Morning in Emberfen came late.
The sun rose, but the village didn't change.
The fog clung to rooftops. The air remained still. Even the light itself felt thin, as though filtered through something not meant to be touched.
Kael rose with the others.
Mero stretched in silence. Sariel tied her hair back with surgical precision. Vetch—barefoot again—paced the loft three times before settling near the door, gaze flicking like a nervous animal.
A knock broke the quiet.
Three short taps.
Marshal Herin entered without waiting.
"Time to prove you're worth the food."
He led them through narrow lanes and crooked paths until they reached a compound on the village's far side—a thatched hall with hanging roots drying beneath the eaves.
Inside, the smell hit them first.
Rot.
But not of death.
Of growth gone wrong.
A thick sweetness clung to the air, like syrup left too long in the sun.
A woman stood at the center of the room.
Small, bent, wrapped in four layers of wool. Her hair was white but her hands were steady, fingers stained deep green from herbs.
"This is Mother Kethel," Herin said. "Local herb-witch. Been treating the sick longer than most of us have drawn breath."
Kael nodded in greeting.
Mother Kethel didn't respond.
She eyed them each in turn, her gaze pausing on Kael last.
"Too thin," she muttered. "That one's lungs won't last a season."
"Not here to live long," Kael replied.
Her mouth curled upward. Almost a smile.
She led them into the back room.
Bundles of dried flowers hung overhead, all wilting in the same way: petals too soft, leaves tinged with black around the edges.
Kael knelt near one.
The rot wasn't from blight.
Not entirely.
It was like something inside the plant had resisted blooming—and then ruptured under the strain.
Mero poked a blossom with his knife.
The head popped.
Green ichor oozed out.
Not sap.
Something thicker.
It hissed when it hit the floor.
Mother Kethel sighed.
"That started two moons ago," she said. "First with redroot. Then spread to leafcord, then skyblossom."
"Any signs in animals?" Sariel asked.
"Two goats died foaming. Chickens laid eggs with no yolk. Then stopped laying."
"And people?"
Mother Kethel didn't answer.
They walked the outer fields next.
The sun had risen high by then, but no heat followed it.
The grass didn't sway.
The soil looked dry but felt damp underfoot, like a sponge soaked in something thick.
They passed a well.
It had been filled in with stones.
Kael noticed the way Mother Kethel's eyes avoided it.
By the time they returned to the loft, Sariel was muttering under her breath, running inventory against what she saw.
Mero dropped onto his mat and stared at the ceiling.
Kael sat near the window, staring out over the fields.
The pouch at his side felt heavier.
He drew it into his lap and touched the edge of the bottle without unwrapping it.
It pulsed once.
Faint.
Not alarm.
Not invitation.
Recognition.
The same way a wild dog might sniff the air and go still.
Something out there echoed what was inside this thing.
Just for a moment.
Then gone.
That night, Kael couldn't sleep.
Not from fear.
From knowing.
Knowing that whatever was rotting this place…
It wasn't just disease.
It wasn't just misfortune.
Someone—or something—had changed the soil on purpose.
And it had started long before they ever arrived.