The somber hush of the Trelon family mausoleum shattered with the force of a tectonic shift. A polished, obsidian-black grav-limousine, so silent it might have been a ghost, glided to a halt just shy of the freshly dug earth. Its door didn’t open; it *unfolded*, revealing not a grieving relative, but Magnar Veldross. The city’s most feared magnate, a man whose name was whispered more often in boardrooms than in churches, stood silhouetted against the weak afternoon sun. His tailored charcoal suit seemed to absorb all light, and his gaze, sharp as obsidian shards, swept over the assembled elite. He ignored the gasps, the scattered eulogy notes, and the stunned faces of the Trelon family, who stood mid-mourn around the marble crypt. “My apologies for the… timing,” Magnar’s voice, a low rumble that carried surprising authority, cut through the stunned silence. He didn’t sound apologetic in the slightest. “But I require your lead cultivator. Immediately.” Theron Trelon, the patriarch, touched his silk tie, thrown entirely off balance. “A cultivator? Veldross, what on earth are you talking about? We are laying my mother to rest. What specialist could you possibly need right now?” Beside him, Korin straightened his lapels, preening on cue. Korin never missed an opening to claim credit. “Perhaps he means me, Father. My recent papers on the Mourningbloom drew high praise across the district, though modesty forbids me from bragging.” He gave a self-deprecating shrug that didn’t quite hide his pride. Magnar’s gaze slid to Korin, holding for a beat too long. There was no recognition, only a dismissive flick of his wrist. “Not you. The one who actually cultivates your… more *unusual* specimens. The one responsible for the Trelon family’s quiet dominance in the rarer Floracraft auctions for the last decade.” He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly. “The one you’ve kept hidden away.” Theron stiffened, his fingers digging into his cuffs. His wife, Verona, twisted her pearl necklace until the string groaned. “Barris?” Verona muttered, the syllables stumbling out like a discarded memory. “Good heavens. He felt unwell at dawn. We left him in the conservancy annex. Crowds agitate him so.” Her explanation withered under Magnar’s unblinking stare. Magnar merely lifted a single, perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “He’s at home? Alone?” He turned to his head of security, a hulking figure named Kova who blended into the shadows of the grav-limousine. “Retrieve him. Expedited.” Before Kova could even fully disengage, a guttural shriek tore through the air, vibrating through the very earth. It wasn’t human. It was plant. From the direction of the north glasshouse, barely a mile down the private lane, a sickly green flare split the clouds, trailed by a series of dull percussive thuds. “What in the name of the Verdant Accord was that?” Theron sputtered, nearly tripping over the curb. Magnar, however, was already moving. “Kova, now. Move, move, move!” *** Barris Trelon hummed an off-key tune, tracing the veins of a pale Azure-Plume stem. He preferred the solarium to dark wool suits and grave speeches; his grandmother had not addressed him directly since childhood, absorbed entirely with Korin’s alleged brilliance. The air here, rich with the scent of damp earth and exotic blossoms, was far more comforting. His moment of quiet communion was violently interrupted by the sound of splintering timber. The solarium’s reinforced iron frame, mounted after Barris nurtured a spore colony that dissolved the previous timber portal, buckled inward with a shriek of bending metal. Three security contractors in reinforced armor plates charged across the debris, sweep-lasers cutting through dense ferns. “Trelon Barris?” one of them barked, his voice distorted by his helmet’s comms system. “Identify yourself!” Barris blinked, startled, his hand still on the orchid. “Good afternoon!” Barris said brightly, thumb still stroking the stem. “Did you miss the main drive? You really shouldn't shatter frames like that; the humidity drop distresses the seedlings.” The lead enforcer leveled a nonlethal shock baton. “Orders from Veldross command. Hands visible, step forward.” Before Barris could fully process this, a dark, thorny tendril, thick as a man’s arm, lashed out from the shadows behind a towering ‘Grave-Thorn’ bush. It moved with unnatural speed, snared the point officer's combat boot, jerking her off balance into the flagstones. Her stun-carbine slid through the compost. “Oh, sweetheart, no!” Barris chided, hurrying forward with maternal concern. “We practiced this! New people are startling, yes, but we never snap at ankles! Release her boot this second!” The thorny stalk—a contraband nocturnal creeper Korin had abandoned after three failed catalog attempts—rippled violently across the flagstones. Its razor-edged leaves unfurled like angry talons, shimmering with a sickly purple miasma. It had been acting agitated all morning, sensing the commotion outside the estate, and now, with the intrusion, it had completely snapped. The remaining guards raised their carbines, but Barris moved smoothly into their line of sight, palms out. “Lower those, please! She only panics when met with shouting!” “Stand clear, civilian!” the nearest soldier yelled. “That’s a Class Delta carnivore!” Ignoring them, Barris spoke in a soothing tone, his voice a gentle balm against the chaotic rustling of the vine. “Hush now, petal,” Barris murmured, stroking a serrated needle coated in neurotoxic sap. “They brought clumsy boots into your quiet time, didn't they? Deep breaths.” The barbed tendril paused, uncurling its teeth, and rubbed against his knuckles. The miasma around its leaves dissipated. The barbs retracted entirely, wrapping slack around his wrist like a jade bracelet while a resonant vibration hummed deep inside its primary root ball. The recovery team lowered their barrels by inches, paralyzed by the sight of a flesh-eating apex creeper nuzzling an oversized cardigan. Just then, Magnar Veldross himself strode into the shattered doorway, flanked by more of his security detail. He took in the scene: the shattered threshold, his flat-footed security squad, and Barris serenely scratching the bulb of an arboreal man-eater. Magnar’s lips thinned. “This is the prodigy?” Magnar remarked dryly. “Hello there!” Barris said, patting the limp stalk as it sighed in contentment. “Are you with the repair crew? The hinges need urgent reinforcement.” Magnar stared at Barris, at his slightly smudged cheek, his rumpled sweater, his wide, innocent eyes. This was the reclusive mind behind three dozen award-winning hybrids? He looked like an overgrown golden retriever wearing a cardigan dotted with peat moss. “Barris Trelon,” Magnar said with measured gravity. “I am Magnar Veldross. I have an estate with expansive, unregulated cultivation grounds. High-grade loam, unlimited nutrient reserves, and complete autonomy. In exchange, you will handle my grounds. Under my direct roof.” Barris beamed. “Unlimited loam? Father docked my bone-meal allowance last Tuesday because Korin wanted silk waistcoats! Are your garden specimens welcoming? I do prefer cooperative temperaments.” Magnar glance drifted to the docile monstrosity winding around the boy's sleeve. “Enthusiastic to a fault. Come along, Barris. Let us pack your trowels.” Barris beamed, completely missing the dark undercurrents. “Oh, wonderful! I can’t wait to meet them all!” He snatched up a canvas tote full of seed packets, stepping over the shattered threshold right as Theron and Korin sprinted up the gravel path, their mouths hanging open in horror. Barris gave them a cheerful wave as he ambled alongside the city's most feared predator. Magnar Veldross watched the oblivious young man climb into the grav-limousine, a small, knowing smirk playing on his face. He signaled Kova with two fingers, murmuring under the purr of the turbine, “Direct him to the West Wing arboretum. Let the razor-canes test his optimism.”

The Floral Funeral Crash