You ever plant something in a garden?

You take a seed—small, fragile, useless on its own—and you give it what it needs. You bury it in soil, feed it with water, give it sunlight. You keep it safe from the storm, protect it from being trampled.

That’s what I did with you, Digger.

I found you in the slums, broken. You weren’t a man. You were a hollow shell. Veins full of poison. Eyes full of nothing. Just another lost soul with no direction and no one to care if you lived or died.

But I did.

I took you in. I gave you a home. I gave you purpose. I told you your hands could build something. I told you your name could mean more than just the dirt you came from.

I was your sunlight, boy. I pulled the clouds back just enough to let you bloom.

And you did.

You grew strong. Steady. Resilient. But what I didn’t see—not until it was too late—was what you really were.

Not an oak. Not a lily.

You were a rose.

And I should’ve known. Because every rose blooms with thorns.

The moment you were strong enough, you cut me. Turned your back. Pierced the hand that fed you, watered you, raised you from the dirt. And you did it not out of survival—but out of choice.

Because somewhere along the way, you decided that being family wasn’t enough.

You wanted to be me.

You wanted the cloak. The boat. The chains. The power.

But you never stopped to think about the cost. You never asked yourself what being me truly means.

You think I wanted this life? You think I wanted to become a monster that carries souls across the veil? That I wanted to walk the earth as death incarnate, watching the people I care about crumble, one by one?

No.

But I do what must be done.

And now, so will you.

Because I’ve realized something. A rose doesn’t choose its thorns. It just grows them. And maybe, deep down, you couldn’t help it. Maybe betrayal was always in your nature.

So I don’t hate you, Digger.

But I will bury you.

Because that’s what I do.

I ferry the dead.

You bloomed once, in my light. But now it’s time to return to the soil that made you. You’ll wither there. You’ll rot. And maybe, just maybe, something better will grow in your place.

At Ring of Dreams, I’m not coming to fight you. I’m not coming to reason with you. I’m not coming to save you.

I’m coming to plant you.

Six feet down.

No tombstone.

No flowers.

No light.

Because that’s what happens to roses that forget who gave them their roots.

You wanted to be me?

Congratulations.

You get to die by my hand and when I’m finished, and the end is all there is…

I will send you on your way.