The fields stretched wide, a golden sea trembling under the dimming light of the setting sun. The traveler’s breath came in shallow gasps as they wove through the narrow dirt path, their thoughts heavy with the elder’s warning: “If you must pass through the fields after dusk, you’ll have to meet the scarecrow. He doesn’t take kindly to strangers… but he may let you through if he thinks you’re worthy.”

Ahead, rising from the crops like a monument forgotten by time, stood a figure draped in patchwork and shadow. Its glowing eyes burned steady, fixed upon the traveler. The figure stood rooted to the spot, yet the air around it thrummed as though the field itself were holding its breath.

“Ho there, stranger,” came a voice that creaked like old wood but carried the sharpness of steel. “What business ‘ave you in my fields at such an hour? Be ye thief, beggar, or summat else entirely?” The scarecrow tilted its head ever so slightly, the motion unnatural, deliberate.

The traveler swallowed hard, gripping their pack. “I’m just passing through,” they stammered, unsure if the scarecrow would even understand them. “No harm meant.”

“No harm, eh?” The figure let out a soft chuckle, the sound dry as rustling straw. “Aye, they all say the same, don’t they? But the land ‘round here’s seen its fair share o’ harm—poor soil trampled, crops stolen, the crows themselves turned from feast to famine. And me? Well, I’m left to set things to rights.”

The traveler dared a step closer, and the scarecrow’s head jerked upright, its glowing gaze locking onto them like a predator’s. “People refer to me as the Hay Man, keeper o’ this here earth. And you, my wayward friend, tread upon it with borrowed grace. So I ask ye plainly: what manner o’ soul stands afore me? One that gives… or one that takes?”

The traveler’s blood ran cold. In Hay Man’s voice was the weight of centuries. Whatever they answered next would shape their fate—be it salvation or doom.