The Warding Rows were quiet—too quiet.
No wind in the millet, no buzz of morning insects. Even the crows had gone silent.
Ikenna stood barefoot at the field's edge, the Codex of Thirteen Roots tucked under one arm. He could feel the heartbeat of the land beneath his soles—slow, steady, but ready to quicken if called.
Across the open stretch, Orun and his four companions descended from the ridge. Their robes shifted in the morning light, embroidered lightning flashing silver as they moved.
They stopped just outside the first furrow. Orun raised a hand.
"This is your last chance," he said, voice carrying easily in the still air. "Give us the Codex, and the valley will be left untouched."
Ikenna met his gaze. "You've mistaken the valley for something you can leave untouched. She remembers everyone who walks on her skin."
One of the Thundermark envoys, a woman with hair plaited tight and a hooked spear in hand, laughed. "He speaks like a Mosscourt elder. Let's dig him out and be done with it."
Orun didn't object. He simply lowered his hand.
They came fast.
Lightning flickered between their fingers as they moved, the air charged with the metallic tang of ozone. Ikenna dropped into a low stance, his fingers curling into the dirt.
The Root of Binding wasn't just a technique—it was a pact. He spoke softly, the words not meant for human ears.
The ground swelled.
Thick ropes of soil erupted upward, coiling around the legs of the first envoy to cross the furrow. She slashed with her spear, but the earth twisted with unnatural speed, dragging her knee-deep before hardening like clay left in the sun.
The others split wide, circling to avoid the trapped section.
Nwachi was ready. She emerged from the storage hut, wielding the heavy ash-wood rake as if it were a glaive. When the second envoy tried to leap over a furrow, she swung hard, catching him in the side. He staggered, and the earth swallowed his foot before he could recover.
Orun moved differently—measured, controlled. Each step he took cracked the dirt beneath him with frost. Roots trying to bind his ankles froze solid before they could tighten.
"You control the soil," he called, dodging another earthen coil. "But I command the storm. Let's see which lasts longer."
Lightning burst from his palm. It struck the Warding Rows with a blinding flash, the smell of scorched millet filling the air.
Ikenna hissed through his teeth. The ground trembled beneath him—not in fear, but in pain.
He reached into his satchel and pulled the Codex open to the page that had haunted him all night.
The Root of Calling.
His fingers hesitated over the symbol. The Codex had warned him:
Every helper asks a price. Pay willingly, or be taken unwillingly.
A blast of frost-laced wind slammed into him, knocking him backward. One of the freed envoys was closing in, blade raised.
Ikenna pressed his hand to the dirt.
"I call," he said, voice low but certain.
The world shifted.
The soil rippled like water, and from beneath, something rose—something with the scent of deep earth and ancient rain. A figure formed of tangled roots and glistening black soil, its head crowned with a sprouting seedling. Its eyes were two glowing specks, green as fresh shoots.
It looked at Ikenna. Then it looked at Orun.
The Thundermark envoys froze for just a moment too long. That was all it needed.
The root-creature lunged, its arms splitting into tendrils that wrapped around two enemies at once, yanking them off their feet. One screamed as the tendrils pulled him partially into the soil, leaving only his head above ground.
Orun's calm expression finally cracked. "You've bound yourself to something you don't control."
"Maybe," Ikenna said, stepping forward, "but she listens to me."
The fight turned. The Warding Rows were alive—furrows rippling, stalks bending unnaturally to block strikes, dirt curling into sudden mounds that tripped enemies mid-swing.
Nwachi fought back-to-back with the root-creature, her rake catching an enemy's wrist as a tendril swept his legs.
Only Orun remained unbound, his lightning burning every root that reached for him. He strode toward Ikenna, frost spreading with each step.
"You think you've won because you called a pet out of the ground?" he said, lightning coiling around his arm. "When it takes what it's owed, you'll wish you'd given me the book."
The root-creature turned its head toward Ikenna again. It didn't speak, but Ikenna felt the question in his chest.
The price.
His mouth was dry. "Name it."
The creature reached out, and a single tendril touched his wrist. In that instant, he saw a vision—not of death, but of work. Endless work. Fields that would demand his hands for seasons beyond counting. The valley would keep him as its steward, never letting him walk away.
It wasn't slavery. But it was a promise that would swallow the rest of his life.
Ikenna swallowed hard. "Done."
The creature surged forward, wrapping Orun's legs in roots so thick even lightning couldn't burn through fast enough. Frost spread, roots cracked, but the tendrils only grew tighter. Orun shouted in frustration, and for the first time, he looked less like a calm envoy and more like a cornered predator.
With a final heave, the ground split and swallowed him waist-deep. His lightning fizzled into the soil, absorbed harmlessly.
The remaining envoys fled, dragging their trapped companions with them. None looked back.
The root-creature stood before Ikenna. Slowly, it pressed one hand into the soil and dissolved back into the earth. The ground stilled.
The Warding Rows whispered with the wind again.
Nwachi exhaled hard, leaning on her rake. "That… was the most terrifying thing I've ever seen."
Ikenna closed the Codex. "It was also the most expensive bargain I've ever made."
Because somewhere in the valley, the soil now knew his name—and it wouldn't ever let him forget theirs.