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Single deep-red bloom on a long thorned stem, petals tight at the center and loosening outward, the scent rising softest on the second breath. Draws blood from a careless hand inside the first minute.
Entry
Chronicle
Cultivated in the walled gardens that the great houses keep for reasons nobody currently alive has had to justify out loud. Hedge-alchemists pay well for rose-hip and rose-oil, and the gardeners sell to them quietly, on the theory that the great houses have more roses than they actually look at. The thorn, like most old traditions, exists mainly to remind people which parts of the arrangement were not optional.