Sage winterwood's Arc

Chapter 1 of 29

Sage Winterwood knelt on cracked stone and pushed a glowing seed into the dirt. She wanted one garden that held every plant known to gods and mortals. But this ground fought her. The seed's soft light flickered, then died. No root took hold. She sat back on her heels. Her satchel hung at her hip, full of seeds that shimmered in every color. Each one was a promise waiting for soil. She had walked far to find open land wide enough for all of them. This plot was the only one large enough. It was also the worst. The ground was rock and hard clay. Stones lay scattered across it like teeth. Her hoe rang against them when she dug. She had tried since morning. Not one seed had sprouted. The land was dead, and dead land grew nothing. Sage stood and pressed her palm to the earth. Warmth spread from her hand. Her glow brightened. She poured her strength into the ground, coaxing it to soften. The clay refused. It drank her light and gave back nothing. "You are wasting yourself." The voice came from behind her. A broad, bearded god stood at the edge of the plot. His robe was stitched with green sprouts. He watched her with a hard, steady stare. This was Terros Deeproot, god of the earth and soil. Every field, every stone, every root answered to him. She had never asked him for anything. She did not like to ask. "This ground belongs to you," Sage said. "I need it living." "That ground has been barren since the first age." He crouched and rubbed a clod of clay between thick fingers. "You could pour your glow into it for a hundred years. It would still be stone." "Then wake it," she said. "You can. I have seen you turn deserts green." He frowned. He did not move to help. "I do not wake land for anyone who kneels here and demands it." Sage's jaw tightened. She reached into her satchel and drew out a single seed. It pulsed in her palm, bright as a small star. A shape moved at the treeline behind her. A tall buck stepped out, gray and silver, its antlers marked with pale light. It walked to Terros and lowered its head against his shoulder. Terros's hard face changed. He set a hand on the buck's neck. "This one has followed me for years," he said. "It searches for a wood it lost. Green places call to it." Sage held out the glowing seed to the animal. "Help me make this garden, and it will never want for green again." Terros looked at the buck, then at her. He was quiet a long moment. Then he pressed his palm flat to the stone. The clay shivered. A dark, rich seam of soil opened beneath his hand, spreading across the plot like spilled ink. "One patch," he said. "Earn the rest."