the morning mist barely clung to the valley when elias stepped into his fields. his hands, rough and permanently stained with the rich black soil, knew every furrow by heart. he had planted these seeds with a quiet certainty, trusting the rhythm of the seasons just as his father had before him. as the sun climbed, his labor wasn't measured by the hour but by the steady growth of the emerald shoots stretching toward the light. there was a deep, unspoken dignity in the sweat on his brow and the calluses on his palms. to elias, the harvest wasn't just a living; it was—