Elarion Shattered

The soil was warm beneath Jalen's fingertips—warmer than it should have been.

He didn't wear gloves. Gloves dulled the feel of the roots, and the roots—he'd learned—were sensitive. Not like people. Not in ways that could be explained. But they noticed.

If they didn't like you, they wouldn't grow.

He didn't remember who told him that. Maybe no one had.

Perhaps it was something the land had taught him, slow and steady, over seasons that didn't care for names.

The plants always grew stronger near him. No one said it aloud, but they noticed. Gilbert always said the land had its favorites.

He shifted his weight and moved to the next row. His fingers curled through the weeds, pulling slow and even, careful not to break the shallow threads underneath. It was all rhythm now—quiet motion built on memory and patience.

Behind him, the field stretched green and steady—a good patch. Clean yield. Enough to keep the guild contract valid. Enough to avoid the cities and the stories they brought with them—monsters and Memory drops and broken adventurers bragging about stats.

Here, things still grew. Slowly. Properly.

Usually.

The breeze faded near midday. The kind of stillness that didn't make sense in summer. No birds. No crickets. Even the frogs by the stream were quiet.

He stood up slowly, wiping his palms on the legs of his trousers. His gaze drifted toward the edge of the property, past the last row of barley and the thicket of blackroot vines.

Beyond that, the grove rose in gentle folds toward the southern hill.

The land near that slope always grew slower. It wasn't bad soil—just stubborn. He didn't go that way often.

But today, the air pointed there.

He didn't move. Just watched the line where the green began to lose color. The trees beyond swayed faintly in a wind he couldn't feel.

The hairs on his arms rose. Not from cold. From the kind of pressure that made people quiet without knowing why.

He passed through the village on his way to the well.

Bramble Hollow was quiet in its usual way—just busy enough to remind you others existed, just small enough to avoid them if you needed to.

He liked that balance. People knew his name.

Plus, they didn't expect much more.

Old man Reddle was sitting near the kiln again, peeling apples with a blade far too sharp for the job. Two children darted between barrels across the square, chasing each other with sticks. One of them nearly ran into Jalen, but she veered off at the last second and laughed like she'd won something.

He nodded to the baker's wife, but she didn't look up.

From across the street, he saw Gilbert hauling a crate toward the shed. The old man's stride was slower than it used to be, but still solid. Jalen almost waved—almost. But Gilbert was already turning, calling something to someone inside. The moment passed.

Gilbert had never asked to be anyone's father. But he never let Jalen starve. Never let him drift. Not really.

So Jalen just watched. Let the silence stretch. Then kept walking.

He filled the pail and started back. The streets felt duller than they should have. It was like everything was going through the motions. Like the world had forgotten it was supposed to feel alive.

So he didn't linger.

That evening, he carted three bundles to the drop post. Tied them with rough twine and stamped the tags twice, as always. No one was watching, but habit had its own kind of rhythm.

He made stew. Ate it. Washed the pot in cold well water. Stared at the steam rising from his hands. All while he tried not to think about the grove.

About how the wind had stopped and how the soil under his hands had held its warmth too long.

He watched the sun disappear behind the ridge and waited for the frogs to sing again.

Yet they never did.

It rained that night.

He woke to the sound of it—a soft, steady tapping against the roof of the loft. He didn't remember falling asleep. But the rain brought him back like a whisper pressed into his ears.

He lay still beneath the thin blanket, staring at the ceiling beams above.

The world felt thinner.

As if something had peeled back while he slept, leaving only skin and quiet beneath it.

He got up.

Outside, the grass was slick. The air was clean, yet not empty, as if something had been cleared away.

He stepped carefully along the edge of the field. No squish beneath his boots. Just soaked soil that held firm. Too firm.

He followed the perimeter through the mist until the trees opened around the southern rise.

And there, where the grove touched the base of the hill, the land had changed.

A small mound—barely a swell—had broken through the surface. Not collapsed. Not dug. Just lifted. Like something underneath had tried to stand and then thought better of it.

He crouched low, ran his hand across the edge.

Damp. Dense. Still warm.

But it wasn't the warmth that stayed with him.

It was the stillness beneath it.

The same kind of pause he'd felt earlier— a held breath in the belly of the earth.

He waited. Not expecting anything. But hoping, maybe, the land would speak.

It didn't.

No glyphs appeared. No quests blinked into view.

No System.

Just the sound of rain on the canopy and the press of something unseen, curling beneath the soil like a thought not ready to be remembered.

He stood, slow and quiet.

Behind him, the mound didn't move.

But it didn't settle either.

He walked back through the grove as the rain slowed, boots leaving shallow impressions in the softened dirt.

By the time he reached the fence line, the clouds had thinned, letting pale light filter down through the mist. Birds chirped again—hesitant, brief. One call. Then quiet.

The silence didn't return.

But it didn't leave either.

That night, sleep came slow.

And somewhere in the back of his mind, Jalen kept thinking of the warmth in the earth.

Not the heat of sun-warmed soil.

Something deeper.

Like breath.