Chapter 28 – Teeth in the Soil
They didn't speak about it.
Not the roots.
Not the field.
Not the way the bottle had glowed.
At breakfast, Vetch was quiet.
Mero noticed.
But didn't ask.
Sariel just watched them both—sharp-eyed and silent.
Kael didn't explain.
There was nothing to say that would make it less strange.
That morning, Marshal Herin summoned them.
The summons wasn't loud.
Just a knock.
A look.
A turn down the main path.
They followed him to the central hall of Emberfen—what passed for authority here.
Rotten beams held up a sagging roof.
Old scrolls hung from nails that no longer held firm.
There were no guards.
Just Herin.
And one woman waiting near the center fire.
She looked out of place.
Too clean.
Hair braided in three strands across the crown.
Robes like pressed ash.
A ring on each finger, none the same.
Her eyes found Kael instantly.
Then drifted to Vetch.
Then back.
"This is Scribe Varra, from the Gray Division," Herin said.
"She'll be taking your notes.
Don't embellish. Don't withhold."
No one answered.
Varra spoke.
Her voice was soft. Unforced.
Like someone who knew the room would always bend to her words.
"There was movement last night."
She didn't ask.
She stated.
"Someone left quarters. Crossed the ridge path. Returned before dawn."
Her eyes moved to Vetch.
"You?"
"I couldn't sleep," he replied.
"That's not the question."
"I walked. I saw trees. That's all."
Varra didn't press.
She turned to Sariel.
"Has anyone brought you samples of the growth?"
Sariel looked at Kael.
Just a glance.
Then: "Not yet."
Herin grunted. "This village is dying."
Varra turned back to Kael.
"What do you think is happening here?"
Kael didn't look away.
He didn't like her.
Couldn't explain why.
Maybe it was the way she didn't blink.
Maybe it was the way she seemed to already know the answers.
"I think the land changed before the people did," he said.
"Explain."
"The herbs don't rot. They reshape. Chickens stop laying. The plants don't die—they fracture."
"And?"
Kael hesitated.
Then added:
"Something fed them too much of the wrong thing."
There was silence.
Then, for the first time, Varra smiled.
Just a little.
Herin looked like he wanted to say something but didn't.
Varra turned away.
"That will do."
The meeting ended.
Outside the hall, Mero muttered, "I hate her."
Sariel replied, "She's not here to fix anything. She's here to write it down and watch it fail."
Kael didn't speak.
He felt the sample still in his pouch—the small wrapped root he'd taken from the clearing.
It pulsed faintly.
Only when she had looked at him.
That evening, a knock came at the side door.
Not Herin.
Not a disciple.
An old man.
Bent.
Eyes filmy with age, but voice sharp as flint.
Kael opened the door halfway.
"You're the one with the bottle," the old man said.
Kael froze.
The man smiled.
"Don't worry. I'm not here to take it."
"Then why?"
The man stepped closer.
"The roots don't grow. Not really. They eat."
Kael stared at him.
The man leaned in.
"And they remember you."
Then walked away.
Kael didn't follow.
He closed the door.
Locked it.
Sat in the dark for a long time.
Then pulled out the pouch.
The bottle was warm again.
The green had deepened.
Something shimmered beneath it—like gold dust trying to surface.
He didn't open it.
But this time, he didn't put it away either.
He held it.
And waited.