Genesis Zero: Seeds of Desperation

Desperation takes away any space for grief, any pause to breathe or look around. It presses in on the ribs, narrowing thought into a single point. And sacrifice always follows it — a sacrifice of peace of mind, of stability, of the soft comfort of not knowing what comes next. A surrender of the freedom that comes with uncertainty. A privilege in a sense.

Just take these trees that surround us. You can feel it if you stand close enough — the rough bark warming under late-season sun, the faint sweetness of fruit hanging heavy in the air. When they sense they will soon become only a husk of what they were, they push out one last surge of life. Their branches strain under the weight of apples, plums, blossoms, and such bountiful produce; their scent grows richer, almost desperate, as if they’re exhaling everything they have left. These fruits become seeds, and the seeds become countless other trees. A quiet, stubborn insistence on continuing.

A sacrifice of existence. A desperation to leave something behind — a trace, a taste, a seed. To leave without fully leaving. It’s curious, isn’t it, how fiercely life fights to mark the world with a small stamp of I was here.

I guess me saying this is ironic, really — trying to conjure up digestible thoughts in the hope that the voice in my head will have mercy on me.

Crimson drooled down my chin, warm at first, then cooling as the pounding in my skull swallowed every other sensation. The trees above me creaked softly, branches shifting under their own late-season weight, and for a moment I felt as fragile as they looked — a body straining to hold itself together, giving whatever last bit of life it had left.

My hand found a root beside me, its surface rough and cool, the kind of steady texture that felt almost foreign against my shaking fingers. When I tried to move, pain tore through my left so sharply it stole the breath from my throat. It wasn’t a clean pain — it throbbed, pulsed, spread, as if my body was arguing with itself about whether to keep going. I curled my fingers deeper into the root, dirt pressing under my nails, dried blood cracking at the edges. I dragged myself forward anyway.

Another root caught my palm, smoother and slick with moss. I used it to pull myself upright until my back met the trunk of the tree. The bark pressed into my spine, firm and unmoving. I let myself rest there, my leg throbbing with each heartbeat. The tree didn’t offer comfort, not really, but it offered something solid to lean against, something that didn’t sway or tremble or bleed. And in that moment, that was enough.

The quiet didn’t stay quiet — of course it didn’t. It stretched thin for a moment, like the world was holding its breath, and then the voices slipped in. Low at first, threading through the trees. I could recognise that cadence anywhere: the slow, confident sweep of people who think they’ve already cornered their prize. I let my head fall back against the bark, feeling it press into my skull like it was trying to keep my thoughts from spilling out. Brilliant, as if today wasn’t humiliating enough.

A branch snapped to my right. They weren’t rushing; they never rush. They like the theatre of it, the slow circling, the way they expect fear to bloom in the gaps between each footstep.

They stepped out of the trees like they’d been waiting for applause, two silhouettes framed by the dying light. One of them had that familiar, punchable smirk — the kind that made my leg throb harder out of pure spite. He crouched just enough to meet my eye, breath smelling of cheap rations. “Didn’t get far this time, did you?” he said, voice dripping with triumph.

I let out a thin, shaky laugh. “Oh, absolutely. I’ve been speed-running the whole near-death experience. Five stars, would recommend.”

His smirk vanished.

He grabbed my collar and yanked me forward pain ripping through my leg so violently I nearly folded. The second hunter snorted. “Still mouthing off? You’d think she’d learn.”

 I gritted my teeth. “Trust me, I tried. Turns out I’m allergic to authority.” That earned me a fist to the ribs. The world tilted for a moment as I clung to the root beside me, breath scraping out of my throat.

Another step, another taunt forming on his lips —and then the air split. A hiss, then a thud. The man holding me jerked back with a shout, an arrow buried deep in his shoulder.

“What the—?” the second hunter spun, reaching for his weapon, but more arrows sliced out from the shadows — fast, precise, almost elegant, if the man behind them wasn’t so late.

