Entry One: The Petal That Bled

 They say the first sign is a bloom that should not exist.

It was deep in Briarhollow—beyond where the stone path ends and the roots begin to rise like ribs from the forest floor—that I found it. A single rose, its petals dark as dried blood, opened solemnly among the tangled bramble. It did not sway in the wind. It pulsed.

I had heard the tale whispered before—half-believed, half-feared. The Petal That Bled. Said to be the remnant of a forgotten vow, sealed in thorns by a figure now nameless. According to old fieldbooks, it appears only once per turning of the Oathroot moon, and only to those who have lost something they cannot name.

I did not mean to touch it.

But my hand moved on its own, drawn as if by something deeper than instinct. The thorn pricked not my skin, but my memory—sharp, sudden, and sorrowful. I saw faces I could not place, moments I’d never lived, and a path winding far beyond this forest, lit only by the dim glow of lanterns left behind.

The petal came loose in my fingers. It was warm. And when I turned it over, I saw something carved into the veining—lines not drawn by ink, but by memory:
“Vael threnna suul.”
Only pain reveals the truth.

I pressed it into the pages of this fieldbook, though I know now it cannot be truly kept. Already it darkens. Already it weeps.

Behind me, the brambles stirred. Something watching. Something old.

I will follow the path this petal opened, though it leads through shadows and silence. Let this be the first mark in the ledger of thorns.

And if I return, I will write of what I find.
And if I do not… the rose will bloom again.