It meant more than drought. It meant the long forgetting. The slow erasure of green from memory, the dust that sifted into every lung and lullaby. Aridi was the season that had no end.
But that morning, something shifted.
The Overseer sent his guards. The guards saw the tree. And one by one, they set down their spears, knelt by the stream, and drank. It meant more than drought
He hid it in his tunic. All day, as he hauled clay jars and ducked the Overseer’s guards, the seed hummed against his ribs. That night, in his lean-to of salvaged canvas, he placed it in a bowl of dust and poured his own drinking ration over it—three mouthfuls of brackish water, saved for three days. Aridi was the season that had no end
The Overseer’s men arrived at dusk. They carried torches and chains. “The water belongs to the Citadel,” their captain said, and his voice was dry as old bones. Kaelen stepped in front of the spring. He had no weapon but the memory of thirst. The guards saw the tree