Kael, a young fisherman’s son, was the first to notice. He had lingered by the river to mend a net, his hands moving by moonlight. A ripple on the water—unnatural, too steady. Then another. He looked up and saw them: dark figures slipping between the trees, their curved blades wrapped in cloth to muffle reflections. Their eyes were empty, trained only on the shrine.
As her hand reached for the relic, the ground trembled. From the earth around the shrine rose the roots of the banyan trees—ancient, gnarled, and alive with purpose. They moved not like plants, but like limbs. The Seed’s light flared, and the roots obeyed. bunawar the raid
By the time the Serpents reached the village square, they found no one. The huts stood empty. The paddies were still. The shrine’s door hung open, revealing the Seed—a soft, pulsating orb of amber light—floating above a stone altar. Kael, a young fisherman’s son, was the first to notice