When Malachar left the Ashlands on the back of his fiery hell steed, he immediately felt how different it was. He felt the moment he crossed the border and the sensation was deeply uncomfortable.The air felt lighter, less oppressive. The sunlight seemed stronger and warmer. Green grass soon began to grow in fields that weren't choked by ash, bones, and curses. When he saw a dandelion growing in a field, he knew things were different.

  Pathetic, he thought. I can raise armies but I can't grow a potato. I can summon poison-belching geysers but I can't grow a dandelion like that one.

  He let the perpetual sunshine warm his head and shoulders and sighed. “Perhaps the land itself is the problem,” he said to no one. But the land was his land. And his land would obey, regardless of how different his commands were now.

  No wonder he had assaulted the kingdom of Everdawn so aggressively in the past. Everything was so alive here. He reminded himself that he was not on the warpath today. He was going into Goldengrove to buy seeds and supplies, not to ransack and raze. When he crested a gentle hill, he knew he was near his destination. The trees that surrounded the town were tipped with golden leaves, as if the entire environment was mocking the Ashlands merely with how verdant it was. It even had a cobblestone path leading through the vibrant woods and to the town. How cozy.

  He dismissed his infernal mount, choosing to not draw attention to himself when he walked into Goldengrove. The Ash King didn't think the populace of a small, idyllic town could handle the sight of a demonic horse. Not right now, at least. As he walked closer, he smelled woodsmoke and baking bread. He heard the ring of market bells, the sound of laughter and the wishes of good morning. And then, after venturing past the bend of the trail, he saw Goldengrove.

  A collection of quaint buildings sat at the center of the town where a splendid fountain burbled. The cobblestone path turned into four different routes though to where they led, Malachar didn't know. He was too busy observing the crowds of people who were smiling. Smiling. And greeting each other while hurrying through the streets. They looked healthy. Clean. And all were undeniably happy.

  Elderly people went about their business in their content, unhurried way. Merchants cried out their wares from within their shops or kiosks. Children ran through the streets, shouting with joy. Men and women bought bread, rolls, buns, muffins, cupcakes, donuts, other pastries he didn't even know the names of along with herbs, spices, fresh meat and fish, and flowers. Flowers! For what purpose could flowers serve? And why were they wilting?

  Oh. Wait. It was him. His presence was causing the blooms to wither and die. The Ash King coughed and dismissed his deathly aura. It was useful for keeping hell steeds in check. It wasn't useful for a bright market day in a cozy village. He shook his head, terribly embarrassed.

  “Mama! That man looks like a funeral!” one little boy cried out, pointing at Malachar.

  “Hush, Jeremy, you're being rude,” a hurried-looking woman said. She turned to Malachar, her eyes going wide with the sheer size of him. But she soon collected herself and nodded.

  “I am so sorry,” she said, only clutching her skirts slightly. “You know how kids are. Are you from around here? What's your name?”

  “I am Eli,” Malachar said, trying out the simple name again. Perhaps if he used it enough, it would get more comfortable.

  “Eli! Good to meet you!,” she said. “I'm Sally and this is my son Jeremy. I don't think I've seen you here in Goldengrove before.”

  “I have not been here before,” Malachar said. He reminded himself to be polite and gentle. He was speaking with a mortal. He had to appear mortal, too.

  “Oh! Well, then, welcome to Goldengrove!” the woman said. “Where do you come from?”

  He pointed behind him. “To the west. I have a farm, but I need to buy seeds.”

  “You have a farm? To the west? How far west?” she asked in a voice that grew higher with increased terror.

  “Far enough west to know how to be careful,” he said. “But far enough away to be wary of the ash.”

  The woman's grimace turned into a forced smile. “I'm sure you have to be on the lookout for a lot of things. It's good that someone is developing the land closer to...well, you know.” She didn't even want to say the name of his kingdom, he realized.

  “If you could point me in the direction of your seed seller, I will be out of your way,” Malachar, now Eli, said.

