AS YOU SOW, SO YOU REAP

chapter nine: the harvest call

Dharan’s boots sank into the damp earth as he pulled Aric through the writhing wheat. The roots snaked after them, hissing softly in the darkness. The fog thickened with every step, clinging to their clothes, chilling their skin.

Behind them, the twisted figure of Garren moved steadily forward, the black vines writhing along his limbs like parasites eager for a new host. His eyes—if they could still be called eyes—burned faintly with that same red light that pulsed inside the Heartseed.

“Father!” Aric’s voice cracked. “It’s gaining!”

“I know!” Dharan didn’t look back. He couldn’t. If he did, his legs might freeze, and they couldn’t afford that.

The path to the farmhouse was gone, swallowed by fog. Dharan could barely make out the crooked outline of the old barn ahead. If they could get inside, maybe they could buy a few moments to think.

They burst through the warped doors, slamming them shut behind them. The smell of mold and old hay filled the air. Dharan dropped the lantern on a workbench and fumbled for the iron pitchfork that hung on the wall.

Aric, still panting, grabbed a coil of rope. “What… what was that thing? That wasn’t… it wasn’t really Grandfather, was it?”

Dharan tightened his grip on the pitchfork, forcing himself to answer. “It was him once. But now…” He swallowed hard. “Now it’s something else. Something the Heartseed owns.”

Before Aric could reply, a slow scratching sound came from the barn walls. Dharan turned, his stomach sinking. Thin black roots were pushing through the gaps in the wood, curling toward the lantern’s light.

“Out the back,” Dharan hissed.

But when they turned, the barn’s back doors swung open on their own, creaking loudly. Standing in the opening was a woman Dharan had never seen before. Her eyes glowed faint red, her hair tangled with strands of wheat and root.

“You can’t run forever,” she said, her voice strangely calm. “The Harvest calls for you both.”

Aric took a step back, but Dharan held his ground. “Who are you?”

The woman tilted her head, smiling faintly. “I am one of the First. Planted long before your father ever tilled this cursed soil. And I have come to prepare the field… for its feast.”

From outside, a low thump echoed again—the heartbeat of the Heartseed—louder now, faster.

The roots in the walls moved quicker, snaking toward them, while the woman stepped forward, her smile widening to reveal teeth as sharp as splinters.

“Your blood,” she whispered, “will make the roots grow strong.”