Chapter 139 – Seeds of Survival
The road beyond the Hollow stretched quiet under the pale moonlight.
Kael walked at the head of the small party, his cloak drawn close, Umbra a shadow at his heels. Fenrik lumbered beside him, carrying a set of burlap sacks slung across his broad back. Thalos followed in silence, every step of his heavy boots sinking into the soft earth of the forest path.
They carried no banners, no signs of who they were. Only purpose.
The kingdom's farmlands lay less than a day's travel east. Kael knew these lands once supplied wheat and barley to armies, vegetables and herbs to noble tables. Now, their bounty would serve the Hollow.
As they crested a rise, the fields came into view—stretching wide beneath the moon, rows upon rows of crops swaying in the night breeze. Lanterns flickered in the distance where farmsteads clustered, but the fields themselves lay quiet.
Fenrik let out a low whistle. "By the gods… enough to feed a thousand."
"Enough to heal a thousand," Kael corrected softly, his eyes scanning for the patches he sought. He didn't come here for grain alone. He came for the seeds—the beginnings of their own future.
They moved carefully, sticking to the edges of the fields until Kael spotted the first patch: tall stalks crowned with broad green leaves and pale flowers.
"Willowherb," Thalos murmured. "Good for fever."
Kael knelt, drawing a small knife from his belt. He cut stalks quickly, gathering leaves while Fenrik carefully scooped handfuls of seeds into a pouch. Each movement was practiced, efficient. They weren't mere thieves—they were reapers of necessity.
Hours passed in the dark. They found feverfew, valerian root, marigold, and peppermint. Seeds joined seeds, stalks joined stalks. Kael carried a growing weight of life across his shoulders, and with every pouch tied shut, his heart eased a little.
But when they reached the far edge of the fields, the work turned dangerous.
A lantern's glow wavered in the distance. A pair of farmers walked the rows, muttering to one another as they carried hoes across their shoulders. Their voices drifted faint on the wind.
Kael froze, raising a hand. Fenrik and Thalos stopped at once, crouching low.
The farmers drew nearer, the crunch of their boots pressing into the earth. Kael could see their faces now—tired, worn, eyes heavy with long labor. They weren't soldiers. They were simply men trying to live.
His throat tightened. How many like them had already been caught between kingdoms and war? How many had lost as much as he had?
The urge to avoid them warred with the urge to speak, to say that he was not their enemy. But he stayed silent. This was not the time for mercy of the tongue. This was survival for the Hollow.
When the farmers turned at the next row, Kael motioned, and the three slipped away into the night, unseen.
They reached the farthest fields as dawn's light began to break across the horizon. Kael's boots sank into soil that smelled of damp earth and crushed herbs. He bent low, running a hand across a bed of delicate, pale blue blossoms.
"Moonflower," he said softly. "Rare. Good for binding poisons."
He dug carefully, lifting roots with both hands. Fenrik held open a sack, and Kael placed the plants inside as though laying a child to rest. He gathered seeds as well, tucking them into a pouch at his chest.
When at last the sacks bulged with herbs, roots, and seeds, Kael rose to his feet. The horizon glowed with the first fire of the sun.
Thalos eyed the heavy burden across Fenrik's back. "We've enough to plant half the Hollow twice over."
Kael nodded. His gaze lingered on the far-off farmsteads, smoke curling gently from their chimneys. He felt no triumph, only a hollow ache.
"We take only what we must," he said, voice firm. "These seeds will grow in our soil. They will feed our healers, cure our sick. No more begging at the tables of kings."
Fenrik grinned despite the weight on his shoulders. "You sound more like a farmer than a dragon."
Kael gave a low chuckle. "Perhaps that's what the Hollow needs."
With the rising sun at their backs and sacks of survival in their hands, they turned toward home.
And as Kael walked, he thought of Druaka—how she had died when they had no means to save her. His grip on the pouch of seeds tightened. Never again, he vowed silently. Never again would they be powerless.