Chapter 3: Farming Miracle

Tarin wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of a dirt-stained hand.

Another day. Another empty sky.

He stood at the edge of his parched field, the earth beneath his boots cracked and brittle, rows of withered stalks bending in submission. His mouth was dry, and so was the well—every day he had to walk farther to fetch what little water he could carry.

Behind him, the cottage sat quiet. His wife and son were inside, probably asleep by now, but Tarin hadn't gone in yet. He didn't want them to see him like this, not when his hands were shaking.

The boy had been asking questions at supper, innocent ones that felt like knives.

"Papa, will there be bread tomorrow?"

"Papa, when will the rains come back?"

And he'd smiled, lied through his teeth, and told him, "Soon."

He prayed that it was true.

He gripped the fence post until his knuckles ached. If it didn't rain soon, there'd be nothing left to lie about.

And what then? Watch his son starve? Watch his wife waste away with nothing left to cook?

He couldn't let that happen. Not to them. Not again.

He'd already traded the last of their smoked fish for grain, sold his spare tools to neighbors, and even slaughtered one of the goats for meat. If the rains didn't come soon, there'd be nothing left to sell—nothing left to eat.

So Tarin clasped his calloused hands together, knelt in the dirt, and pressed his forehead to the ground.

He hated begging. Hated the way it made him feel small, useless, like a man waiting on a miracle instead of working for one.

But what else was left?

"Great Halven, Lord of the Harvest," he murmured, voice hoarse from both work and desperation. "Please. I've given every offering I can. My stores are empty. My neighbors are hungry. My boy is hungry. If I have failed you, tell me, please, I will make it right, just send the rain!"

The field was silent, save for the chirp of crickets.

Tarin stayed there a moment longer, letting the prayer hang in the air, before sitting back on his heels with a sigh.

Maybe Halven wasn't listening.

Or maybe there were too many prayers and not enough gods to go around.

He was just about to stand when the air shifted.

It was subtle at first, the stillness deepened, and the crickets stopped chirping as if holding their breath. The hairs on the back of Tarin's neck rose.

He glanced up and froze.

A single black petal drifted down from the empty sky, twisting lazily until it landed in the dust in front of him.

Tarin's heart stuttered.

Another petal fell. And another.

Before his eyes, the ground where the first petal landed darkened, the dirt turning rich and wet. A flower bloomed there, black as midnight, its petals sharp-edged and gleaming as if carved from obsidian.

Then another bloomed beside it. And another.

Within moments, a ring of them had formed around him, perfectly spaced, perfectly silent.

Tarin scrambled back, his breath caught somewhere between terror and awe.

"Halven?"

The wind rose suddenly, carrying the smell of wet earth.

And then—the sky opened.

Rain poured down in silver sheets, soaking the field, soaking Tarin, plastering his hair to his face. He let out a wild, broken laugh, half relief, half disbelief, as he stumbled to his feet.

The ground drank greedily, the cracks filling with water. The withered stalks trembled as if shivering back to life.

Tarin could barely breathe. His mouth moved, but no words came—just a raw sound, half-sob, half-laughter.

He staggered back a step, wiping water from his eyes with shaking hands.

Was this real? Was he dreaming?

It was a miracle.

Tarin tilted his head back, rain running down his face like tears. He thought of his wife waking to the sound of rain on the roof, of his son running outside barefoot, shouting with delight as puddles formed. He thought of the neighbors, of their hungry faces, of the old woman down the road who had been rationing her bread so the children wouldn't starve.

This wasn't just for him.

This would save them all.

Tarin raised his arms to the sky. "Thank you! Thank you!" he shouted over the roar of the rain, not caring who heard him.

Then he caught sight of the flowers again.

They hadn't washed away.

Even as mud formed around them, they stood tall, the rain beading and rolling off their waxy petals as though the water didn't dare touch them.

They pulsed.

Faintly.

Tarin shivered.

This didn't feel like Halven's work.

Halven's miracles were golden light, warm winds, and the gentle breaking of clouds. Yet... did it matter? It had answered him when no one else would.

The rain began to slow, turning to a soft drizzle.

Tarin sank to his knees in the mud, staring at the black flowers.

"Whoever you are," he whispered, "I'll remember this. My family will remember this."

He stayed there for a long time, long after the last drop fell, until the night came and the stars wheeled overhead.

Far off, he thought he saw lantern light from the neighbors' windows. A door opening. A shout.

The whole valley would know by morning.

The flowers never stopped their pulsing.