A Trophy of Thorns

The damp mulch yielded under my armored boots as I pushed deeper past the garden brick. In the shadow of a sprawling rosebush, I discovered a fallen branch bristling with curved, hardened thorns. Worthy natural weapons. I dropped to one knee, gripping the woody spine with my left gauntlet. With deliberate, measured pressure, I brought the hard edge of my wrist blade down upon the base of the sharpest thorn. It separated with a clean, flinty snap. Balanced, formidable, unyielding. I slotted the crimson spike into my waist cord—a small token of honor claimed from the thorny thicket.