For a time, Kaelen almost believed he could live like an ordinary man.
The villagers gave him bread, a cot in the hayloft, and work mending fences and chopping wood. His hands blistered quickly, soft from too much bloodshed and too little labor, but he learned. Sweat, not steel, stained his skin now.
The laughter of children rang in his ears. The warmth of hearth fires filled the evenings. Each day the Seed quieted, as if lulled by his borrowed peace.
Almost.
Because sometimes, when Kaelen's hands brushed the soil while planting seedlings or turning earth, roots stirred in the corner of his vision—phantoms pressing against the skin of the world. He would freeze, palms burning, and shove the whispers down.
If anyone noticed, they said nothing.
The trouble began when strangers came.
They rode in near dusk, three armored riders with cloaks bearing a jagged flame sigil. Their horses' hooves churned the dirt as the villagers shrank back.
The leader dismounted, his steel breastplate glinting red in the firelight. His eyes swept the crowd like a hawk's.
"By decree of the Crimson Order," he said, voice cold as iron, "all villages under this valley's watch are to surrender grain and able-bodied men for conscription. Refusal is treason."
A hush fell. Farmers clutched their children. Women drew their shawls tight.
Kaelen's stomach sank. The Crimson Order. He had heard the name whispered on the battlefield — zealots who worshipped fire as divine, claiming blood sacrifice to fuel their power.
The Seed pulsed in his palm, restless.
The village headman stepped forward, bowing low. "We are simple folk, my lords. Our harvest was meager. If we give more, we starve."
The knight sneered. "Then starve. The Flame demands." He raised his gauntleted hand, and fire flickered across his palm. The villagers gasped, recoiling.
Kaelen's hand twitched toward his cloak. His instincts screamed at him to act — but if he unleashed the Seed here, there would be no going back.
The knight's fiery gaze swept over the crowd, and Kaelen felt it linger on him. Too long.
"You," the knight said suddenly, pointing at him. "You are not of this village. Step forward."
Kaelen's heart hammered. Around him, villagers turned with wary eyes.
The Seed pulsed again, whispering, Protect. Consume. Grow.
For a single breath, Kaelen stood frozen between two worlds.
If he obeyed, he risked being taken, interrogated, perhaps burned alive.
If he resisted, the Seed would answer. And once it tasted blood again, could he ever hope to cage it?
The knight stepped closer, fire flaring. "Now, stranger."
Kaelen clenched his fist around the Seed, feeling its heartbeat merge with his own. His breath came ragged, torn between terror and fury.
And then, faint but clear, he heard the children behind him begin to cry.
Something in him snapped.
"Stay back," Kaelen said, voice low, dangerous. "Or you'll regret it."
The knight smirked. "Regret? Boy, you've no idea what regret is—"
The ground split.
Roots erupted like spears, curling around the knight's legs, hissing as they seared against his flames. Screams erupted as villagers scattered.
Kaelen stood trembling, torn cloak flapping in the sudden wind, eyes blazing green. The Seed's hunger roared in his veins.
Peace was gone.
And blood would follow.