The villagers buried the rot like it was a curse.
They said prayers. Burned sage. Drenched the soil in holy water. The cleric blessed the land four times, then fainted from overexertion.
By the next sunrise, things seemed to calm. For now.
But not for Xerces.
Not with Mira watching him with growing intensity.
They still met each afternoon by the stream. She still brought fruit, still spoke of village life, still teased him—but her eyes were no longer innocent. They were searching.
"Whatever you did in the field," she said on the third day after the wretch's death, "thank you."
He gave a slow nod. "I only did what was necessary."
"Still…" She trailed off, then studied his face. "It's strange. You always seem to know what to do. But never explain how."
He tried to smile. "I've been accused of worse things."
Her gaze lingered, then softened.
"You're not bad, Cerric," she said. "But you're not telling me the truth either. I can feel it."
He almost replied. Almost peeled back the illusion. But the moment passed.
And in that silence, the seeds of doubt were planted.
That night, it came again.
This time, the Darkling Wretch didn't burrow. It emerged. Bold. Hungry.
At the edge of the village fields, just past the scarecrows, it rose from the soil like vomited shadow—sleek and serpentine, with legs like broken swords and a mouth lined with whispering tongues.
It screeched into the night sky and devoured the crop in one breath—wheat shriveling black as if swallowed by a vacuum. A quarter of the year's harvest gone in seconds.
By the time Xerces reached the field, his mask already straining, the creature had disappeared into the roots once more.
Villagers stood wide-eyed in horror. Kallan pointed a shaking finger toward him.
"There! He's here again! Always here when it happens!"
Xerces stiffened. "I heard the cries and came to—"
"To what? Finish the job?" shouted someone else. "We don't know who you are, stranger!"
"He walks at night," an old woman murmured.
"Never eats."
"I've seen his shadow twist wrong…"
It built fast—panic is a spark, and fear is kindling. In moments, a dozen eyes bore into him.
Mira stepped forward, face torn between defense and uncertainty.
"He's saved us once already," she said. "This doesn't make sense."
But they weren't listening.
Cerric—the wanderer, the monk, the strange man who spoke too little and blinked too rarely—had become a symbol of unease.
They didn't drag him. Not yet.
But they told him not to return to the fields.
They told him to stay on the far side of the village.
They watched him now. Always.
And Mira—she watched him, too.
But not with fear.
With something deeper. Something mixed with confusion, betrayal… and hope.
That night, alone in the barn, Xerces stared at his hands.
The soul-node he'd gained from the last wretch still glowed faintly, like a coal under his ribcage. He was stronger now. But no closer to belonging.
He had tried to blend in.
He had tried to act alive.
But the living had always been quick to cast stones when crops withered and monsters called.
He looked out the barn's window toward the village, where warm lights flickered behind drawn curtains.
And in the woods, far beyond sight—something laughed in a language only the dead could hear