The wind carried the faint scent of ripe fruit as Aiden stepped cautiously through the orchard's shadowed paths. Dappled light filtered through the heavy branches overhead, and with every crunch of his boots on the earth, tension coiled tighter in his chest. He wasn't alone here—he knew that much.
Since dawn, rumors had spread of a new Warden arriving in the province. A figure cloaked in obscurity, whose presence was as much myth as fact. Some said he could reap the soul of a fruit just as easily as he could pluck it from a branch. Aiden clenched his fists. That was no ordinary folklore anymore. He had seen what remained of the southern groves: trees wilted black, their fruit petrified and hollow.
He reached the heart of the orchard, where the oldest tree—a gnarled titan called the Mother Vine—stood in solemn defiance of time. Its thick roots knotted above the soil like ancient veins. Beneath its boughs, a figure stood.
Cloaked in deep indigo, with a wide-brimmed hat shadowing his face, the stranger turned slowly toward Aiden. A glint of silver—a curved sickle—hung at his belt.
"I wondered when you would come," the man spoke, voice low and deliberate.
Aiden squared his shoulders, though unease prickled at his spine. "If you're the Warden, you've brought blight to these lands. I won't let you take another orchard."
A flicker of something passed over the man's face—amusement or pity, Aiden couldn't tell. He stepped closer, boots barely disturbing the moss underfoot.
"You misunderstand," the Warden said. "I don't bring ruin. I collect what's already dead." His gaze drifted to the Mother Vine. "This tree has stood for nearly four centuries. Do you know how many seasons it has endured? How many lives it has fed?"
Aiden's jaw clenched. "Plenty more, if you'd leave it be."
The Warden's hand rested lightly on the sickle's handle. He didn't draw it; he didn't need to. His presence alone exuded authority, as if the very orchard bowed beneath unseen pressure.
"Everything has its cycle," the Warden said quietly. "The Mother Vine has reached hers. If I do not intervene, the decay will spread unchecked, consuming healthy roots and soil alike. My role is mercy, not malice."
Aiden faltered. Doubt gnawed at the edges of his conviction. He had grown up under the shade of these trees. He knew their fruit, their rhythms. He also knew sickness when he saw it. Even now, subtle cracks marred the bark, and the leaves bore a yellow tinge.
"I can heal it," Aiden said, though his voice lacked its earlier steel. "I have before."
"Perhaps," the Warden allowed, inclining his head. "But would you heal it for a season or two, delaying the inevitable? Or would you prolong its suffering out of sentiment?"
Aiden's breath caught. His mind raced, grappling with memories of other orchards, other times he had fought blight with stubborn resolve—and lost.
The Warden took one more step forward. Now, Aiden could see his eyes beneath the brim: grey, calm, patient as stone.
"Sometimes," the Warden murmured, "to preserve the whole, we must let part of it go."
A heavy silence settled between them, broken only by the faint rustle of the wind and the creak of ancient branches. Slowly, reluctantly, Aiden's fists unclenched. His shoulders sagged.
"I don't like it," he muttered.
"Neither do I," the Warden replied, almost gently. He unsheathed the sickle with a smooth motion. The blade shimmered faintly, not with menace but with quiet finality.
As the Warden approached the Mother Vine, Aiden stepped aside. He pressed a hand to the rough bark in silent farewell. The tree seemed to sigh under his touch.
With precise movements, the Warden circled the trunk, tracing unseen patterns in the air with the sickle's tip. A soft, melodic hum resonated through the grove—like an old song fading into dusk.
The leaves quivered. One by one, they fell, drifting slowly to the ground like golden tears. The bark smoothed, cracks sealing as if soothed by unseen balm. The air thickened with the fragrance of overripe fruit.
When it was done, the Mother Vine stood still and bare, yet peaceful. Its roots no longer strained, its trunk no longer sagged. Aiden exhaled, the tight knot in his chest loosening.
The Warden sheathed his sickle and turned. "This orchard will thrive again," he said. "But it needed to let go."
Aiden nodded slowly. "I understand now."
Without another word, the Warden stepped into the shadows of the grove and disappeared as silently as he had arrived. Alone beneath the quiet branches, Aiden bowed his head.
Tomorrow, he would begin anew.