They hit bark, soil, gear, and the hunters stumbled, swearing, scanning the trees with sudden panic. I pressed myself harder against the trunk, breath shallow, ribs aching.

“Oh look,” I muttered, “My fan club arrived.”

Owen didn’t bother with introductions — he never does. The moment he stepped out of the shadows, another arrow hissed past my ear and buried itself in the hunter’s thigh, dropping him with a strangled howl. The second one lunged, but Owen’s next shot pinned his sleeve to a tree, leaving him flailing like a badly hung coat. I let my head fall back against the bark, exhaling sharply. “Took you long enough,” I muttered. Owen ignored the jab, kneeling beside me with that infuriating calm he wears like armour. His hands were already on my leg.

“Ow— okay, maybe don’t press the part that feels like it’s trying to detach from my body.”

He raised an eyebrow. “If I don’t press it, you’ll pretend it’s fine and then bleed out somewhere inconvenient.”

His fingers moved to my ribs next, gentle for half a second before he found the bruised spot. I hissed. “Fantastic. Love this. Really enjoying our bonding time.”

“You’re a disaster,” he said.

“Thanks,” I shot back. “I was going for ‘ethereal woodland spirit,’ but sure.”

His hands moved over my leg again, slower this time, and something in his expression shifted — the calm cracking just enough for irritation to bleed through. His jaw tightened, and he stood so abruptly the air around him seemed to snap.

 “Those spineless little—"

“What are you doing?” I asked, because this wasn’t his usual Owen-is-annoyed-with-me face.

“Making sure they don’t get the chance to do this again,” he said, voice flat.

Before I could argue, he strode toward the hunters — the one pinned to the tree still cursing, the other crawling through the dirt trying to escape. A few sharp blows, a kick that sent one sprawling, a twist of an arm that made the other scream — nothing lethal, but enough to guarantee they’d stay down and rethink their life choices. I leaned against the tree, leg throbbing, watching him with a mix of relief and annoyance.

“Overkill,” I muttered. “But sure. Very dramatic.”

He came back to me without a word, brushing dirt off his hands like he’d just finished gardening instead of disabling two grown men.

“Let’s go,” he said, offering his arm.

“I told you, I don’t need help.”

 I pushed myself up, determined to prove him wrong, and my leg immediately betrayed me, buckling so hard I nearly kissed the ground. Owen caught me before gravity could finish the job, his arm sliding under mine with irritating ease.

“Totally fine,” he said, deadpan.

“Shut up,” I muttered, gripping his shoulder because I had no choice. He didn’t smile, but I could feel the quiet amusement radiating off him as he started guiding us out of the clearing.

“Lean on me,” he said.

“I am leaning on you.”

“Good.”

— — — — — — — — —

I stepped through the doorway and immediately regretted asking what was going on. The room was dim, lit only by a single flickering strip overhead, and the air felt thick enough to chew. A man sat tied to a chair in the centre, a sack pulled over his head, breathing hard through the fabric. Owen stood off to the side, leaning against the wall like he’d been waiting for me to arrive — arms crossed, one boot braced casually against the metal panelling. He looked exactly how he always does after trouble: hair mussed from running through trees, jaw set in that unimpressed line, gold chains catching the low light like they were mocking the whole situation. His shirt was dark, sleeves pushed up, revealing forearms that looked carved from irritation alone. He didn’t look at me right away. He just exhaled, slow and annoyed, like the tied-up man had personally inconvenienced his entire week.

“What,” I said, gesturing vaguely at the scene, “is this?”

Owen finally glanced over, expression flat.

“Interruption,” he said.

The man in the chair flinched at the sound of his voice, which told me everything I needed to know about how Owen had been spending his time before I walked in. I stepped closer, leg still aching, ribs still sore, and Owen’s eyes flicked down to assess me again.

“You shouldn’t be walking,” he muttered.

