Rapid footsteps echoed through the marble hallway of the Verdantia Palace, each strike sharp and urgent. Sunlight streamed through the tall arched windows, draping the stone in soft, golden warmth.
A figure advanced in stride: a young woman of seemingly no more than twenty, petite but radiating an unshakable presence. Her form was slender—so slender that few would think to associate her with the military—yet there was no mistaking the authority in her step. Her features were delicate, almost ethereal, as beautiful as the power within her was formidable. Her hair flowed like a verdant waterfall, long and deep green streaked with threads of gold that caught the light like veins of sunlight piercing a forest canopy.
This was Soleas, Verdantia's youngest and only female general, a prodigy whose rise had been as swift as it was enviable. She carried the blood of the sunflower in her veins and could command the power of solar energy—a vital force on battlegrounds where sunlight is scarce.
Soleas had been summoned to an urgent military meeting. As she walked, her delicate face appeared calm as still water, yet her emerald eyes betrayed the storm within.
What on earth happened at the Council? The thought burned in her. Who could have done this? And why—why now?
———————————
According to the reports Soleas received, the Council had begun as it always did—orderly, ceremonial, cloaked in civility. Each representative had taken their place around the ancient round table. For a moment, nothing seemed out of the ordinary.
The first to speak was the envoy of Cactoria, his voice hot and dry like the winds of his homeland:
"The spring lies nearest to us. It is just across the mountain ridge that divides our desert from Tundria's frost. By right of proximity, it should fall under Cactoria's care."
A sharp scoff cut through the chamber. The Mycarynth representative leaned forward:
"Proximity? Don't make me laugh. Your desert people can hardly endure the cold, let alone scale that mountain and get to the spring. No—if fairness is what this Council is built upon, then by right it is our turn. For three gatherings we have claimed nothing"
Before tempers could flare further, a voice like flowing water washed over the room. The Aquariel emissary spoke, their tone calm, almost melodic:
"There is already quite a number of small streams under our rule crisscrossing Tundria. If we are entrusted with the spring, we could bind these waters together, turning them into one great confluence which can potentially benefit everyone."
Cactoria retorted sharply:
"Oh, come now, spare us the sanctimony. You sit upon rivers and streams and yet none of it flows to us, the desert that thirsts more than anyone else. Besides, what assurance have we that you will not hoard the spring for yourselves—or worse, strike an alliance to build a dam and starve the rest of us?"
A silent tension ensued, broken only by the deliberate clearing of a throat.
All eyes turned to Verdantia's seat.
There sat Thavon, the oldest living diplomat, his figure draped in flowing green robes. His skin was lined like ancient bark, yet his presence filled the chamber like the canopy of a vast forest. It was said that his blood carried the power of the Banyan, and with it, a lifespan that had stretched beyond a millennium. He was the last of the Council's founders still alive, a voice heavy with the authority of ages.
Thavon began slowly. His voice deep and resonant:
"This is the first freshwater spring unearthed in fifty years. Each of us has spoken, each of us has needs. I represent Verdantia, and nothing would please me more than to see my kingdom take over such a treasure. But if need alone dictates, then there will never be peace. I propose instead that we do as the roots of a great tree: share the water equally. Let each kingdom take its share, so that none are driven to conflict."
Everyone sat in pensive thought. After several minutes, Thavon slowly raised a gnarled hand.
"Shall we start voting?"
The Aquariel nodded in agreement and raised hand. The Mycarynth representative hesitated, considering, then gave a slow, deliberate assent. All eyes turned to Cactoria. Reluctant, yet knowing the desert people could never tame Tundria alone, they finally agreed as well.
Thavon exhaled, relief flooding his ancient features. A hearty, booming laugh filled the chamber as he opened a scroll and began to pen the decision:.
"Alright then! Then it is decided that the spring will—"
The words stopped in his throat.
An unnatural silence fell. The air thickened, carrying a strange, metallic tang.
A ripple of unease passed through the Council. Something was terribly wrong. Suddenly, Aquariel's envoy leapt back, a warning cry piercing the chamber:
"Watch out!"
Thavon's body shuddered violently. His emerald veins twisted beneath his ancient skin as it darkened from the tips of his fingers, creeping up like ink in water. His flesh shriveled, turning a sickly shade of purple as if rot had taken root from within. Bark-like fissures split his arms and shoulders. A terrible, acrid stench filled the chamber as he began to wither and decay in real time, chunks of skin and muscle collapsing into blackened pulp.
Gasps and screams erupted. Candles flickered, the light catching the grotesque transformation—the living banyan, the unshakable diplomat, disintegrating before their eyes. His eyes, once deep pools of wisdom, rolled wildly as if searching for a culprit, before sinking into lifeless hollows.
Every council member recognized it immediately: the unmistakable effect of Toxiflor, a poisonous pesticide so rare and potent that it left no doubt this was murder. Across the kingdoms, every person carries the blood of plants, and none are immune. Toxiflor had long been banned, and its recipes were thought to have been destroyed.
So who could have done this?