The Rot in Paradise

  The fields of Mystia stretched endlessly to the horizon, a sea of shimmering silver-blue under Titania’s brilliant sunlight. Through Greta’s eyes, the view never failed to take her breath away—thousands upon thousands of sacred stalks swaying in perfect harmony, their ethereal glow making the entire landscape appear otherworldly.

  She watched her husband, Germaine, standing at the edge of the easternmost field, his imposing seven-foot frame casting sharp shadows over the workers who toiled beneath the morning sun. His silver skin gleamed like burnished metal, refracting light in prismatic patterns that danced across the ground in ways that still fascinated her after all these years.

  His short grey hair was combed back with military precision, and those piercing light-blue eyes surveyed the work with intensity.

  Even in his ceremonial blue robes embroidered with the sigils of High Steward, Germaine didn’t merely observe. Greta had always admired this about him—unlike other titans of high rank, his hands bore the same calluses as the harvesters, thickened from decades of working alongside them rather than simply commanding from above.

  “Careful Torraine,” Germaine called out, his voice carrying across the field with calm authority.

  Greta followed his gaze to the young titan struggling with an overfilled barrow, arms trembling under the weight. She could see the exact moment when understanding clicked in the youth’s mind.

  “Mystia bruises easily,” Germaine continued, approaching to show proper technique, “and bruised stalks lose their potency.”

  Watching him work, Greta felt that familiar mixture of pride and exasperation. Torraine flushed silver—that faint shimmer rippling across his skin that marked embarrassment in their kind—before adjusting his grip with newfound care.

  “Yes, High Steward,” the youth murmured, voice tinged with the reverence that always followed Germaine’s gentle corrections.

  Greta observed as her husband moved through the fields with practiced efficiency, testing stalks, adjusting loading techniques, occasionally lifting entire bundles himself when a barrow threatened to tip.

  She knew the weight of Mystia better than most because each stalk was heavy as a boulder, and its divine nature prevented mortals from stealing or cultivating them, lest they be lured to the prospect of immortality. The harvest wasn’t merely labor; it was a ritual, a sacred duty that required participation from the entire community.

  As she watched, Germaine reached out to run his fingers along a stalk. Even from her distance, Greta could see him feeling for that subtle pulse of energy beneath the husk. The Mystia resembled terrestrial corn in structure but grew nearly twice as tall, its pale blue stalks topped with tassels that glowed like captured moonlight.

  Each plant required a full decade to mature, and the harvesting window was cruelly precise—ten days of peak ripeness, no more, no less. Too early, and the essence within would be weak; too late, and it would sour into uselessness. What made Greta’s blood run cold, however, was what she had witnessed in the western fields that morning—something that should have been impossible. Mystia had never rotted, not once in the century since Titania’s creation.

  The sacred grain was divine, incorruptible. Yet she had seen it with her own eyes: entire sections of the western quadrant turned to blackened, putrid sludge overnight. The stalks hadn’t simply died—they had liquefied, melting into a viscous, foul-smelling substance that seemed to writhe with its own malevolent life.

  The sight had made her retch. The smell—sweet rot mixed with something metallic and wrong—still clung to her nostrils. Most disturbing of all was how the corruption had spread through the soil itself, turning the normally rich, dark earth into something that looked charred and dead, as if fire had burned it from within.

  Satisfied with his inspection, Germaine motioned for a nearby harvester to cut the stalk he’d been examining. A faint luminescence seeped from the cut, dissipating into the air like blessed mist, the way it should be. Greta approached across the field, her footsteps making soft sounds against the earth. Though she stood barely five feet tall—diminutive especially for a titan—she had learned long ago that presence had little to do with physical stature.

  Her silver skin held a softer luster than her husband’s, almost pearlescent under the sun, while her deep blue hair—an uncommon trait among their kind—hung in an elaborate braid adorned with silver beads that clinked softly with each step.

  “There you are,” she called out. “Supervising, as always.”

  Germaine turned, and despite the worry lines that had been etching themselves deeper into his features lately, his mouth twitched upward at the sight of her.

  “Someone must,” he replied.

  From the enormous smile on his face and sparkle in his eyes, she could see the genuine pleasure he took from doing this as he did on.

  “And naturally, that someone must be you,” she said, slipping her arm through his and feeling the familiar comfort of his solid presence.

