Chapter 16 — Of Trials and Teeth in the Field

Chapter 16 — Of Trials and Teeth in the Field

Morning broke not with birdsong, but with bells.

Not the grand tolls of Farsend's inner citadel, but the smaller, subtler chimes of the Temple of Hearth and Harvest. Four acolytes in robes of bark-brown and moss-green walked the village roads, barefoot, carrying a staff topped with braided roots.

They stopped at the Hargrove farm.

Elira opened the door, brows raised.

"We bring peace and parley," the eldest monk said with a warm bow. "And the soil's call."

Sylas was already in the garden.

🌾 The Temple's Visit

They came with honeyed tones and promises of learning.

"Our Temple does not claim," the monk explained to Sena and Harven. "We listen. And your son, young Sylas, speaks the oldest tongue—through root and bloom. We wish to witness."

Sena's gaze was sharp. "He's a baby."

"Only in years. But not in presence," the monk replied, eyes flicking to where Sylas sat with his hand resting on a gourd vine, which had begun to hum quietly—impossibly—under his touch.

Rem, scribbling in his notebook nearby, mouthed the word: resonance.

Mira stood beside Sylas like a bodyguard. "If you hurt him, the pig will eat you."

They laughed gently, unsure whether it was a joke.

The test began simply. They presented Sylas with a barren pot, sealed with old, dead soil. "Nothing grows here," the monk explained. "Even with magic. It was cursed long ago in war."

Sylas stared.

Then, calmly, he placed one chubby hand over the pot, closed his eyes…

…and the room fell into a hush as the soil cracked open and a single white shoot unfurled.

Gasps.

Even Harven, who had seen things no farmer should, took a step back.

The lead monk bowed deeply.

"You are not simply gifted," he murmured. "You are chosen."

🐗 Fangs in the Field

But peace is never without shadow.

That very afternoon, the orchard wind shifted. Thomar was out sharpening the fence posts when he heard the low rumble—wrong, uneven. Not hooves. Not storm. He called for Rem and Fira to gather the animals.

A moment later, something massive burst from the tree line.

It was a boar, but not any known to man. Taller than a horse, with eyes like cracked garnets and tusks dripping with sap and rot.

"A spirit-warped beast!" Elira shouted as she ran toward the house.

"Protector pigs—NOW!" Fira screamed.

Three of their awakened pigs—Barrel, Grunt, and Sweetleaf—charged forward to intercept.

The spirit boar rammed into Barrel with a sickening crunch, sending him skidding.

Fira screamed, and something inside Sylas broke.

He ran forward, tiny legs pumping, palms glowing green-white.

"Sylas, no!" Thomar yelled—but it was too late.

🌿 Sylas Awakens Something Deeper

Sylas reached the earth—

—and the field bent around him.

Vines exploded from the ground, grasping the beast's legs like living chains. Thorned roots surged up its back, coiling around its spine, slowing its charge to a crawl.

The boar roared, wild and fuming.

Then Sylas—toddler body trembling—screamed.

It wasn't a human sound.

It was something older, something planted into the marrow of this world, and the ground answered.

The spirit beast froze.

A seedling sprouted from its brow, blooming into a white lily. And it… stopped moving.

Dead? No. Returned.

Its body melted into mulch and spores, vanishing into the soil.

👑 Aftermath and Arrival

That night, the village was in uproar.

The Temple monks sat in reverent silence. "He did not just bind a beast," one whispered. "He redeemed it."

Word spread.

By sundown, a gilded carriage pulled by horned deer arrived. From it stepped Lady Varentha, an emissary of the Queen's Green Court.

"We have heard whispers," she said, her voice velvet and steel, "of a boy who commands the land. The Queen wishes to send protection. And… a proposal."

"Proposal?" Elira frowned.

"Not marriage, dear girl. Custody."

Everyone in the room froze.

Mira's mouth dropped open. "You can't take a garden bun."

Sylas just blinked. Then, softly, he raised one hand…

…and every potted plant in the room twisted toward Lady Varentha, their leaves rustling like knives.