloud.

“Once every hundred years, deep within the Mistwood — where the realm of the Star Elves kisses the impassable bog — the Twilight Bloom awakens. So beautiful, it brings tears of joy to those who behold it. But not all may pass. Only the sincere may walk the path. Only with an open heart may one see the Bloom — and win what it offers: immortality, riches, beauty, and fate.”

Morgan exhaled. “That’s all I could translate.”

“Hey, bard!” Gwen waved. “Come here.”

“Leave it, Gwen!” Rickard sneered, sipping his ale. “Twilight Bloom? Tales for fishwives. A root granting fortune and life? Granny’s bedtime tales! The Guild would laugh you out of the tavern.”

Gwen leaned back, his grin sharp as a blade. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

He turned to the bard. “Where did you hear that song?”

“My father sang it. And his father before him. But I don’t remember it all,” the bard stammered and scurried behind the curtain.

“Folk tales,” Morgan scoffed, crushing the napkin. “Ghost stories for children.”

“Or maybe,” Gwen said, “your refined magic’s too brittle to find what isn’t in your dusty books. You couldn’t even brew a luck charm for your neighbor. And you call me a fool?”

“Mind your tongue,” Morgan growled, gripping his mug.

“Your tricks belong at fairs, Gwen. The Mistwood will crush you.”

“Crush me?” Gwen’s voice turned soft, poisonous. “I’ll return with the Bloom, and you’ll choke on your scrolls.”

Rickard coughed, breaking the tension. “They say… a hundred years ago, some fool — Olgert, maybe — went into the Mistwood. Came back with a root. But it brought madness, not miracles. Hair fell out, skin rotted, treasures turned to dust. He screamed for days about a witch and a cursed flower. Died slow. They say his screams still haunt his house. No one dares go near.”

Silence clung to the chamber like a fog. Even the tavern’s drunken hum seemed to fade, leaving only the smell of ancient dread.