He might or might not notice the heavy vines that pull him off the path and into a waiting grave.

It's not so much that he notices as that after a few seconds to get over the initial shock he ignites at a temperature sufficient to vaporize stone.

The nearby hedges, the path beneath his feet, and all the glass thorns embedded in him summarily vaporize. Which is convenient, so long as you don't mind being thrown by the exploding stone beneath you. 

He comes down snarling, wreathed in white-hot flames, heedless of the heat. Fire hurts but fire is his. When he lands in his crater he is no longer quite hot enough to make another one, but the flames that seethe and crackle around him are definitely sufficient to ward off most trivial threats.

The hedges retreat, thinning away all around him.

He takes a deep breath and keeps walking. His aura of flame fades slowly. He's reluctant to let go of it, but it's hard to hold onto when it hurts so much.

Nothing immediately tries to kill him, but there are certainly plenty of stairs between him and the center of the city.

He keeps walking.

Would he care to step obligingly into another semicircle of thick hedges?

He'd really rather set them on fire—

—but he probably shouldn't, so soon after the last time. He goes after them with his sword instead.

There's another set of loud cracking sounds as the bushes' thorns leap for him - particularly his eyes and his sword arm. 

A lot of thorns meet his sword's aura of destruction and disintegrate before ever reaching him.

A lot, but by no means all.

His arm is mostly protected; his eyes have no such luck. He stumbles. Wavering threads of power billow from his sword's blade like nearly-invisible smoke, vaporizing everything they touch, but when they run into Siran they flow harmlessly over his skin.

- there's a slight click to his right as something shifts on the ground, and a whistle as of something sharp being swung - 

He flails his sword in that direction.

There's a sharp intake of breath, a sizzling noise, and then he no longer has a sword hand. 

Thorns slam into him from behind as his sword clangs against the ground, pinning him down with sheer weight and mass. 

He growls.

He just barely retains the presence of mind not to immediately light himself on fire again, but he can't think of an alternative, so he just—doesn't do anything. Except hurt. There is a lot of hurting going on here.

He's dragged away from his sword, face-down across the cobblestones, the vines closing in, crushing, thorns biting into his skin. It's not going to kill him anytime soon, but there is definitely a lot of pain going on. 

Well of course it's not going to kill him.

Seriously inconvenience, though, that one it's managing just fine.

Most of his attention is taken up by pain; he devotes the remainder to the very important task of not lighting himself on fire. He has no idea where his sword even went, he has no idea how close he is to the edge of the city, he could do some real damage if he let loose here the way his instincts are screaming that he should. He will not explode, he will not, he will fucking well not.

He never sees the swordblow that strikes his head from his shoulders.

He has a moment to notice that everything hurts a lot less all of a sudden, but not enough time to figure out why before he falls unconscious.

The Queen of the cursed city methodically dismembers the body, separating each limb at the joints with a butcher's finesse. Her vines drag the pieces away in five different directions, to be buried as far apart as they can be within the city's confines. 

She takes his head and heart for herself. With one last look back at the place where her challenger fell, she walks on inwards, towards the deepest dungeon of her small empire.  

She leaves her sword unsheathed for now, and a guard of flowers to watch each broken piece not under her personal care. 

The wide pool of blood she leaves behind remains still and silent... for another minute or so.

Then it starts to ripple.

It flows against the pull of gravity, bunching up in a space relatively clear of thorns. There keeps being more of it, piling up on itself, shifting and wriggling into uncertain shapes that flow into one another with no clear boundary between them. An amorphous blob at one end looks now like a head, now more like an arm, now a sloppy tentacle melting into itself and starting all over again; similar protrusions form and collapse and re-form in seemingly arbitrary locations.

Gradually, over the course of yet more minutes, the shapes refine their form and number and placement. He has a head and five limbs - three - four - three - no, four again - and now he's got bilateral symmetry, look at him go - and hands, fingers, toes even - a recognizable face, with a mouth and a nose and two eyes -

At the point where he has eyelashes, sweeping curves of wet blood curling up from the edges of his glossy red eyelids, he begins to solidify. A few seconds later, where there was previously an unsettlingly precise simulacrum made of fresh blood, now there is Siran again.

He opens his eyes. Blinks several times, to clear the blood from them. Wipes his face with wet red fingers - scowls - conjures a sudden shower of water to rinse away the mess.

Once he can see properly again, he looks around.

A small hedge stands guard over his discarded sword, a few yards away. 

Nothing stirs.

He's lost all his clothes in assorted violent incidents.

(What—or who—even was that? Well, he's not going to find out just standing here.)

He conjures another outfit, unusually plain for him; he's a little too frazzled still to concentrate on fashion. And then he reaches out and calls his sword into his hand.

The hedge's thorns snap around to follow the sword's path, blue flowers twinkling in their depths - 

But they don't do anything more.