A Story of Blood and Thorns

Prologue

It begins with an arrow.

The twang of a bowstring can be heard through the snowy forest. Birds fly from the trees into the crisp air. A fox scurries into its den where several pups are waiting for their mother. The arrow sinks into the wood of a tree, embedding itself in the trunk inches from a deer's head. The animal bolts into the deep shadows of the night, snow crunching underneath it as it flees.

A woman approaches the tree. A heavy coat encases her, the fur collar curling around her face. Slowly, she pries the arrow from the tree, the wood groaning. Her boots sink into the thick blanket of snow as she stumbles back, the arrow in her hand. She slides it into the quiver on her back, nestling it among its friends. Her bow follows it. Her foot catches on ice when she turns, and she flails, trying to regain her balance. Something crunches beneath her.

She stops, her eyes narrowing, and bends down. Scar-flecked hands push away the snow, revealing a face. Seconds pass as the woman gazes at the woman in the snow. She doesn't scream or flinch. Only stares.

The young woman has hair as golden as the sun, and a face so pale she must be dead. A thin wisp of air escapes the woman's pale pink lips. The huntress blinks down at her, and after a moment's hesitation, brushes the rest of the snow away. An audible gasp escapes her lips.

For thorns are winding around the sleeping woman's body, digging into her skin and flowering in her veins. Small purple buds burst from the corners of her eyes. Already, the first glimpse of petals is visible. Green leaves dot the thorn branches. Such startling color against such pale skin.

The huntress leans forward. Her eyes widen as she sees something she didn't before. Some thorns are pushing their way to the surface on the otherwise pristine face. From within. After another moment, the woman scoops up the other and begins the cold trek back to her cabin in the woods, her original plan to hunt forgotten in favor of the woman in her arms.