The garden tour ended, and I had to admit—this estate had money, not taste. Everything was trimmed to perfection, every hedge a declaration of status, every flower bed an arranged performance. Pretty, yes. But gardens weren’t supposed to be performances. They were supposed to breathe. To pull you in. This one was too polished to live.

Still, I couldn’t help leaning closer as we passed. Waxy-leaved trees straining in the wrong soil, flowers fighting for light they’d never get, shrubs twisting themselves into odd shapes just to hang on. Even in this sterile display, life was scratching at the edges. Experimenting. Surviving.

My pulse quickened. New leaves, new roots, new growth forms I’d never seen before. My research instincts flared like a compass snapping north. Maybe this whole reincarnation mess wasn’t just cosmic punishment. Maybe it was an invitation.

“Library, my lady.” Vesa’s voice was even, as always.

I smiled faintly, eyes still on the blooms. “Perfect. Let’s see what this place has to offer.”

The library was larger than I expected. Dark shelves of polished wood rose high, every slot filled. The air smelled of parchment and melted wax, heavy with the weight of centuries. My fingers itched to trail the spines, to catalogue what this world guarded.

Then—a gilded crest. Red ink curling into the shape of thorns. My breath caught.

Crimson thorns.

Not words. Images.

A dim room. A girl’s hands, clasped, trembling. Voices crying out with disbelief and joy: “Healing magic—she’s been blessed!” Laughter, tears, pride.

A throne room. A king gasping, then drawing breath again. “She has saved me,” he whispered, courtiers thundering her name. A star rising.

Then the chains—velvet voices sharp at her ear: “Stay with me, always.” “You’re not safe without me.” Protection that felt more like a cage.

The visions turned dark. A banquet hall. Screams. Poison spilling like wine. Steel flashing. The king coughing red into his hands.

And in the center—her. The girl. Radiant, untouched. A ring of bodies at her feet, crimson petals scattered like blessings. Smiling faintly, as though nothing at all had happened.

Pain spiked white-hot through my skull. My knees buckled; I clutched at my temple, breath torn short. The visions shattered, glass and blood, flickering out one by one until nothing remained.

When I opened my eyes again, my hand was already on the book. The leather was warm under my palm.

With trembling fingers, I pulled it open.

The title page was not The Bloom of Crimson Thorns.

It read: On the Natures of Noble Powers.

And the first entry bloomed with an illustration—green vines curling across the page, ink looping like fresh shoots.

The Gift of Growth.