I swallow hard. There’s weight behind that word. Not obsession. Not hunger. Something older. Something tied to rose thorns and blooming vines.
“Love,” I repeat under my breath. Then louder, cautious: “Love for what, Ed? For me? For… life?”
He doesn’t answer this time. The roses in his ribs tremble, petals falling like blood onto the forest floor.
I study Ed for a long moment, feeling the weight of that single word settle over me like a shroud. Love. It’s absurd and profound all at once, curling around my thoughts like the thorned vines lacing his bones.
“Ed…” I press, voice steady but softer than before. “Love for what? For who?”
His skull tilts, a petal sliding loose from the wreath of roses around his collarbones. The jaw works once, twice—like a door that doesn’t quite fit its frame. Then silence.
Kit leans forward on her elbows, frustration and curiosity battling across her face. “Oh, come on, you creepy bouquet. Spit it out. Is it him? Is it—” she points between herself and Raka “—us? Life? A dead girlfriend? Give us something!”
Ed just stands there.
I exhale through my nose, flick my wrist, and pull up the HUD. A translucent panel hovers before my eyes, text scrolling, ghostly blue:
[Resummon — 24 hours if destroyed]
It’s not permanent unless I say so.
“Okay,” I murmur, dismissing the panel. “So I can summon him, unsummon him, and if something kills him, he’ll be gone until tomorrow. Fine.” I glance up, meeting Ed’s empty sockets. “Guess that makes you our… wildcard.”
Kit whistles low, sitting back on her heels. “Wildcard? That’s one way to say walking bouquet of nightmares.”
Raka doesn’t laugh. Her golden eyes soften instead, her voice low and thoughtful. “He fights for love,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “Strange thing, for a creature of death. But… I understand.”
Kit rolls her eyes, tail flicking like a whip. “Of course you do. Big bad wolf with a big mushy heart.”
“Better than a cat too scared to trust her own pack,” Raka fires back, lips curling in a grin that bares just a hint of fang.
“Ladies,” I cut in, smirking despite myself. “He’s coming with us—at least for now. If nothing else, he’s one more blade between us and those damned Bushmen. And if he wants to fight for love…” My fingers curl over my spear, grounding the moment. “Then he’s already halfway like us.”
Ed doesn’t move. Doesn’t make a sound. But I swear—swear—that for the briefest heartbeat, one of those roses blooms wider, petals opening like a slow, blood‑red smile.
We break camp, licking our wounds as we head for the outskirts of the Bushmen Forest—hunting the vine-things that nearly tore us apart yesterday… while avoiding the Elders. This time, though, we’re not just three.
Ed pads silently behind us, his bones whispering against themselves with a hollow, papery sound. Roses and thorns rustle with every subtle sway of his frame. It should be unsettling, but the strangest thing is… it isn’t. Not as much as before.
Kit walks at my left, tail flicking nervously. “You know,” she murmurs, eyes scanning the undergrowth, “for something that looks like the villain in a bard’s nightmare, he actually…” Her nose twitches. “…smells good?”
I blink. “What?”
“I mean it.” She leans closer as Ed drifts by like a wraith, nose wrinkling, curious. “It’s… roses. Like deep summer roses. And rain on stone. Weird.” Her tone sharpens, defensive. “Not that I was sniffing him or anything.”
“Uh‑huh.” My smirk earns me a sharp jab from her elbow.
Ahead of us, Raka’s low chuckle rumbles like distant thunder. “The cat’s not wrong,” she says without looking back. “When the wind shifts—smells like an old temple garden. Strange… for bones.” Her claw taps the haft of her war axe, the weight of it resting casually across her shoulder. “If death can smell sweet, maybe love’s part of it after all.”
I file that away. Roses. Death. Love. This thing gets more cryptic by the hour.
The sound of rustling vines ahead shatters the moment. Bushmen—three of them, thorn‑armed and twitching like agitated serpents—slide from the brush. Their bodies creak with the dry tension of roots stretching in winter.
I gesture sharply, voice low. “Positions.”
Raka surges forward, shield up, axe gleaming. Kit melts into the shadows like poured smoke. I feel the hum of magic in my veins as my fingers curl around the spear, ready to charge it with lightning.
And then Ed moves.
No sound. No flourish. Just a sudden blur of motion.
Thornlash
Thorn-wrapped claws scythe through the nearest Bushman’s limb. It screams—a wet, green howl—and the roses along Ed’s bones flare crimson, as if drinking the sound. For a heartbeat, it’s like watching poetry scrawl itself across a battlefield—grace and brutality woven together in silence.
“Damn,” Kit whispers from the brush, and I don’t miss the spark in her tone.
The fight isn’t easy—Bushmen never are—but it’s cleaner, tighter than yesterday. Raka holds the line like a living bulwark, Kit carves death in violet arcs, and I hammer the back ranks with thunder and lightning. Ed isn’t strong—not like Raka—but he’s relentless, carving shallow wounds and locking one Bushman in place, thorned limbs pinning it like a grotesque rosebush come alive.
When the last vine-thing falls twitching into mulch, the clearing hums with the aftermath of violence. Raka plants her axe in the earth, breath misting in the cool air. Kit flicks sap from her blades and pads toward Ed, curiosity bright in her eyes.
“Okay,” she says, circling him slowly. “Still creepy. But… weirdly elegant. Like if death decided to put on its nicest clothes.” She leans in, takes an exaggerated sniff, then pulls back grinning. “Yep. Definitely roses.”
Ed just stands there, head slightly cocked—a silent sentinel crowned in petals and thorns.
I roll my shoulders, spear resting across my back, and glance between my girls and my… newest addition. “Well,” I murmur, a slow smile tugging at my mouth, “looks like the family just got a little stranger.”
For a moment, no one argues. Even Kit—tail curling lazily—just smirks. “Stranger’s not so bad.”
And from the skeleton draped in roses, a whisper slips free—soft as wind through dead leaves.
“Love.”
I glance at the two women flanking me, grinning like a man who already knows the answer. “So… can we keep him?”
Kit flicks her daggers clean with a flourish, tilting her head so the lilac tips of her ears catch the sun. “Keep?” Her tone is teasing, but there’s a glint in her amber eyes. “Master, he’s not a puppy. He’s a rose-wrapped corpse with a scary stare and—” she pauses as Ed silently lifts some Bushman loot and hands it to her without a word, “—really good manners, apparently.”
Raka gives a low, approving rumble, running a claw along the edge of her axe. “If he fights for the pack, he stays.” Her silver-white tail sways with lazy certainty. “And if he says it’s for love…” Her gold eyes meet mine, something fierce burning behind them. “I believe him.”
Ed doesn’t respond. He just stands there, crowned in sap-smeared roses, thorns glinting in the dappled light. Somehow, he smells even stronger now—fresh-cut flowers layered over bone and sap.
I smirk, rolling my shoulders.
Normally, a summon like Ed would drain mana from the summoner over time. But as a Harem-Master, I regenerate mana at the combined rate of the three of us. Which makes Ed… stable. I watch my mana bar, feeling the steady hum of energy thrumming through my veins.
“Alright then,” I say, nodding once. “Welcome to the family, Ed.”
He inclines his head a fraction, voice a rasp of wind on stone.
“Family.”