Ren stared into the glowing garden, the black roses swaying gently under the violet sky. He took another sip of the strange, delicious tea before speaking again, his voice quiet but troubled.
"I've noticed something else," he said. "The time here… it doesn't feel right. Sometimes night comes too early. Sometimes morning arrives before it should. There are days when the night stretches on for what feels like forever, and other times the daylight lingers far longer than it should. Even the weather… it changes without warning. One moment it's calm, the next a storm appears out of nowhere. It feels… broken."
Elizabeth was silent for a long moment. The glowing flowers around them dimmed slightly, as if the garden itself was listening with bated breath. A soft wind carried distant, whispering sounds from beyond the barrier — almost like faint, mournful singing.
"You noticed it faster than most," she finally said, her crimson eyes reflecting the starlight. "Most people who stumble into Noctiflora never realize how deeply wrong the passage of time has become. They lose themselves in the dream long before they understand the truth."
She set her cup down on the stone bench and looked up at the strange sky, her voice growing heavier, more solemn.
"All of this… the distorted days and nights, the sudden storms, the way reality bends and stretches… it is the will of the Queen of the Forest. Her name is Thistle."
Elizabeth's expression darkened, a mix of respect and deep sorrow crossing her features.
"Seven hundred years ago, during the height of 'The Curdled' pandemic, Thistle was the first princess of the Kingdom of Velmora. She was said to be one of the most beautiful and kind-hearted royals the kingdom had ever known — beloved by the people, gentle with her subjects, and deeply involved in the search for a cure."
The wind picked up slightly, making the glowing violet lilies shiver. The black roses rustled like dry parchment.
"But when the pandemic reached the royal palace, everything changed," Elizabeth continued. "Thistle watched her family, her friends, and thousands of innocent people suffer and die in the most horrifying ways imaginable. In her desperation to save her kingdom, she secretly participated in the forbidden blood rituals that ultimately caused the catastrophe. When the corruption finally consumed her… she did not die like the others."
Elizabeth's voice dropped to a near-whisper.
"She became something new. Something eternal. The forest took her. It merged with her soul, her pain, and her unyielding will to protect what remained of her people. Thistle became the Queen of Noctiflora — the living heart and mind of the entire forest. She is the reason time here is fractured. She is the reason the weather shifts like a living creature's mood. She dreams, and the forest dreams with her. Sometimes she wishes for endless night to mourn the dead. Sometimes she forces the sun to linger because she fears the darkness will bring back the memories of blood and screams."
Elizabeth turned to Ren, her crimson eyes intense and grave.
"Thistle is not evil… but she is no longer fully human. She is the forest. And the forest is her. She saved the kingdom by consuming the pandemic, but in doing so, she condemned herself — and this entire realm — to eternal distortion."
The night wind carried a faint, haunting melody — almost like a woman's sorrowful singing from deep within the trees.
Ren felt a chill run down his spine as he absorbed her words. The beautiful yet eerie garden around them suddenly felt much more alive… and much more dangerous.
"So the Queen of this forest… is the reason everything feels wrong," he murmured.
Elizabeth nodded slowly.
"Yes. And now you are inside her domain, Ren. Whether she has noticed you yet… remains to be seen."
---
The garden grew quieter as Elizabeth spoke. Even the glowing flowers seemed to dim their light, as though afraid to illuminate the horrors she was about to describe. The wind carried a faint, mournful note — like distant weeping carried through the trees.
Elizabeth's crimson eyes stared into the violet sky, her voice dropping into a low, haunted tone.
"But Thistle… she suffered in the most brutal way imaginable."
She paused, letting the weight of her words settle over them like a funeral shroud.
"When she began consuming the pandemic with the forest's help, the corruption fought back viciously. Black, thorny needles erupted from inside her body — thousands of them, piercing through her skin from within. They tore out of her breasts, her stomach, her thighs… everywhere. But the worst was reserved for her most intimate places."
Elizabeth's hand unconsciously moved to her own chest, as if remembering an old pain.
"Thick, black blood poured endlessly from her nipples like twin rivers of tar. It flowed without stopping, soaking her clothes, the ground, everything. From between her legs… from her pussy… came an even greater flood. The corrupted blood gushed out in heavy streams, as if her womb itself was trying to purge the nightmare. The pandemic power tried to dry her up completely — pulling every drop of blood from her body through those openings, trying to consume her along with the pandemic."
Her voice grew quieter, almost reverent in its grimness.
"Yet Thistle refused to die. Her body kept producing more blood. Again and again. The pain must have been beyond anything mortal. Needles ripping through her flesh from the inside, black blood pouring from her breasts and cunt like she was being drained dry by the pandemic… and still she endured. She kept pulling the corruption into herself, absorbing the screams, the mutations, the death of an entire kingdom."
Elizabeth looked directly at Ren, her crimson eyes burning with quiet intensity.
"She succeeded. She consumed every last trace of 'The Curdled'. The kingdom was saved from total annihilation. But the price was horrific. The hundreds of thousands of people who died — especially the girls and women who suffered the worst mutations — remained dead. They could not be brought back. Their souls were lost to the corruption."
A long, heavy silence fell between them.
Then Elizabeth continued, her voice softer:
"Some legends say that on that final day, the spirits of the girls who died in the pandemic did not simply vanish. They were absorbed by the forest… and by Thistle. They became her servants. Her handmaidens. Pale, sorrowful spirits who now wander Noctiflora, forever bound to the Queen who tried to save them. Some say you can still hear their whispers on certain nights — crying, moaning, calling out for mothers who will never answer."
The wind picked up again, carrying a faint, ghostly chorus of female voices — too distant to be clear, yet too real to ignore. The black roses trembled as if they remembered the blood that once soaked their roots.
Elizabeth looked at Ren with a mixture of sorrow and grim acceptance.
"That is the true origin of Noctiflora. A forest born from one woman's unimaginable suffering and sacrifice. A paradise built upon an ocean of corrupted blood and broken souls."
She reached out and gently placed her hand over Ren's.
"And now… you are part of that story, whether you want to be or not."