The first rain after the battle fell like tears from the heavens. It washed over Riverstone Hollow, clearing soot from the leaves and blood from the ground. What had been a battlefield only hours ago now glimmered faintly beneath a thin veil of mist.
Ikenna sat by the Mother Tree, his cloak soaked, his eyes half-lidded from exhaustion. The Seed of Equilibrium rested in his palm, dim but alive, glowing faintly with every heartbeat.
Adaeze approached quietly, her boots sinking slightly into the wet earth. "You should be resting," she said, her tone softer than the rain.
"I can't," Ikenna murmured. "The soil's still speaking."
Adaeze glanced around. "All I hear is rain."
He smiled faintly. "That is the soil's voice — it's relieved. It's breathing again."
Adaeze knelt beside him, wringing water from her braid. "You burned through half your strength yesterday. You need food, rest, maybe a week of sleep."
"I can't afford that luxury," he replied. His gaze fixed on the valley below — where villagers worked together, rebuilding fences and replanting seeds. "If I stop, the corruption might return. Orodi's influence lingers in the roots. I can feel it."
Adaeze frowned. "Even after Obinna's fall?"
"Especially after," Ikenna said quietly. "He wasn't the true source. Just another vessel."
A cold wind swept through the hollow, bending the trees. In its wake, Elder Nnadozie appeared, leaning heavily on his staff. The old man's face was etched with fatigue, but his eyes gleamed with cautious hope.
"You've done what no Guardian has in a century," he said, stopping before them. "You saved Riverstone Hollow."
"I didn't save it," Ikenna replied. "I only delayed its death."
Nnadozie chuckled, the sound deep and raspy. "Always humble. That's the mark of one who's truly connected to the soil."
He crouched beside the Mother Tree, pressing a trembling hand to its bark. "Its heart still beats, but weakly. You poured too much of yourself into saving it, boy. The bond runs deeper now than before."
Ikenna looked down at his hands. The veins beneath his skin glowed faintly gold, pulsing in rhythm with the light beneath the tree's bark. "I noticed."
Adaeze's eyes widened. "What do you mean?"
"The more I connect with the soil, the less human I become," Ikenna said softly. "It's not pain anymore — it's like I can feel the roots inside me. Every tremor, every drop of rain."
"Then maybe that's your gift," Adaeze said firmly. "The land doesn't reject you — it accepts you."
Nnadozie's expression darkened. "Acceptance is one thing. Consumption is another."
Ikenna looked up sharply.
"The Spirit of the Soil doesn't give power freely," the elder continued. "Every Guardian chosen by the Heart faces the same test — to serve without losing themselves. Many failed. They became extensions of the land, their will buried beneath its hunger."
Adaeze stiffened. "You're saying he'll… become part of it?"
"If he doesn't learn control," Nnadozie warned.
Ikenna rose slowly, clutching his staff. "Then I'll learn. I won't let the land swallow me. Not while it still needs a voice."
The elder's lips curled into a thin smile. "Spoken like a true Guardian."
That night, the hollow was quiet. The villagers slept beneath newly built shelters, and the scent of wet earth filled the air. But Ikenna couldn't sleep.
He wandered alone through the field, his fingers brushing the young shoots sprouting from the ash. They hummed softly under his touch — a song of rebirth.
He closed his eyes, letting the rhythm of the land merge with his heartbeat.
Then he heard it again.
"Guardian…"
The whisper came not from the ground this time — but from within his chest.
"The roots spread… but the rot spreads faster…"
He staggered slightly, gripping his chest. The Seed pulsed violently in his palm.
"What do you want from me?" he whispered.
"Balance cannot exist where the heart is divided…"
Suddenly, the world around him shifted. The rain froze midair, the air thickened, and the soil beneath him turned to shimmering gold. He found himself standing in a strange, ethereal field — endless and glowing.
A figure rose before him, formed of dust and vines. Its eyes burned green, its voice both gentle and terrifying.
"You wield my power, child of earth," the spirit said. "But your heart trembles with doubt. The balance you seek requires sacrifice."
Ikenna's breath hitched. "What kind of sacrifice?"
The spirit extended a hand. "To restore life to the soil, you must give your own. Only through surrender can the roots remain pure."
"No," Ikenna said, shaking his head. "There has to be another way."
The spirit tilted its head. "There is always another way — but each path has a cost."
The vision flickered. For a heartbeat, the spirit's form twisted — revealing Orodi's shadow grinning beneath its vines.
"You cannot save what you love without burying yourself in it," the voice hissed.
Ikenna jerked backward, gasping as the world snapped back to normal. The rain resumed, and the whisper vanished.
He dropped to his knees, panting, clutching the Seed. Its glow was unstable — flickering between gold and black.
Adaeze appeared moments later, sword drawn. "Ikenna! I felt the surge from the camp—what happened?"
He looked up at her, eyes haunted. "The land spoke again… but this time, I don't think it was just the soil."
Adaeze knelt beside him, steadying his shaking hand. "Then we'll face it together. Whatever's coming."
He met her gaze, the faintest trace of resolve returning to his voice. "We may not have a choice. The balance is shifting faster than we can keep up. And if the spirit's words are true…"
Adaeze's grip tightened. "Then what?"
He exhaled slowly, glancing at the Seed, which pulsed once more. "Then saving the world might mean I won't survive it."
The rain fell harder, and thunder echoed in the distance — a warning from the mountains beyond.
The soil beneath them quivered.
Something ancient was awakening.