  She pointed toward a building further down the street, eager to be rid of him. “If you go to Garrett's Greenery, you'll find everything you need there.”

  “Thank you,” he said.

  The woman was about to reply, but her son inexplicably began to cry in great, racking sobs. She gave Malachar a quick, apologetic look before hustling him away. “Jeremy, what's wrong with you?” he heard her ask her son.

  “He's gonna break the sun! He's gonna break the sun!” he wailed before he was dragged into a nearby building.

  Malachar watched them enter the building, a bakery from the looks of it, and then he noticed everyone was staring at him, as though he, personally, had made the child cry. A brisk walk was his best friend, he decided, and he began heading in the direction Sally had pointed to him. As though his movement broke the spell, the townspeople resumed their activities. But, Malachar noticed, they were all shuffling away from him as politely and as quickly as possible.

  A far different reaction than what I'm used to, he thought. Normally, they just scream and burn.

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  With that, he entered Garrett's Greenery. The door's bell jangled when he opened it and he was met with the smell of fresh rosemary, basil, oregano, and herbs he couldn't name. He saw shelves and shelves of small potted plants of all shapes and sizes, each one sitting by windows that let in the full light of day. Bags of soil and mulch sat piled up in rows on the floor. Shiny new tools hung on racks and Malachar suddenly found himself wondering if he needed pruning shears. Or a trowel. Or a hoe. He shouldn't refit all his weapons and armor into farming tools, after all. He should leave some as they were. Just in case he needed to slay some raiders who didn't know any better.

  The old man behind the counter looked like he had just sat down on the stool for a rest. He wore worn dungarees and his long white hair was tied neatly into a ponytail, but the dirt under his fingernails spoke of his profession. He sipped at a steaming cup full of something fragrant and nodded at Malachar.

  “Hey, fella. I'm Garrett. Just let me know if there's anything I can do to help,” he said. Though he looked directly at the Ash King, he didn't seem to be frightened in the least. His pale blue eyes had the look of someone who had seen much in his many years.

  “ I am Eli. I have come for seeds,” Malachar said like it was a declaration of war.

  The man's bushy eyebrows raised but he remained seated. “Gettin a head start on the spring plantin, are ya? That's always a good idea. Did Daniel send ya? You tell that old coot to just come himself.”

  The dark lord glowered. “Daniel did not send me.”

  Garrett remained unperturbed. He stirred a bit of sugar into his cup. “Oh, he didn't?”

  “I tend to my own field,” Malachar said.

  The old man didn't react to the dark lord's deep, rumbling baritone. “Is that so? I haven't heard of any new farms around here. You gotta be between Daniel and Berrylane Farms.”

  “I am further west,” Malachar said.

  Garrett shook his head in disbelief. “Are you sayin you're in the Ashlands?”

  “Yes,” Malachar said.

  The old man let out a noise of admiration. “You're braver than most. A lot of folks can't handle all the ash. Or the monsters. Or how weird the sun gets when you cross the border. Still, someone needs to try. The land ain't dead. Not exactly. What are you plantin?”

  “Terro,” Malachar said. He prepared to explain what terro was but the grin on Garrett's face said he already knew full well what he was talking about.

  “Yeah? Those ugly things? Dunno how you can stand the screaming but they're tasty,” Garrett said. “They should be about ready to harvest if you got them in the ground before winter. How are they holding up?”

  The Ash King frowned. He was partly relieved to not waste any further time on the shocking news of his farm's location, but he was irritated by how familiar the merchant’s tone was. He took a breath to remind himself that he wasn't a king. Not here. “Part of the field grew overnight after a blood rain. The potatoes grew to their full size so I harvested them and stored them. But the next day, they had rotted away into a black, sticky sludge.”

  The old man grunted and ran a hand over his face, waiting for Malachar to continue.

  “The rest of the field slowly withered and died,” the dark lord finished. “I don't understand. I did everything right. I weeded them. I watered them. I did everything I could for them but they utterly failed. They all died and there was nothing I could do about it.”