“And you shouldn’t be… doing whatever this is,” I shot back.

He pushed off the wall, slow and deliberate, moving toward the chair. “Relax. I’m just making sure he doesn’t try anything stupid.”

“Right,” I said. “Because this setup screams restraint.”

Owen ignored me, fingers brushing the back of the chair as he tilted his head, studying the man like he was a puzzle missing too many pieces. The sack rustled as the captive trembled. Owen sighed — that same tired, irritated sound he always makes when people force him to deal with their nonsense — and for a moment, the room felt even smaller.

He didn’t waste time. He grabbed the edge of the sack and yanked it off in one smooth motion, revealing a man with a bruised jaw and eyes that darted everywhere except at us. Sweat clung to his hairline, dripping down the side of his face as he blinked against the dim light. I stayed near the doorway, leaning on the frame because my leg still felt like it had been replaced with molten metal. Owen didn’t even glance at me; he stepped forward, arms crossed, posture relaxed in that way that meant absolutely nothing about him was relaxed.

“You want to explain why you were creeping around our base?” he asked, voice low, steady.

The man swallowed hard. I could practically hear it. “I—I wasn’t creeping,” he stammered.

I snorted. “Right. Because everyone casually lurks outside fortified buildings for fun.” Owen shot me a look — not annoyed, just a silent let me handle this — and I shut up, leaning back as he took another step toward the man.

The hunter’s eyes flicked between us, panic rising like steam. “I wasn’t here to hurt anyone,” he said quickly. “I was sent.”

“By who?” Owen asked.

The man hesitated, and Owen’s head tilted just slightly — a warning.

“The boss of the Spire,” the hunter blurted.

I blinked. “That makes no sense. He’d sooner set the whole forest on fire than help us.”

The man shook his head frantically. “Not him. His son.” Owen’s posture shifted — barely, but enough for me to notice.

“Name.”

The hunter’s voice cracked. “Riven.”

For a moment, everything in me tightened — ribs, breath, thought — collapsing into a single point. Riven. Owen saw it happen, the way my shoulders locked, the way my jaw clenched, but he didn’t speak. He didn’t move. The hunter’s eyes flicked between us, sensing the shift, sensing the way the air thickened like sap. I pushed off the wall, ignoring the tremor in my leg, ignoring Owen’s hand half‑raised in warning.

“Say it again,” I said, stepping toward the man. My voice felt scraped clean, stripped of anything soft. “Who sent you?”

He swallowed. “Riven. The Spire’s son. He—he said to make sure you were safe.”

A laugh tore out of me — sharp, and bitter. “Safe. That’s a new one.”

I reached for the ropes and untied them with a rough jerk. The hunter lurched upward, desperate to flee, but Owen slammed him back down into the chair, fingers clamping onto his shoulder. Hard. The man yelped, breath stuttering. Owen didn’t raise his voice; he didn’t need to.

“You’re staying,” he said, calm in the way storms are calm before they break. The hunter trembled as Owen’s grip tightened, knuckles whitening. I leaned in close enough for him to see the patchwork lines along my jaw, the faint ridges beneath my collar.

“You’re going to go back,” I said. “And you’re going to tell Riven something for me.”

His breath hitched. “Tell him there’s a bounty on the Spire’s son now.”

The man froze. “W‑what?”

“You heard me.” My voice was steady, carved from the same place all my scars came from. “He wanted me safe? Fine. Let’s see how safe he feels with every hunter in the region aiming for his head.”

Owen’s grip tightened again — too tight — and the hunter cried out. “Enough,” I murmured. He didn’t look at me, but he eased off, just slightly.

“If he’s the Spire’s son,” Owen said, voice low, “why send someone to check on you? Why care?”

The hunter swallowed hard. “Because… because he’s not with them anymore.”

Owen’s head tilted. “Explain.”

“He’s part of the resistance,” the man blurted. “He’s been working against the Spire for months.”

