A winter rose sat perched in a small crack on a wall of ice, snow flakes flurrying around it. The petals were covered with spiky white frost as sharp as the thorns on its stem.
Jon could only stare at it, fascinated. Although it was snowing, he felt neither the cold nor the biting winds which howled around him.
He watched still as the petals grew wet with crimson and started to bleed, staining the snow below with red.
A sense of terror gripped Jon at the sight, although he didn’t know why, which only grew as more drops fell from the rose. Two, three, four, and finely, six.
The red stains in the snow grew, and grew, and grew until the scarlet puddle had reached Jon’s feet. By now his heart was racing with fear, pounding hard as a war drum.
The last thing he heard before the blood touched him was a woman’s voice, filled with panic and desperation.
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