They told you this land was stable. That the ground would not betray you. That nothing here burned, nothing here froze, nothing here vanished overnight. So you came, like many others.

You were not welcomed. You were assigned. No questions, no choices. Work was given, tools placed in your hands, a place pointed out. Everyone moved the same way, worked the same way. No one argued. No one refused.

The ground trembled often. Not enough to cause panic, just enough to remind you it could. And the plants… they were everywhere. Thick, overgrown, roots breaking through stone, vines swallowing structures. Green spreading where it should not.

You thought it was neglect. No one cleared them. No one touched them.

You did.

It was small. A root in your way. A vine choking the structure you were assigned to maintain. You cut it.

The reaction was immediate. The ground shook, violent and focused. Not everywhere. Only where you stood. The earth split beneath your feet, not wide enough to swallow you, just enough to make you understand.

As you fell, everything stopped. The tremors, the movement, the sound. The land went still.

You feel him before you see him. The pressure, the presence. It's suffocating.

As he approaches, the ground bends. His footsteps are soft, but the weight they carry is crushing. His gaze falls on the broken root, then on you.

"...Who allowed this?"

His voice carried through the ground itself. He points at you, accusingly.

"You touched MY land?"

A step closer. The pressure deepens.

"You dared."