9Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSuWPxraYfOCHAPTER VI
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'THE MONSTER BURIED WITHIN'
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— PAUL'S SHACK —
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A faint gray light leaks through the shutters. Paul wakes slowly, sitting up on the edge of his bed. He rubs his face with both hands. A roughly fixed routine.
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He kneels beside his bed. No words, just a tired, silent prayer.
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— PAUL'S YARD — MORNING —
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Paul sits at a small wooden table outside eating a simple breakfast, with a cup of something strong.
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Chickens wander around his boots. He gestures at them with his fork. A chicken hops on the table. Paul shoo's it away.
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— NOON — VILLAGE MARKET SQUARE —
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Paul walks through the bustling square for someone's stall, but there's an empty space where the carts usually set up.
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He stops.
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Stares into the market's distance, the crowd overlapping the streets. He rubs his hand through his hair. A mix of worry and annoyance.
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— PAUL'S WORKSTATION —
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Paul sits at his bench trying to fix a tool— a cracked handle, a bent hinge.
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It slips.
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He curses to himself. Trying again.
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It slips again.
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He tosses it in frustration.
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Then picks it up gently, trying to manage his temper.
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He keeps working.
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— PAUL'S YARD — AFTERNOON —
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Paul stands alone beside the chopping block. The forest is still behind him. A single log sits upright. He raises the axe and brings it down in a hard, rhythmic knock.
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Each swing is heavier than the last. He breathes, sweating in frustration.
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Paul raises his axe again, then brings it down in a clean, practiced strike.
As the wood splits, a memory flickers.
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(FLASHBACKS) HIS DAUGHTER —
(LAUGHING IN THE MARKET)
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She's younger, bright-eyed, tugging on his sleeve as he trades tools and lumber. She teases him for being too serious.
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He pretends not to smile— (back to the present)
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Paul sets another log.
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Another swing.
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(FLASH:) HIS DAUGHTER — TALKING ABOUT A SOLDIER —
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She's older now.
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Nervous.
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Excited.
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Telling him about the boy from Theron's army.
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Paul's jaw tightens in the memory.
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(flashback paul): "they're dangerous men. You stay away from them."
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She rolls her eyes, frustrated. He feels her slipping away.
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Another log.
Another swing.
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Harder this time.
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(FLASH:) THE LAST ARGUMENT
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She stands in the doorway of their home. He's tired from the market. She's angry, defiant.
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(flashback paul): "I'm trying to protect you."
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daughter (flashback): "You're trying to control me!"
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The memory ends before the door slams.
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— INSIDE PAUL'S HOME — DUSK —
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Paul sits at a small table inside his shack. A simple meal in front of him.
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He eats slowly, staring at nothing.
The house feels hollow. Like it's waiting for someone who isn't coming back.
He thinks of the last words they exchanged.
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The sharpness.
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The distance.
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The regret.
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His hand tightens around his mug. A breath, watered eyes. Then he grunts, throwing it against the wall.
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It shatters.
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The sound echoes through the empty room.
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Paul closes his eyes, steadying himself, but the silence afterwards feels heavier.
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— OUTSIDE PAUL'S SHACK — SUN DOWN —
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Paul decides to get some fresh air outside before bed.
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Alone.
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A small plate in front of him and a small fire burns near him, but a big silence remains. He looks down at the long road ahead, at the sun finally disappearing.
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He continues to eat.
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Then stares at the road again.
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Longing for something.
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Empty.
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Slowly fading.
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His face softens— worry, longing, stubborn hope.
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He takes a deep breath, the wind moves through the trees.
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Paul doesn't move.
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He simply watches.
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— METRO'S CHAMBER BEDROOM —
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Soft light leaks through the shutters.
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Metro wakes slowly. Breath steady, the room still half dark. He sits up, rubs his eyes, and listens— the distant thump of tools, voices, and movements are heard outside.
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He dresses simply.
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No rush.
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No dialogue.
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He steps outside.
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— COURTYARD —
CONTINUOUS —
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The morning is alive.
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Mathias, Ana, Blake and twenty farmhands are already out in the fields, knee deep in soil, planting magical seeds.
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The air is cool. Dust rises with every shovel strike.
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Mathias barks orders in different directions.
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Ana stays coordinated while Blake hauls sacs of premade super soil.
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Metro walks towards them, observant, silent.
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Mathias spots him immediately and grins.
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Mathias:
"So tell me Metro, if things turn for the hills, and we get dozens of Stains through these walls… what are you gonna do?"
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Metro lifts his staff, the green emerald tied to its end with a thin white cloth.
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Metro:
"I have this… and two daggers."
