And yet, she survived.
Every morning—or what felt like morning—Veyra took a deep breath, rose from her root-bed, and spoke to her vines like they were allies.
She tested her skill each day. Learned how to thicken her thorns. Learned how to grow tendrils that could slither through soil, that could carry sensory pulses to her like whispers on nerves. She even managed to regrow part of a severed vine using her own blood and a moment of meditation.
One morning, she discovered something new: she could leave behind a seed—a tiny pod, no bigger than a tooth—infused with her blood essence. When planted, it would sprout a smaller, faster-growing version of her Crimson Bloom network. It wouldn't be strong, but it would warn her of pursuit or provide her with a tiny outpost.
She called them bloodblooms. And by the end of the first week, she had planted six of them in a spiral pattern around her base.