The room seemed to tilt.

“No,” I said immediately. “No. He betrayed me. He handed me over. He doesn’t get to rewrite the story now.”

“He’s trying to fix it,” the hunter whispered. “He’s been trying to find you.”

Owen’s attention snapped to me. “Lira,” he said, voice low, “look at me.”

I didn’t. My pulse hammered, my hands shook, my breath felt thin.

“Lira.” I finally met his eyes.

“You’re shaking,” he said.

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.” His gaze dropped to my leg. “You’re barely standing.”

Only then did the pain hit — a deep, hot spike shooting up my thigh, blooming like late‑season fruit splitting under its own weight. I winced, grabbing the edge of the table. Owen stepped closer, voice firm.

“Sit.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“And I said sit.” He wasn’t asking. And my leg wasn’t giving me a choice.

I lowered myself into the chair, breath uneven. Owen stayed standing, looming slightly — not in a threatening way, but in a way that made the hunter shrink even further into himself. “If Riven’s with the resistance,” Owen said, turning back to him, “why send you? Why not come himself?”

The hunter swallowed. “He… he didn’t think she’d believe him.”

I scoffed. “Smart of him.”

“He thought you’d kill him on sight,” the hunter whispered.

Owen’s jaw tightened. “She might.” I didn’t deny it.

Owen leaned in, voice low and controlled. “You’ve told us what we needed. Now go and tell this riven that there’s a bounty on his head.” This time, the man didn’t hesitate. He bolted so fast he nearly tripped over the doorway.

Owen looked back at me, but I was already engulfed in my own inner turmoil.

Desperation didn’t ease off — it sank its teeth in again, right under my ribs, narrowing everything to one brutal point. Riven’s name. It sat there like something festering, something I’d tried to carve out of myself and failed. Putting a bounty on him wasn’t rage; it was the kind of sacrifice desperation drags out of you — ugly, heavy, ripping apart whatever fragile peace I’d managed to stitch together. A surrender of the privilege of not knowing what comes next. The orchard had already shown me how things behave when pushed past their limit: branches splitting, fruit bursting under their own weight, everything straining to leave one last mark before it breaks. Maybe this was mine — a final, furious offering to a past that refuses to stay dead.

Owen stepped closer, slow enough that I knew he was choosing every movement. “Lira,” he whispered, “whatever he’s doing… it doesn’t change what he did to you.”

I let out a thin breath. “Great. Add that to the list of things I’m not thinking about.”

His mouth twitched — that smallest ghost of a smirk. “You’re definitely thinking about it.”

“I’m thinking about how annoying you are.”

“Sure,” he said, tone dry, “and shaking like a leaf because of my personality.”

I glared at him, which only made his expression soften in that infuriating, subtle way. “He doesn’t get to rewrite your story,” Owen said. “You decide what happens next.”

I snorted. “Fantastic. I’ll put that on a motivational poster.”

He didn’t rise to the bait this time. He just looked at me — really looked — and something in his face shifted, the irritation melting into something steadier, heavier. “Lira,” he murmured, “you don’t have to pretend this doesn’t hurt.”

I opened my mouth — probably to say something sharp, something deflecting — but the words didn’t make it out. My breath stuttered instead, stupid and uneven.

Owen moved before I could stop him. He reached out, hands steady, and pulled me in.

His chest was warm against my cheek, his arms solid around me, and the shock of it hit harder than the pain in my leg. I went rigid for a heartbeat, every instinct screaming to joke, to deflect, to run — and then everything in me sagged.

A tiny, humiliating sound escaped me — barely a breath, barely a sob.

I mumbled into his chest, “This is wildly unprofessional. I hope you’re proud.”

He let out a low, warm laugh, the kind that vibrated through his ribs and into mine, his hand rubbing slow circles between my shoulder blades. “Tragically proud,” he murmured. “But you’re still shaking.”

I didn’t bother answering. I just let myself stay there.