Fields of thorny bushes and vines guarded the path to Briar Hold.

Truly, the ancient castle lived up to its name. Before Azazel and his traveling companions lay a narrow, winding path to the castle’s entrance, and on either side of that path lay the endless brambles. Skulls and bones littered the fields, and some stuck on the branches of the few trees which grew among the thorns.

Yet, even amidst this morbid meadow there grew beautiful red, pink, purple, and blue roses. The aroma in the air was the most pleasant thing to fill Azazel’s nostrils since he left his home city.

At the start of the winding path stood an obelisk, upon which were inscribed the words:

Blessed be he whom the winding path he does tread,

He has learned from the foolish dead.

But cursed be he whom the roses shall spurn,

For he shall help another to learn.

Jasper chuckled. “I guess this means we stick to the winding path or we die. Well, you’ll die. I can’t bleed.”

“Nuh uh. Look!” Ember pointed into the distance, where a thorny vine snaked across the road. “Even on the winding path we might die. I think there are jidra hiding there.”

“Jidra?” Azazel repeated. “What are jidra?”

“You haven’t encountered them before?” Ember gave him a disbelieving look. “Plants that ensnare and eat people and animals.”

Neji laughed. “Don’t fear the flowers, darling. I can cut through them easily.”

Azazel dismounted from his horse. “There is another option, yet. All of you, stay here.” The angel spread out his wings and bore the breeze through his feathers. “I’ll go to meet the Knight of Thorns.”

The young angel took off into the air and soared over the fields of brambles. As he drew nearer and nearer to the castle made of quartz bricks, he saw the roses beneath him grow far more abundant. A beautiful array of colors lay sprawled out before the shimmering, white bastion.

Pop!

Azazel’s eyes drew to a puff of yellow pollen in the fields, just as a barb snapped against his armor.

“Flee!” came Ember’s distant cry.

Pop!

Pop!

Pop!

Azazel closed his wings and dropped just in time as three more barbs flew over his head.

A thorny vine lashed out at him as he drew close.

In mid-air he extended one wing and rolled to the side.

The limb stretched past his legs, and he felt the thorns grind on his shin-guards.

Pop!

One of the barbs pierced Azazel’s extended wing.

The angel’s vision blurred, and his head felt light.

A thorny vine caught his leg and yanked him downward.

Azazel drew his sword and swung it out to cut the vine away from his leg.

Pop!

Another barb struck Azazel’s wing, and the colors around him ran together as a painting smeared with alcohol.

Was he truly spinning out of control? Or did the jidra venom just make him feel he was?

Azazel’s face scraped the thorny brush, and he heard the plants crunch under his weight when he smashed into the ground.

Hooked thorns pierced his cheeks, his palms, and his wings. Hot blood leaked over his skin and immediately chilled.

Crushing pressure around his right calf.

One of the thorny vines had seized his leg. He swung out to strike with his sword, but the weapon was gone.

With a sudden, painful jolt, the vine dragged Azazel through the prickly brush. His wings caught in briar patches and he yelped in agony.

A crackling sound up ahead.

Azazel craned his neck to see what appeared like a giant blossom opening, but on the inside of the petals were rows of pointed teeth, and where the pistil should have been he saw a gaping throat.

Another vine seized his other leg.

Then two more took his arms.

Then four more grabbed his wings.

Dazed and nauseous, Azazel thrashed about in a feeble attempt to escape.

Every movement, every jolt caused his flesh to tear on the thorns.

The jidra held him fast.

His foot had just reached its cavernous mouth when a flash of white passed by, followed by a chopping sound and a shriek from the jidra.

The plant’s grip on Azazel’s limbs loosened, and he scrambled to his feet.

Only to fall flat on his face again.

Too disoriented to walk, Azazel crawled through the swirling mess of green, red, and purple, hoping he’d crawled away from the jidra.

Chop!

Screech!

Pop!

A streak of rusty red and orange flew by.

Chop!

A burst of steam.

Chop!

Screech!

Azazel’s fingers and face bled, but he continued to wriggle through the stinging needles.

The colors before him changed to a dull brown, and some instinct deep within told him this was good.

Bony fingers grabbed hold of Azazel’s arm and pulled him to his feet. The figure before him was a churning portrait of white and black.

“De yio kniq mr?”

He stared at the mass before him and squinted his eyes. What was the question? Did he know this person?

“Demm, hu’z baan puizennt!”

Silver mixed in with the colors before Azazel’s eyes, and his nausea subsided. The colors and shapes around him came back into focus, and he found himself looking up at a skeleton wearing a hooded robe.

“Hello?” said the undead priest. “Can you hear me? Do you know me?”

“Yes!” Azazel stood straight again, having regained his bearings. “Yes, I know you, Father Jasper.”

“Good!” Father Jasper patted him on the shoulder.

Azazel turned back toward the jidra and saw three skeletons on their feet, hacking away at the vines and thorn bushes.

“Friends of yours?” Azazel asked.

“Not friends, minions,” said Father Jasper. He snapped his bony fingers, and all three of the skeletons collapsed back into the shrubbery. “Looks like you really will have to stick to the path, my liege. This castle has certain… defenses against those who try to cheat.” Father Jasper reached into his robe and produced Azazel’s sword. “Here you are. In case you need it.”

He patted Azazel on the back, and the young angel stumbled forward onto the dirt path. He looked up at the gates ahead, then glanced back at the priest, who gave him an encouraging thumbs-up.