Stay with the story as the next chapter reveals what happens next.

The train rattled through the darkness, each mile an iron stake driving me further away from the life I had known. I didn't go to sleep. I kept my hand on the ledger, the compass clicking rhythmically in the seat beside me as if it were tracking something—not north, but down.

I arrived in the small, forgotten town of Oakhaven at dawn. It was a place that didn't exist on most modern maps, a cluster of dilapidated houses and overgrown fields that felt like they were holding their breath. The orchard was ten miles out, nestled in the shadow of the Blackwood Ridge.

When I reached the property line, the air changed. It wasn't the smell of crisp, autumn air anymore. It was the scent of fermentation—intoxicating, heavy, and slightly sweet.

The orchard was alive. The trees were unnaturally thick, their trunks twisting like tortured bodies, their branches clawing at the sky. The apples hung heavy, red as blood, shining with a dark, pulsating light.

I walked to the barn. The old cider press Arthur had built still sat in the corner, covered in a tarp that had turned to grey dust. I pulled the tarp back, and the machinery groaned as if waking from a long sleep.

There was a hidden panel in the side of the press. I used the compass, its needle spinning wildly before stopping and pointing directly at the center of the iron frame. I pressed it into the indentation.

The floor of the barn didn't open. It shifted.

The entire barn pivoted, revealing a staircase leading deep into the earth. It wasn't stone. It was wood—living, pulsating rootwood.

I descended, my heart pounding in my ears. At the bottom was a chamber, circular and vast. In the center sat a fountain. But it wasn't water. It was clear, golden liquid, swirling and glowing.

It was the source.

"You returned," a voice whispered.

I spun around. Standing in the doorway was Hannah.

She wasn't in her wedding dress anymore. She was wearing a simple, dark tunic, her hair matted, her eyes dark and hollow. She looked older, years older, than she had at the wedding just forty-eight hours ago.

"Hannah?" I gasped. "How did you get here? Why are you—"

"I was always here, Mom," she said, her voice devoid of emotion. "You just never looked deep enough. You were too busy being a wife to see that Arthur wasn't a farmer. He was a harvester."

"He was protecting us!"

"He was feeding them," she said, pointing to the fountain. "And now, it’s my turn. The Sovereign Trust isn't an organization. It’s the orchard. It’s the hunger. And you’re the only one left who can sign the deed. Not to transfer the land, but to transfer the responsibility."

"I won't do it."

"You already did," she said, a chilling smile spreading across her face. "When you broke the table, when you left the wedding, you initiated the transfer. You walked away from the human world. You’re ours now."

She reached out, and for the first time, I saw the mark on her arm—a tattoo of an apple tree, its roots wrapping around her bicep, pulsating with the same golden light as the fountain.

"Colton tried to steal it," she said. "He thought he could bribe his way into the harvest. But the orchard doesn't take bribes. It takes sacrifices."

I looked at the ledger, then at the fountain. I realized then that Arthur hadn't died of a heart attack. He had been consumed.

"I'm not your sacrifice, Hannah," I said, lifting the ledger.

"Then you’re the keeper," she said, stepping aside. "The fountain is empty, Mom. And the city is hungry. You need to start the press."

I looked at the golden liquid, the essence of a thousand stolen lives. If I started the press, I would be feeding the city’s despair. If I didn't, the city would collapse into the abyss.

I held the ledger over the fountain. "Arthur wanted to stop it," I whispered. "He didn't want to harvest. He wanted to wither."

"And look what happened to him," she said, her voice a cruel reminder.

I tipped the ledger. Not to drop it, but to read the final page.

If the harvest must continue, let it be of joy, not sorrow. Change the strain.

I reached into the fountain. The liquid was cold, burning cold. I didn't try to stop it. I changed the frequency. I pulled the golden threads of the city—the ones I had seen, the ones I had felt—and I wove them into the fountain.

Hannah screamed as the golden light turned into a brilliant, blinding white.

"What are you doing?" she shrieked.

"I’m ending the debt," I said.