  Garrett took a long sip of his beverage, letting out more sounds of commiseration. “Ayup. We all been there. Damn shame.”

  Malachar slammed a clenched fist onto the counter. “Tell me! What did I do wrong?”

  Instead of begging for his life, Garrett just chuckled. “You didn't do anything wrong! Sometimes your crop just fails. If you ask me, it sounds like the blood rain burned up your taters.”

  “Burned them up?” Malachar asked.

  “Yup, yup. Burned em right up,” Garrett continued. “You see, you can provide too much of a good thing to your farm. Sure, you're thinkin, “Blood rain! That's gotta be givin my crops lots and lots of nutrients!”. But it caused one part of your field to grow way too fast and shocked your other part so much, all those terro died.”

  Malachar sighed. “What do I do now?”

  “That's easy,” Garrett said with a laugh. “You get back to work!”

  It took all of Malachar's willpower to not utterly destroy the man with one spell. Instead, he considered Garrett's words. “Yes. You are correct,” he said finally. “What seeds do you advise?”

  Garrett finished off his cup and stood, his head barely meeting Malachar's chest. “Well, you done said it yourself. You're looking for hardy! And you just happen to be in luck, son! You're gonna want spinach, kale, peas, and broccoli. Oh, and turnips! You have to have turnips. And you can't have early spring planting without carrots. And onions. And potatoes, too. I'm talkin regular potatoes, not your terro. How big is your farm?”

  Malachar had to think for a moment after the barrage of vegetable recommendations. “An acre.”

  “An acre?” Garrett hooted with laughter. “Oh, you've got room to grow. But you're doing it the right way. Don't do too much all at once.”

  The old man sorted through drawers, shelves, and boxes until produced eight small paper bags. With a deft hand, he labeled each one and wrote instructions on how much space each vegetable needed. Then he filled each bag with the correct seeds, taking care not to mix them up.

  “There! That should do you!” Garrett said, placing the full bags on the counter.

  “Thank you for your assistance,” Malachar said, remembering the ritual of commerce. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a gnarled, mummified hand. Two of its fingers were curled up against its palm, but the other three pointed outwards. “Take this. When death finally comes for you, you will have three reprieves from its cold, relentless embrace. Use it well.”

  Garrett stared at the grisly relic until he finally broke down in hooting laughter. “That's a good one! No, son, take your wrinkled old monkey hand off my counter. I'll need twenty-three silvers.”

  Silvers. Coin. Money. The dark lord couldn't remember the last time he utilized such things. Working unseen magic, he reached into his cloak, accessed his necrotic shadow realm and found a pouch of money. He put it on the counter and fished out the correct amount of money with a careful hand. But something was wrong. Garrett hadn't moved to take the coins.

  “The transaction is complete,” Malachar said.

  Garrett's mouth hung open. “Son, where did these coins come from?”

  Malachar couldn't remember the name of the kingdom he had crushed. “This is silver. Will it not serve your purpose?”

  “No, it's...just...” Garrett held up one of the coins in the light. “I ain't never seen something like this. Why's it got a skull, a sword, and a dragon on one side? And what's with this stain? Is that...is that bloo...”

  “Will it not serve your purpose?” Malachar asked again, harder now.

  “Yes. It'll do just fine,” Garrett said, pocketing the coins.

  “Then I will take my leave. Thank you for your assistance.”

  Malachar took his tiny bags of seeds and turned to leave the shop, but Garrett called out. “Eli! Can an old man give you some passin advice?”

  The dark lord turned. “You may.”

  Garrett smiled. “Land needs rest. You can't force life to happen.”

  The words shook the dark lord deep in his core. He stared at the old man as he sat back down on his stool. Who was this venerable sage? Was he a wizard?

  “I will heed your words, Garrett. May your days be many and your woes few.” Then, before the shopkeeper could respond, Malachar left his shop.