Twizzlestix knelt at the edge of the dead field and pressed his palm to the cold soil. Seven years of walking, seven years of brewing root tea for the sick, and still no mountain land, no refuge, no roof for the people he kept alive on the road. He had come here only to refill his water. The lavender, drained to a pale ghost of itself, made him stop. "Not storm-gray," said a quiet voice behind him. "Just nothing." Spritzle stood with their pack still on, eyes shadowed. "I tried six tinctures. None of them touched it." Twizzlestix did not answer. He had seen something between the wilted stalks. A black shape pushed up through the dirt, jagged as broken glass, dusted with small bursts of glowing moss. His breath caught. He had chased rumors of this root for years. One pinch could stretch his blend to feed a whole village of the sick. He wheeled his cart close and lowered the side panel. Jars clinked into their slots. He laid out his cutting cloth, his small scale, his cracked mortar. A pink puffball drifted past his shoulder, trailing glitter, and settled on the cart's awning to watch. Spritzle crouched beside him. "You know what it is." Not a question. Twizzlestix nodded once. "The rarest thing in my blend. Grows where something else has died." He looked at the ruined field, then at Spritzle's tired face. For the first time in seven years, the math changed. One careful harvest. Enough gold to buy the mountain. He set his blade against the root and made the first cut.