The Codex of Thirteen Roots was heavier than any book Ikenna had ever touched.
Not in weight—though the soil-wax binding gave it a satisfying density—but in presence.
It hummed faintly against his palms, as if the words inside were alive and waiting for a moment to breathe.
That night, long after the villagers had retired and the Dirtwatchers had settled into their silent vigil, Ikenna sat in the granary loft and unbound the twine.
A faint scent escaped.
Not paper. Not ink.
Soil after lightning.
The smell of a storm that had struck ground and changed it forever.
The first page was not written in any single language, but in a spiraling blend of symbols—runes, leaf etchings, soil-grain strokes. They rearranged themselves as he looked, forming words he could understand.
The roots remember deeper than the branches boast.
To call them is to speak in the tongue of the buried sun.
There are thirteen. Learn them, and the land will never let you starve. Misuse them, and the land will never let you rest.
The first root described was The Root of Binding—a cultivation art that allowed the soil to entangle intruders in seconds, holding them fast without killing them. The second was The Root of Memory, which could make crops remember seasons long past, ripening early or late depending on need.
But it was the third root that made his fingers tighten on the scroll.
The Root of Calling.
It could summon unseen things that lived between seed and sprout—creatures of the hidden layer of earth, neither fully spirit nor fully mortal. Helpers, the Codex called them. But every helper asked for something in return.
The price… varied.
Ikenna didn't like that part.
At dawn, he was still reading.
Nwachi found him in the loft, hair messy, eyes heavy, but hands still tracing the page.
"You didn't sleep?"
"Couldn't," Ikenna admitted. "This book—it's not just instructions. It's… almost a conversation."
She leaned over his shoulder, frowning at the shifting text. "I can't even read that."
"It changes for whoever's looking," Ikenna said. "Which means it wants to be read."
Nwachi stepped back. "Then maybe you should keep it somewhere safer than the loft."
Before Ikenna could respond, a shadow fell across the granary door.
It wasn't a villager.
The man who stepped inside was dressed in layered storm-gray robes, the hem dusted with frost despite the summer air. His hair was bound high, streaked with silver though his face looked young. A sigil of a mountain peak split by lightning was sewn into his chest.
"Ikenna of the Warding Rows?" he asked, voice smooth, deliberate.
"I am," Ikenna said cautiously. "And you are?"
"Envoy Orun, of the Thundermark Sect."
The name wasn't unfamiliar. The Thundermark Sect ruled the northern highlands with a philosophy that land was a resource, not a partner. They dug, mined, and stripped without remorse—because in their view, the strong deserved the spoils, and the land had no will of its own.
Orun's gaze flicked briefly to the Codex in Ikenna's lap. "You've been given something that doesn't belong to you."
"It was given freely."
"By those who have no authority to give it," Orun replied. "The Mosscourts are relics—soft-handed dreamers who let the wilds grow over what should be cultivated. That scroll holds techniques too dangerous to be left in the hands of farmers."
Ikenna closed the Codex slowly. "Then it's fortunate I'm not just a farmer."
Orun's smile was thin. "I am here to take it. Peacefully, if possible."
"And if not?" Nwachi asked sharply.
"Then the mountains will send someone less polite."
Ikenna rose to his feet, slipping the Codex into his satchel.
"The Codex is not leaving this valley," he said. "But you're welcome to share a meal before you return."
Orun tilted his head, studying him as if weighing his strength.
Then he smiled faintly. "You sound like someone who hasn't yet seen what we can do. I'll give you time to reconsider."
Without another word, he turned and left, frost melting in his footsteps.
That night, the horizon to the west flashed with distant lightning.
Ikenna sat by the Warding Rows, the Codex open beside him. His fingers traced the symbol for the Root of Binding.
If Orun returned with others, the valley would need more than vigilance.
It would need the soil itself to stand ready.
He pressed his palm into the dirt.
"I'll only use what's necessary," he whispered. "But we can't let them take you."
The ground shifted under his hand—slow, like something deep below was stirring.
The first tether of the Root of Binding unfurled.
The next morning, the air was different.
Tense.
Every crow seemed to be watching.
From the high ridge, a figure appeared—Orun again. But this time, he wasn't alone.
Four others followed, their robes embroidered with jagged lightning. Each carried a weapon—blades, staves, and one holding a hooked spear crackling faintly with static.
Ikenna closed the Codex.
"Guess they didn't like dinner," Nwachi muttered.
Ikenna rose, brushing dirt from his palms. "Then we'll give them something else to chew on."
The Warding Rows trembled.
The ground began to remember its teeth.