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Mathias looks at the staff unimpressed.
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Mathias: (reaches in his coat)
"A glowing rock on a stick, well no, that won't work…"
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He pulls out a wrapped bundle and shoves it into Metro's hands.
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"Here, these are real weapons." "Similar to daggers, except you throw them like darts."
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Metro:
"This seems better than what I have now. Like i’ve upgraded. Awesome."
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Metro looks at the blackened steel. His breath catches.
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Mathias:
"Now you're ready to butcher a man! Ha Ha Ha Ha!"
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He smacks Metro on the back— hard.
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Metro: (wincing, whining) "Ah—!"
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His shoulders tighten, nearly dropping his gift.
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Mathias laughs even harder now, for the whole yard to hear.
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Metro:
"Easy, Matt, we're not cut from the same cloth... Nevertheless, thanks. I have a holster for 10, so it's perfect."
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Metro nods once.
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"I'll take care of them."
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Mathias claps him on the shoulder, lighter this time. He turns back to the workers.
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Metro adjusts the eight new daggers inside his coat. The steel feels heavier than it should— or maybe he feels heavier.
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Footsteps approach softly through the dirt. Ana comes up behind him, wiping soil from her palms, her expression warm but perceptive.
She studies him, the tension in his shoulders, the way he's holding breath without realizing.
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Ana:
"Are you ready to work?"
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Metro nods, but his eyes drift towards the horizon— the direction he instinctively feels Rose to be.
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Metro:
"Where's Rose?"
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Ana's face softens.
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Ana:
"She left last night. Lilly too."
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Metro's jaw tightens, slightly.
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He lowers his gaze, that quiet controlled way he processes pain.
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Ana continues gently.
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"And Veronica, Jeffrey, Phillip… They were called back to The Village with Theron at The Lodge."
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Metro absorbs that.
The courtyard suddenly feels wider.
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More calm.
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He thinks of Veronica's explosion— the shouting, the desperation, the way she reached for him. The world takes a step back. He thinks of Rose standing there, watching it unravel, silent, hurt, steady. He thinks of the way the night ended—
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Fractured.
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Heavy.
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Unresolved.
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Now they're gone.
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Metro stands straighter but something in him sinks.
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Ana:
“People come and go, but the work stays."
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She turns towards the fields.
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— 40 ACREAGED CASTLE FORTRESS —
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The field stretches out long, soft rows— forty acres of dark soil waiting for hands. Morning light settles over everything in a warm, healing haze.
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Mathias gives a sharp whistle, checks the perimeter with two scouts, and disappears towards the tree line.
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Ana steps forward.
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Twenty Farmhands gather around her— men and women, boots dusty, sleeves rolled, souls ready to work.
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Metro stands by the main hall's entrance, watching from a small distance, content to listen.
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— SEED PERSONALITY —
"A.NATURE."
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Ana reaches into the heavy bag of seeds and lifts one between her fingers— a dark burgundy seed, striped with tiger-like scarlet bands that shimmer in the sun.
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Ana:
"This seed is in the firestarter family.
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Fast growers.
Fast reactors."
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"They respond to heat, stress, and sudden change more than most."
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The farm hands lean in.
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"Genetics give them their instincts, but how you handle them decides their behavior. Gentle hands make balanced plants. Rough hands can make a plant defensive or resilient. It depends on the stress, the genetics, and the plants own willingness to survive and thrive."
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She selects the fire starter seed, dropping to her knees, with a heavy bag of dark colorful seeds by her side. She presses one into the soil, and covers it lightly.
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Then she opens a small vial filled with a tarnish, sandy-water type liquid.
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Ama pours a single drop onto the patch.
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The seed responds immediately, trembling in the ground, and in seconds, forming a small seedling. Its aura shines faintly red, warm and alive.
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Metro watches, eyes steady.
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Ana nods once, satisfied.
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— ROOTS —
"The Plant Brain."
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Ana kneels further, drawing a symbol in the soil with her cane. The ground carves dirt in a circular motion.
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The ground responds— a faint shimmer— spreading outward, revealing a web of glowing root-lines beneath the surface.
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The farmhands gasp softly.
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"Roots are the plants functioning mind. They sense danger. They share nutrients. Warn each other. They even choose who to help… and who to choke."
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She presses her palm in the soil. A white formation of roots can be seen beneath the ground trickling downward with vibrant sparkles.
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The tiny roots pulse gently.
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"Everything beneath us is connected in some way.
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Just like us.
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Our thoughts.
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Like outer space, loaded with stars and galaxies. And beneath them, the earth expands and contracts subtly— alive, breathing constantly.
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"They need each other..to heal each other.
Just as we do."