  “Even though we have perfectly capable overseers who have managed harvests since the realm’s founding.”

  “I know all of us are made of glowing silver but your overseers are more than just decorations” Greta felt the need to remind him

  She felt his arm tense slightly under her touch—that telltale sign he was carrying more weight than he wanted to admit.

  “This isn’t just any crop, Greta,” he said, gesturing toward the departing wagons loaded with their precious cargo. “This is Mystia—the food of immortals, the sustenance that maintains our very existence.”

  “Don’t forget our wine,” Greta said, interjecting

  “Yes, it’s also an essential ingredient in our wine,” Germaine said with half a smile on his face. “Its cultivation cannot be left to chance.”

  “No one suggests it should be,” she replied gently, squeezing his arm in reassurance.

  “But must you inspect every barrow? Count every stalk? Test the ripeness of plants in every quadrant?” She studied his profile, noting the way his jaw remained rigid.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “For all I know you have probably named them all” she added

  “Don’t be ridiculous” Germaine replied

  “I am just saying you take on more than your position demands, you know?.” Greta said

  Germaine reminded her, “That is why I have my job.”

  “I suppose so,” Greta replied

  Her eyes flicked toward the distant western ridge, and her playful tone shifted as dread crept into her voice.

  “Though I expected to find you there today, not here. The western fields were due for inspection, weren’t they?”

  The change in Germaine was immediate and unmistakable. His grip tightened on her arm, and she saw something flicker across his features—something that looked disturbingly like fear.

  “The western quadrant is... unrecoverable,” he said, his voice dropping low enough that the nearby workers couldn’t overhear. “A blight struck at dawn. Blackened the soil down to bedrock. The plants rotted where they stood.”

  “I know I saw it, but I still do not know how?” she admitted. “Mystia doesn’t rot—it’s divine, incorruptible. It’s never—“

  “I know.” The words came out like gravel, and she could see his jaw working as he struggled with something that challenged everything they understood about their world.

  “Do we know what caused it?” she pressed, though part of her didn’t want to hear the answer.

  “The overseers claim its darkness is seeping up from the Underworld,” he said, his voice carrying a skepticism that didn’t quite mask his underlying unease.

  “You don’t believe them?” She asked.

  “The soil’s corruption runs deeper than any natural disease, that I shall admit. But it’s superstition,” he added quickly, as if saying it firmly enough could make it true. “More likely a pest we’ve not encountered before, or an imbalance in the soil’s enchantments. As High steward, I’ll convene a committee to study it. By next season, we’ll purge whatever this is.”

  Greta studied him carefully—the rigid set of his shoulders, the way his eyes avoided the western horizon, the slight tremor in his hands that he probably thought she couldn’t see. She had known him for too long not to recognize when he was trying to convince himself as much as her.

  Liar,

  She thought, though not unkindly.

  You’re as terrified of those whispers as anyone.

  But aloud, she only nodded.

  “Then I suppose we’ll plant again,” she said firmly. “As we always have.”

  They walked together toward the crystalline pavilion at the field’s edge, where servants had laid out a midday repast with the precision that marked all of Titania’s formal proceedings. As they settled onto the carved stone bench, Greta poured imperial nectar into silver goblets, watching the liquid shimmer underneath the sun.

  Her gaze drifted to the empty dais in the middle of the field—the platform Germaine erected every harvest season hoping King Permeus would grace them with his presence. As usual, it stood vacant, a monument to disappointed expectations.

  “Have you considered,” she began carefully, handing him a goblet, “asking the king to take more interest in the realm’s management this year? Harvesting the Mystia falls under his purview as much as yours.”

  She watched Germaine nearly choke on his nectar and had to suppress a smile at his expression of pure incredulity.

  “Ask King Permeus? To take an interest in agriculture?” He shook his head with bitter amusement. “I might as well ask the wind to blow on command or the rivers to flow upstream.”

  “Dephenus and Aerus are not without some charity,” she pointed out with deliberate mischief.

  “You jest too much, my love,” he replied. She even caught the ghost of a genuine smile.

  “He is our king,” she reminded him.

  “And more than that—he is an Origin. The Origin of Immortality. Surely he understands the importance of the very crop that sustains his own people.”

  She watched her husband’s expression darken like storm clouds gathering on the horizon.

  “King Permeus understands the importance of whatever captures his fancy,” he said, bitterness seeping through his carefully controlled tone.

