The sun had barely dipped below the horizon when I felt it—the air thickening, shadows pooling in the corners of the field like spilled ink. I was sitting cross-legged between the radish rows, silver hair loose and catching the last crimson light, fingers buried in soil as I coaxed a new batch of tomato vines to stretch higher. The plants hummed happily in my mind, content and greedy for more essence.
Then everything went quiet.
Too quiet.
The whispers stopped. Even the wind held its breath.
I looked up.
A figure stood at the edge of my field—tall, broad-shouldered, cloaked in black that seemed to drink the twilight. Shadows clung to him like living things, writhing gently along the hem of his cloak. His hair was midnight streaked with crimson, falling in sharp waves that framed a face carved from marble and menace. Eyes the color of storm clouds after lightning met mine, and something inside me tightened.
Crown Prince Kael Nocturne.
I'd heard the stories even before the Cataclysm: the fallen empire's heir, cursed with bloodlust that turned battlefields into graveyards. Ruthless. Unyielding. Untouchable.
And now he was here, staring at my humble patch like it was a battlefield he intended to conquer.
I didn't stand. Didn't flinch. Just tilted my head and let a small, lazy smile curve my lips.
"Lost your way, Your Highness?" My voice carried across the silent field, light and mocking. "The palace is that direction. This is just dirt."
He didn't smile back. He simply stepped forward—slow, deliberate—until he stood at the very edge of my rows. The shadows around him rippled, testing the boundary, then retreated as if burned.
"I smelled something… interesting," he said. His voice was low, velvet over steel, the kind that made throats go dry. "Power. Fresh. Unclaimed."
His gaze dropped to the glowing tomatoes hanging heavy on the vines. Then to the radishes pulsing softly at my feet. Then back to me.
"You."
I laughed, soft and sharp. "Flattery won't get you free produce."
One crimson brow arched. "I don't flatter. I take."
He reached out, long fingers brushing the nearest tomato. The moment he touched it, the fruit flared—bright, warning green. The vine twitched like a startled snake, thorns of light sprouting along its length.
Kael froze.
Then he withdrew his hand slowly, eyes narrowing with something dangerously close to fascination.
"Curious," he murmured. "It bit back."
I rose at last, brushing dirt from my palms, silver hair swaying as I closed the distance between us. Close enough now to smell him—iron, smoke, and something darker, like rain-soaked earth after a slaughter.
"It does that to thieves," I said sweetly. "You should try asking nicely."
For a heartbeat, the air between us crackled. Not with essence. With something heavier. Hungrier.
His lips twitched—almost a smile, almost a snarl. "Asking is for the weak."
I shrugged. "Then leave empty-handed."
He studied me. Really studied me. Eyes tracing the curve of my jaw, the glow of my hair, the stubborn set of my shoulders. I refused to look away. Let him see the girl who'd just turned a noble into fertilizer with a vegetable.
Finally, he spoke again. "One."
I blinked. "One what?"
He nodded toward the vines. "One strawberry. I heard you grew something… sweeter."
I almost laughed outright. The great Crown Prince, terror of empires, asking for a strawberry like a child at a market stall.
But there was nothing childish in his eyes. Nothing playful. Just raw, obsessive want.
I considered refusing. Then I considered the shadows still coiling at his feet, the faint crimson stain on his cuffs that looked suspiciously like fresh blood, the way the field plants had gone unnaturally still in his presence.
Curiosity won.
I turned, plucked a single strawberry from a hidden cluster I'd coaxed into existence that afternoon—plump, ruby-red, glowing with the faintest threads of divine light.
I held it out.
He didn't take it immediately.
Instead, he stepped closer—too close—until the heat of him pressed against the chill night air. His fingers brushed mine as he accepted the fruit. The contact sent a jolt through me, sharp and electric, like essence meeting shadow.
He brought the strawberry to his lips.
Bit.
His eyes fluttered shut for half a second. A low, involuntary sound escaped his throat—something between a growl and a sigh.
When he opened his eyes again, the storm-gray had darkened to near-black.
"Divine," he whispered.
Then he smiled.
It wasn't kind. It was predatory. Possessive.
He licked a drop of juice from his thumb, gaze never leaving mine.
"I'll be back," he said, voice soft as a promise, dark as a threat. "For more."
I lifted my chin. "Next time, bring payment. Or don't come at all."
He chuckled—low, dangerous—and melted back into the shadows.
One moment he was there.
The next, gone.
Only the faint scent of blood and smoke lingered.
I exhaled slowly, heart hammering against my ribs.
Sprout Quill popped up beside me, voice a scandalized squeak. "Host. He just flirted with you. With a strawberry. And you flirted back!"
I looked down at the field. The plants were whispering again, excited, almost giddy.
*He wants us.*
*He wants you.*
*Plant more. Grow stronger.*
I smiled into the darkness.
"Oh, we will," I murmured.
And somewhere in the night, a prince licked the taste of divinity from his lips and wondered how a farmer had just planted something far more dangerous inside him.
Desire.
The deadliest crop of all.