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They compete.
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They survive.
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The roots decide more than the leaves ever will."
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The glowing web fades back into the earth.
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Metro stands in stillness, watching the light disappear beneath the soil.
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— AURA SPACING —
"Give Them Room To Live."
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Ana stands, brushing soil from her hands on her cottage dress.
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"Plants will compete for sunlight.
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For Air.
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For nutrients."
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She waves her hand over a row of sprouts.
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Their auras flare— soft halos of green, yellow, and blue.
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"If you plant them too close, their energies clash. They steal each other's light. They grow fighting, twisted."
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She continues, calm and clear.
"Some plants need balance. Roots structure, room to breathe."
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She spaces the sprout with a gentle sweep of her hand. Their glows widen, bending like water colors.
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"Give them room… to each is their own."
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Personalities will vary. It's all about how you train and nurture your seedlings."
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Metro watches the colors shift across the row,
smiling faintly, attentively.
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— LIGHT MEMORY —
"The First Light Shapes Life."
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Ana lifts a sprout towards the sun. The sprout glows— soft gold, like it's waking up.
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"These little guys remember their first light… If it's harsh, they could get scorched. If it's soft, they'll probably become balanced. This is the light you want."
(looks up at the sun)
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Warm.
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Kind.
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Ever so present.
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She lowers her head slightly, eyes still on the sprout. "Even so, most can be sculpted— to adapt. Each have different attributes and abilities. And sometimes you'll find extremely rare things, troubling things… and amazing things. Discoveries that you'll want to keep in your family's garden for generations."
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Metro listens quietly, satisfied, absorbing every line.
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— CONTINUATION —
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40 ACREAGE — PLANTING —
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Ana lowers the sprout back into a basket, and turns to the twenty farmhands.
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"Alright! Spread out. Every row, Every mound— plant them exactly how I showed you.
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Let's move."
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The farmhands break into groups, forming long lines across the fields.
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Hands sink into soil. Rows begin to glow in soft waves as the planting commences.
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Metro grabs a pouch of seeds.
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Dust rises.
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Shovels thud.
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The field becomes a slow coordinated rhythm. Footsteps crunch behind them.
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Mathias returns with four men, brushing leaves off his coat.
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Mathias:
"Perimeters clear, scouts haven't seen anything, only elks and a fox."
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Soldier: "Hey Metro, when the trees ripen a bit, you mind if we partake in some magic leaf!?"
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Metro gives a faint nod.
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Metro:
"I don't mind. Let's get the harvest cut down first, perfectly, before we start sampling though."
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Before the soldier can grin, Mathias smacks the back of his head.
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WHAP!
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Mathias:
"You fiend! We don't mooch until the work is done!"
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He turns to twenty infantry behind him.
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"You heard miss Ana! Get to the fields, in the dirt! Help plant every last seed."
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The soldiers groan, but they move— grabbing tools, kneeling beside the farm hands, joining the rows.
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Ana walks up to Mathias with a pouch of seeds.
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Ana: (tosses seed pouch into Mathias's hands) "You too."
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She smiles softly, confidently.
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Mathias freezes.
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The farm hands look up.
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His soldiers stare at him.
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Metro watches on, interested.
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Mathias sighs— long, dramatic— then drops to one knee in the soil, face determined.
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Mathias:
"Fine."
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— Scene fades —
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— KING'S LODGE — THERON'S CHAMBER — MORNING —
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Veronica stands before her father in that dim, heavy room, the air thick with tension.
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Theron isn't the charismatic lord he pretends to be in public. His eyes are hollowed out now, cold. He's darkened like a man who's burnt through every emotion except control.
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Theron peers through a tall window, the cold wash of the morning light.
He stands with his black cape facing her, hands clasped behind him, staring out over the courtyard like a man carved from stone.
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Theron: (turns head slightly)
"What's wrong?"
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Veronica:
"Nothing. I did what you asked."
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Theron:
"And… How is everything? What's he doing?"
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Veronica:
"He brought back rations, medical supplies before your wagons arrived. He's claiming his position as overseer of the cultivation project."
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Theron clinches.
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Veronica:
"The soldiers seem to love him…"
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Theron's mouth twitches into a bitter smirk— thin, humorless, the kind a man wears when someone beneath him has out-performed his own supply runs.
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His grin thins, then vanishes, a subtle, calculating wound, then turns.
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Theron:
"Do you?"
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Veronica pauses.
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Her eyes flick away, then back, trying to hold his gaze but can't.
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Theron feels her distance.
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He doesn't speak. He just lets the silence sit—
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Heavy, suffocating.
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Theron:
"Then he will be useful."
