The battlefield ruins were silent again, though the stench of blood still lingered in the air. Kaelen forced himself to move, stumbling past the bandits' corpses—or what was left of them. The earth had swallowed most, leaving only fragments of bone scattered among cracked stone.
He tried not to look. Tried not to remember their screams.
Every step away from the ruined tower felt like dragging chains.
The Seed pulsed faintly in his palm, as if pleased. And with each pulse, Kaelen glimpsed that inner world again—grass spreading further, the soil darkening, life returning where only ash had been.
It was beautiful. It was monstrous.
Days passed. He scavenged what little food he could find: roots, berries, dried supplies left behind in shattered packs. When exhaustion threatened to break him, he leaned against the cracked skeletons of trees and let the Seed's warmth seep through him, giving strength where his body had none.
Yet every night he woke drenched in sweat, haunted by the way men had screamed as the roots devoured them.
Is this my strength… or my curse?
On the morning of the seventh day, Kaelen saw smoke on the horizon.
His breath caught. Not the black smoke of burning ruins, but pale, thin wisps rising in straight lines—chimneys.
A village.
Hope warred with fear.
He tightened the ragged cloak around himself, hiding the faint glow of the brand on his palm. He couldn't let them see. Couldn't let anyone know what the Seed was.
The road sloped down into a valley, where weathered wooden homes clustered near a stream. Children chased one another in the dirt. Women carried baskets of grain. Old men mended fences.
It looked… ordinary.
Safe.
Kaelen's legs nearly gave out with relief.
But as he stepped onto the worn dirt path, he felt the Seed stir violently.
His vision blurred, overlaying the village with its inner world.
In that vision, the fertile soil of the Seed stretched outward, reaching hungrily toward the people. He saw what could happen if he let go—roots bursting through homes, draining life from every living soul, feeding the growing world within him.
The Seed wanted them.
Kaelen clutched his hand to his chest, trembling. "No… not here. Not them."
He forced the vision back, grinding his teeth until the whispers dulled.
The Seed would not take this from him. Not yet.
A farmer noticed him lingering on the path. The man was broad-shouldered, with a weathered face and a wary gaze. He set down his hoe and approached.
"You look half-dead, boy," the farmer said gruffly. "Where've you come from?"
Kaelen swallowed, choosing his words carefully. "From… the ruins. Bandits… beasts. I barely survived."
The man's eyes softened. "Ruins, eh? You're lucky to be alive. Come. The village'll give you a roof and a meal. Gods know we can spare that much."
Kaelen nodded weakly, though inside, panic coiled.
If they knew what I carry… they'd never let me stay.
He followed the farmer toward the village, the laughter of children echoing in his ears.
And behind it, always, the whisper of roots, promising that this fragile peace could shatter with a single breath.