  “Last month, it was chariot racing. The month before, sonnets for Queen Imara. Before that, reshaping the palace gardens into a maze of her profile.” He took a measured sip of nectar, as if the liquid could wash away his frustration. “And for the last decade, he has been completely infatuated with those blasted crystal shards of his. The same shards made him spend five years away as a resident of another realm.”

  “His attention is as fleeting as morning dew.”

  Greta sighed, though she had expected this response. “You’re too harsh on him. He may be...spirited”

  “Spirited?” Germaine asked sharply.

  “Yes, spirited like a butterfly...a very distracted butterfly” Greta admitted.

  “Do your ramblings have a point?” Germaine asked

  “Yes, regardless of his many follies, he still loves Titania.” she answered

  “Love without responsibility is mere sentiment,” Germaine countered. “And I cannot—will not—command my king to attend his duties. It would be improper.”

  “Improper?” Her voice sharpened despite her efforts to remain calm. “To remind him of his obligations to the realm that depends on him?”

  “He is not just our king, Greta. He is our origin—our creator.” Germaine’s voice dropped to a reverent murmur that she had heard countless times before. “It was King Permeus who shaped us from raw flame, who gave us form and purpose. What right have you or I to dictate how he rules?”

  “The right of someone who actually works,” she replied, reaching out to touch his cheek. “Sounds crazy but it makes a lot of sense.”

  She watched his stern fa?ade waver at her words, saw when his carefully maintained composure threatened to crack.

  “Your faith in me is touching, but misplaced,” he said, though his voice lacked its usual conviction. “The divine hierarchy exists for a reason.”

  “Even when it allows neglect?” The question came out sharper than she intended.

  “Especially then,” he said firmly, straightening his shoulders. “It is not our place to question an Origin. If our king delegates his duties to high steward, then I will fulfill them.”

  “That is the purpose for which I was made... nothing more.”

  Greta studied his face for a long moment, seeing the man she loved disappearing behind the mask of dutiful service he wore like armor.

  “You are too responsible,” she murmured, letting her fingers trace the line of his jaw. “When will you do something for yourself rather than for Permeus?”

  She felt him stiffen under her touch, saw how he couldn’t quite meet her eyes as she asked.

  “I’m simply saying you don’t have to carry the weight of the realm alone,” she continued when he didn’t answer.

  “Someone must,” he replied, the words automatic as breathing.

  “And if not the king, then his steward,” she conceded, resignation coloring her tone. “And if not his steward, then his steward’s wife.”

  A sly smile curved her lips as she delivered her next words.

  “Which is why I’ve already instructed the Northwestern overseers to begin preliminary counts, organized tomorrow’s inspections, and arranged for the metallurgists to repair the silos before the main harvest arrives.”

  Greta watched with satisfaction as her husband’s eyes widened in shock.

  “Your welcome by the way” she added

  “You did what? When?”

  “While you were counting stalks one by one,” she said whilst laughing, delighting in his expression. “What did you think I spent my mornings doing? Arranging flowers and gossiping with Queen Imara?”

  For the first time that day, Germaine laughed—a rich sound that seemed to lighten the very air around them and reminded her why she had fallen in love with him.

  “I should have known better,” he admitted, shaking his head in rueful admiration.

  “Indeed, you should have,” she said, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Now, finish your nectar. We’re visiting the Crystal Falls after this.”

  She watched him hesitate, saw the familiar internal struggle between duty and desire play out across his features.

  “But the northern quadrant—”

  “—is in Overseer Andraine’s capable hands,” she finished firmly. “The realm won’t collapse if you take time for yourself.”

  Germaine still looked skeptical, and she could practically see him mentally cataloging all the tasks that awaited his attention.

  “I promise we’ll be back before midday,” she added, knowing exactly which reassurance he needed to hear.

  After a long pause, he relented. “Very well.”

  As they left the pavilion hand in hand, Greta caught her husband casting one last glance at the fields, and she knew his mind was already turning to tomorrow’s challenges.

  “Do you truly believe the king is attending to something important today?” he muttered.

  Greta’s smile was enigmatic as she considered what she knew of their sovereign’s habits. “I’m certain Permeus considers his current activity vitally important.”

  Germaine sighed, and she heard worlds of weariness in that simple sound. “That’s what worries me.”