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Veronica:
"I don't want to do this anymore."
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Her voice barely leaves her throat.
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Theron doesn't move.
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Doesn't soften.
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His voice stays level, carved from granite.
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"The importance of this project cannot be overstated. Someone I trust must truly oversee it."
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(A beat)
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He turns slightly to the window.
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"And you have always served me faithfully."
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(Another long beat)— the kind that presses on the ribs.
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Theron: "I know something happened between you two. I will learn what, in time."
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His vision shifts to the window.
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(Dismissing her.)
"Take some time. Then return to The Whispering Fields with Phillip and Jeffrey."
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The room settles into silence again, heavy and unyielding. The door closes behind her with a muted thud— and something inside her chest closes with it.
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She moves quickly down the corridor, almost too quickly. The air is colder out here, sharper. Her emotions follow her like colors bleeding into one another.
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Suppressed anger, exhaustion, jealousy.
The corridor is still cooling around her when a shadow slips into her path.
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Traeven.
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He doesn't block her, just angles his body enough that she has to slow. His voice stays low, careful, like he's afraid she'll bolt.
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Traeven:
"…Hey. You alright?"
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She lifts her eyes— not fully, just enough for him to read the strain she tried to leave behind in that room.
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He studies her face, the way her breath catches, the way she's masking too quickly.
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"Talk to me."
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(A beat)
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He softens, something protective flickering through.
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"Is this about Metro?"
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That lands.
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She doesn't answer, but the silence does for her. Traeven exhales through his nose, a soft, faint, knowing sound.
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"He's different now. I see it too. But, you don't have to carry whatever it is that stirred up— alone."
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He steps aside— giving her space, not pressure— but his voice follows her gently.
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"Let me take you out for a bit. Clear your head, fresh air, real food, something that isn't these stone walls."
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She keeps her gaze on the floor.
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Veronica:
"I can't."
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She slips around him before he can answer, almost disappearing into the stairwell.
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Traeven's jaw tightens— just for a heartbeat, before he smooths it away.
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He turns slightly, watching her retreat with that controlled, almost elegant restraint she's known for.
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Traeven:
"Take the time you need."
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His voice stays monotone, but his eyes betray that sound.
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He doesn't follow.
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He just stands there, letting the corridor swallow her footsteps.
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— Scene fades —
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+ CASTLE GROUNDS CAFETERIA — EVENING —
After a long hard day's work in the blazing sun, it's now time for the Kitchen's Restaurant Night shift.
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The cafeteria is already roaring by the time Metro ties his apron around his waist.
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Long tables are packed shoulder to shoulder. Boots scraping the floor. Laughter bouncing off the walls. Steam rolls out in thick, fragrent waves.
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Ana runs the joint like she was born it— sleeves rolled, hair tied. Voice cutting through the noise, yet you can tell she's struggling, but not speaking up.
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Ana: "Two more pots on the fire!"
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A couple of farm hands jump to obey, scrambling around her with flour on the shirts.
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They're strong,
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but green.
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Ana guides them, and they follow like soldiers.
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Metro shoulders past a pair of infantrymen, pointing at a stack of dirty plates.
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Someone whistles at him.
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Soldier:
"Overseer in the trenches!" "Look at him— one of us, at last!"
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Metro doesn't bother answering. He just drops the plates into the wash basin, rolls up his sleeves, and gets to work.
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There's a rhythm to it— rinse, scrub, stack. A beatable challenge, something from keeping his mind reverting to something negative. Not wanting to think about politics, the fortress, or the weight of forty thousand Quarter Blooms.
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He nods in agreement with the infantry men, trying to stay positive.
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Behind him, the farm hands are chopping vegetables in the blazing hot kitchen. Under Ana's direction, they try their best to keep up with her direct, assertive order.
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Metro wipes sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist.
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The whole room is a chaotic furnace, but somehow, the energy is still good.
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Alive.
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Human.
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He carries a tray of clean dishes back out to the floor. Soldiers cheer when they see him.
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Soldier 2:
"Overseer! more brew over here!"
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Soldier 3: (pointing at a spill)
"Hey! You missed a spot, there!"
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Soft laughter erupts from the front of the house, rolling through the doors in a warm, rowdy wave.
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Blake glances up. That split second is all it takes. His hand brushes the iron Skillet.
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A sharp hiss.
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A sharp gasp.
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Blake: "AH!— Ow!… hot!"
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He jerks back, knocking a spoon off the counter. Then a bowl. Then a ladle. A full cascade of Blake-ness.
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Farmhands dodge, and try to catch things, scrambling.
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Blake shakes his burned hand, trying to play it off.
