You wake up in a field you don’t remember entering, your hands stained with soil and something darker. The air is thick with the scent of rotting grain and iron. Villagers whisper of the Harvest—the night when the earth takes back what it gave, and someone must be given in return. This year, your name was drawn. But you didn’t die. You woke up… changed. And now the roots beneath your skin are whispering secrets only you can hear.