Old rose

"‘Weapons on the floor!’ shouted the lively girl with black hair. Behind the golden mask, her perpetually calm face slowly flushed with the flush of victory. Her gaze was grim, like a desert glowing from within, promising the inevitable, yet drawing in like a dizzying magnetic field. Her black eyes were like two bottomless wells, harboring the knowledge of millennia and predictions of the future. She was the embodiment of power, incredible and dark, as if the goddess Knemftiti of bygone centuries herself, bestowing death and resurrection upon her people. Her hair was like the night, black and glossy, yet elusive, like darkness that cannot be grasped. She moved like a ghost, her appearance and disappearance flickering in the air like mysterious stars bearing prophecies of the unknown. Her attire was woven from the darkest of nights and could grant life or death with a single motion. The black dress enveloped her like twilight gloom, yet it was so refined and exquisite, as if the night itself wove its threads. Her earrings and necklace shone like stars in the black sky, their brilliance forever etched in the memories of those who beheld them. Oketra whimpered under the pressure of her sword, trembling with fear. A thin stream of blood trickled down her cheek—a warning sign. Following this, Sderik's pickaxe slipped from his hands, Halima dropped her sharp needles, and Abdi fell to his knees. But Lololoshka stood tall. His sword pressed against Malak Al-Maut, diminishing her triumph. If Oketra died, so would she. She slowly moved the dagger away from her throat and swiftly shot upward. However, the hero didn't cry. He didn't fall or clutch the wound, just looked at the part pierced by the blade. The strike hit his chest, near the thoracic cavity, just a few centimeters from the tiny rose pinned there. Its petals, once velvety and deep black, now turned fragile and delicate, akin to pages of ancient manuscripts. Once they sparkled like pearls in the darkness of the night, but now they only echoed past brilliance. A dry wind, like death, swept over this rose, gently revealing its shortened life. The stem was like a temporal line dividing the past and present, while the roots, cold and delving deep into the earth, seemed like the burial of memories . He was overwhelmed by its spirit. It seemed he had never seen the darkness that illuminated the room before, but today something... up on the ceiling, or perhaps the sky, glowed brightly. Lo felt the pain subsiding. As his chest filled with lead, breathing became harder, yet the pain gradually receded—echoing beneath the sighs and cries of everyone present in the room. His chest, starting from the wound, rustled quietly. At first, the blood turned transparent, then the skin was covered with a layer of sedimentary dust. Only after that, earthy mounds appeared on his chest, turning him into a living flowerbed. From the darkness of the earth grew a black rose, a relic of ancient times where darkness and light intertwined in the dance of life and death. Its stem rose like a forgotten melody, penetrating forgotten spheres of existence. Roots deeply woven into the depths of the earth seemed like a path to the past, to the origins of all secrets and mysteries. The black petals unfolded like ancient manuscripts, revealing the history of forgotten years. Their color was the dark night, black as darkness itself, but within that blackness lay reflections, like a starry sky on dark water. Dewdrops, diamonds in the morning light, animated this darkness, making it alive and mysterious. Like a wind of time, forgotten on the petals, it slowly bloomed, reaching for the sky like a hand stretching into infinity. The rose glowed, childishly naive and fairy-like. But it quickly faded. The earth could breathe, but people through it—not so much. Time was running out, so Lololoshka, with all his might, thrust his sword forward, slicing through Malak Al-Maut. Blood slowly trickled down the silk, landing on Oketra, who was trembling uncontrollably nearby. But blood meant nothing to her. Only Lololoshka, now pale from lack of air, collapsed to the ground, could evoke any feelings in her. His eyes filled with darkness, mentally sending prayers to the goddess for help. Before and after victory. The bud of the black rose wilted momentarily, its petals scattered by the wind, and the soil disappeared again, reverting the wound. Knemftiti chuckled softly. So softly that even the demons couldn't hear her: ‘I've been wanting to try this flower trick for ages! I wonder where mortals got the legend that you threw that flower away...’"