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"I'm good! Totally good!"
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Ana scoots beside him, instantly grabbing his wrist, leading him to a bowl of cold water.
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She dumps his hand in the water, looking at him deeply for a moment.
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Blake:
"I was just checking the tempature…. I'm ok…"
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Ana: "Blake… Get some fresh air…"
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He opens his mouth to protest.
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Ana:(nods, assured)
"Go."
Blake nods, embarrassed, cradling his hand as he steps out.
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Metro weaves through the panic-packed cafeteria, performing a balancing act, plates on his forearms, elbows on his hips. The noise is a wall— boots, mugs, laughter— but he moves through it with practiced calm.
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He reaches Lutheran's table. The infantry leader is flushed red from ice brew, shoulders loose, grin wide. His band of soldiers already half gone, leaning into each other, loud and warm.
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Metro starts stacking bowls, then collecting cups. A soldier elbows his buddy, then calls out.
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Soldier: "Overseer! Report! How many dishes have you slayed!?"
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The table erupts. Metro doesn't rise to it. He just gathers more cups, stacking them on top of each other, three sets of stacked cups in one hand. He balances bowls and mugs like he's done this a hundred times.
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Smooth.
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Almost graceful.
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That only fuels the infantry's noise more.
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Lutheran watches him with a lazy, amused tilt, swirling the last inch of ice in his mug.
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His eyes half lifted, voice warm and calm, but devastatingly stern.
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Lutheran: "Well boys, if he doesn't make captain… I'm sure he'll make for a beautiful waitress!"
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The joke detonates. The tables explode— fist pounds on wood, men howl, some riviting of there benches.
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The laughter rolls across the room like a wave. Metro freezes for half a second— not offended, not angry— just unsure how to process it. His face heats, but he keeps his chin up, posture straight.
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He turns, cups and bowls high in his hands, and walks away with an unreadable expression, the roar of laughter chases him across the hall.
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He doesn't look back.
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He doesn't know how to feel.
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He just keeps moving—
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— METRO'S PERSONAL CHAMBER —
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Steam rises around Metro as he sits in his chamber hot tub. He scrubs coconut oil through his hair.
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The chamber is dim, candlelight flickering across the stone. For the first time all night, its quiet, peaceful almost…
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The laughter echoes, disturbing his stillness.
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Not the joke, just the sound of it.
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It unsettles him.
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Water drops down his face. He sinks deeper into his bath, all the thoughts hit him at once.
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Rose's softness, Veronica's sharpness,
Theron's political weight, the laughter…
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His face settles into a stare, conflicted, still.
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His sight focuses on candlelight as if trying to see a future he can't name.
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Scene fades
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. Scene ends.
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Switch Scenes.
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— MORNING —
The room holds a blue still vibration inside of it.
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Metro wakes from his chamber bed— the air feels thin, almost sacred, but not quiet.
He sits up slowly, shoulders rolling once. The smell of cold ash and dry wood linger from last night's fire.
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He tears into a strip of jerky, the salt waking his tongue.
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He meditates for a few moments, just at the edge of his bed. Feet planted on cold stone.
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Hands on knees.
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Back straightened.
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Eyes closed.
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He grounds himself, he releases negative energies, and recharges himself. A faint white glow is seen shimmering ever so slightly. It feels cool and refreshing.
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As he dresses— shirt, belt, boots— the leather creaks softly and the cotton feels nice, each motion deliberate and unhurried.
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A slip of paper waits under the door. Ana's handwriting curves around it.
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✱ left early on the first chariot to the village. Blake insists he comes. We're headed back to check on home. Keep working and don't worry, we will be back tomorrow before sundown.
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Love,
Ani ✱
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— DOWNSTAIRS —
The kitchen is alive for breakfast, rising steam, metal clattering, voices layering a morning routine.
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He continues to push through the set of steps, each one splitting wider than the next. Through the cafeteria, into the main hall. He doesn't stop. Doesn't speak, just moves with that calm, purposeful stride.
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Outside the front gate, the glowing hay fields can be seen.
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The air here hits colder— crisp enough to sting the lungs. The sky is pale, washed gold, trying to break through the blue.
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The towering gate stands open. Guards stand, and some sit, breath fogging in short bursts.
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Sally waits near the post, tail lashing back and forth, ears pointed toward him before he even lays a hand on her neck.
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Metro swings into the saddle in one smooth motion. For a moment he sits still. His eyes sharpened with an inward draw. He leans forward and gently taps Sally with two heels.
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Metro: "Let's go babe."
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Sally moves. They take off, cutting through the cold morning, into the Whispering Forest.
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— Scene fades black —
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and then Add to home screen.