In life, as in a field, different flowers grow: bright poppies of passion, modest daisies of attachment, bittersweet cornflowers of parting. And sometimes special flowers bloom in silence—unnoticed but resilient, like memory of what doesn't need to be said aloud.
Sholn clenched the reins—leather creaked like pages of an old book. The path ahead snaked through a minefield, like a reckless way to deadly beauty.
"Flowers from all fields"—bitter irony. That's what they called sections strewn not with wildflowers but with traps of new magic. Under innocent earth slumbered fiery seals ready to flare in crimson flame. The air held invisible whirlwinds sharp as fate's sarcasm. Water could surge in deadly geysers, and earth close stone jaws on a traveler's bones.
— Mines again... —he whispered with the weariness of one constantly proving his right to life. — How tired I am of this theater of the absurd.
The horse beneath him sensed the anxiety with unerring intuition nature grants those unburdened by excess reason. She stepped carefully—quiet as a shadow, faithful as last hope.
— Need to move on... —In these words was his whole philosophy of existence. — Must make it before sunset.
For a moment he yielded to temptation: why not gallop? A beautiful death, quick... But imagination painted the picture: body flying apart under explosion's roar, turning into a torch.
— Better slow but alive. Heroism is a luxury for the young or foolish.
The amulet in his hand glowed faintly near traps—dim as hope in a dying heart, but all that separated him from death.
Amid mud and danger, thoughts drifted to her. To Elara. To the one whose eyes were softer than sunset, voice sharper than a blade. He recalled her last look—a mix of tenderness and reproach, tearing the heart.