AS YOU SOW, SO YOU REAP

chapter 10: the first's warning

The barn’s air turned heavy, as if the woman’s very presence thickened the fog inside. The faint red light in her eyes flickered, and the roots crawling along the walls seemed to shiver in anticipation.

Dharan tightened his grip on the pitchfork, stepping in front of Aric. “You said you’re one of the First. What does that mean?”

She smiled, tilting her head as if amused by his ignorance. “Long before your people cut these fields and called it farming, the Heartseed was already here. My kin and I were its caretakers—chosen, planted, and bound to its will. We fed it. We spread it. We became it.”

Aric swallowed hard. “You’re saying… you’re not even human anymore?”

Her smile widened, showing splinter-like teeth. “I was human once. I remember my mother’s face, the taste of rainwater, the warmth of sunlight on bare skin. But the seed offers more than life—it offers eternity. And when you accept it, you become part of something greater. Something that never dies.”

Dharan took a step forward, his voice sharp. “And what does this ‘something’ want with us?”

She glanced around the barn, running her fingers over the old wood as though testing it. “It wants what it has always wanted—roots in every home, vines in every wall, seeds in every stomach. It will spread until there is no place left untouched.”

“Not if I burn it out,” Dharan snapped.

The woman laughed softly, a sound like dry stalks breaking. “You could burn a field. You could even burn a hundred. But you cannot burn the soil itself. It is already beneath you, beneath everything you love.”

Dharan’s knuckles whitened on the pitchfork, but Aric touched his arm. “Father… what if she’s telling the truth? What if this isn’t just here?”

Dharan met his son’s frightened gaze, then looked back at the woman. “Why tell me this? If you want to kill us, why talk first?”

Her expression shifted—no longer mocking, but something closer to curiosity. “Because sometimes the Heartseed does not just consume. Sometimes… it chooses.”

The words sent a cold ripple through Dharan. “Chooses what?”

“New roots. New caretakers. New Firsts,” she said softly, almost tenderly. “It can sense strength… and desperation. You have both. And the boy—he’s young, fertile soil for what’s coming.”

Dharan moved quickly, shoving Aric toward the barn’s side door. “Run.”

But before Aric could reach it, the door slammed shut with a deafening bang. Roots burst from the floorboards, twisting up like snakes to block the way.

The woman’s eyes glowed brighter. “You can fight me. But while you do, the others will keep planting. They are already in the next farm over. By the time you see them, it will be too late.”

“The others?” Aric’s voice cracked.

She smiled again. “Dozens. Maybe hundreds, by now. Every harvest, a few more awaken. Soon, this valley will belong to the roots.”

Dharan’s heart pounded. If she was telling the truth, then burning his own land wouldn’t stop it. This was bigger—far bigger—than he’d imagined.

He forced himself to think. They needed information. They needed a way to strike at the Heartseed itself, not just its vines.

“What happens if the Heartseed is destroyed?” he demanded.

Her smile faltered for the first time. “It cannot be destroyed.”

“Everything can be destroyed,” Dharan said, stepping closer, his voice low and fierce. “If it grows, it can die. If it feeds, it can starve.”

The woman’s pupils narrowed to pinpoints. For a moment, Dharan thought she might attack—but instead, she tilted her head again, studying him like a farmer deciding whether a sprout was worth keeping.

“You would make a dangerous caretaker,” she said finally. “And dangerous caretakers rarely live long.”

Before Dharan could react, she stepped back—and melted into the roots behind her. The vines twisted around her like a cocoon, pulling her into the wall until nothing was left but the faint echo of her laughter.

The barn went still.

Aric let out a shaky breath. “Father… she said they’re already in the next farm.”

Dharan turned toward the side door, yanking it open. “Then we don’t have time. We need to see how far this has spread.”

Outside, the fog was thicker, the moon barely a ghost in the sky. The wheat whispered in the wind, but Dharan could hear something else beneath it—a slow, steady thump, like the beating of a massive heart underground.

It was louder now. And it wasn’t just coming from their fields.

It was coming from every direction.