The Red Harvest explores the darker sides of humanity that I've studied over the years. I felt compelled to write this story now, as the world seems to be in chaos.

If you're sensitive to dark themes or religious topics, this story may not be for you; it contains disturbing content. Those who have experienced abuse might find it triggering due to the intense elements in the narrative. I drew inspiration from an episode of Supernatural (Season 1, Episode 11), and the song "Unnatural Selection" by Muse will accompany the next few chapters.

I'll be adding tags on AO3, and the story will transition from Mature to Explicit content. The original version will be on AO3, possibly with a toned-down version, but that's still undecided. Just remember: "Once something is read, it can't be unseen."

October 2024 UPDATE: I know it's been two years since I last updated this story, and I apologize for the long delay—it wasn't intentional. These past two years have been incredibly challenging on a personal level, marked by a great deal of loss and pain. I've learned to channel my grief into this story, believing that the darkness it brings will enhance its overall depth and cruel beauty. To expedite the process, I'll be running my rough chapters through AI, as I currently lack a beta reader to proofread my work. Additionally, editing can be time-consuming, and I simply don't have the luxury of time. I've also revisited and refined the previous chapters (like this one) to ensure a consistent tone throughout the story.


THREE

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A thin streak of light pierced the darkness, cutting across Edward's eyelids and dragging him out of what felt like an endless abyss of sleep. His eyes fluttered, the world beyond them sluggish to come into focus, as though it resisted his return. He groaned, body heavy, limbs alien as he tried to sit up. His vision swayed, the room tilting like the deck of a ship at sea. He braced himself, waited for the dizziness to subside, and when it did, he blinked hard, taking in his surroundings.

It was wrong. All wrong.

Where was the villa? The warmth of the stone floors, the cool scent of the ocean? Edward's legs swung from the side of the bed, his feet meeting the cold earth below with a dull thud—compressed dirt, hard and unyielding. The bed he sat on was crude, the mattress lumpy and stuffed with hay. His fingers absently traced the rough, worn blanket draped over him, its fabric coarse against his skin. The air tasted damp, the scent of earth and mildew mingling with smoke from a distant fire.

He frowned. Incarceration. The thought hit him without warning. But why would he think that? This was no prison cell. There were no iron bars, no shackles. And yet...the oppressive sense of confinement clung to the room like a second skin.

He moved to stand, but the moment he lifted his body from the bed, his legs buckled beneath him. A surge of weakness flooded his muscles, and he collapsed back onto the bed, breathless. His mind spun, a storm of confusion gathering strength. Something was wrong. He pressed his palms into his thighs, forcing himself to focus, to center his scattered thoughts.

Had he been drinking? That was the only explanation he could grasp, though it felt distant, out of place. He had woken with hangovers before, but this was different—hazy, fragmented, like staring at a broken mirror and trying to fit the pieces together.

His eyes fell on his clothes—or what he assumed were his clothes. A tunic. It hung loosely around him, rough and unfamiliar. He traced the fabric with a shaking hand, pulling at it as if it could offer answers. Where were his clothes? His shirt, his jeans? And why was he wearing this...this relic?

Something deep within him tugged, pulling at memories just out of reach. He staggered to his feet again, fighting the weakness, forcing his legs to obey. His steps were unsteady, like a child taking their first attempt at walking. With each movement, the world shifted, unfamiliar and unsettling.

He made his way past a tattered curtain that split the room in two, revealing a space that was as humble as the bed behind him. Two wooden chairs sat beside a small table, their surfaces scarred by years of use. A large chest rested against the opposite wall, closed, its heavy lid locked as if guarding secrets Edward wasn't yet ready to face. On the counter to his left, a small basket of fruit sat alongside a bottle of dark liquid and earthenware cups.

He blinked hard, trying to clear the fog clouding his mind, but the simple act of blinking sent a ripple of pain through his skull, sharp and sudden. He winced, his hand flying instinctively to the side of his head. His fingers brushed against a tender spot, and the memory slammed into him without warning.

The blow. He'd been struck. Hard.

A flash of memory seared through the haze: men—probably soldiers—surrounding him. The clang of steel, the shouting of orders, the brutal force of a blunt weapon connecting with his head.

Edward staggered, clutching his temple as the pain flared again, blinding him for a moment. His breath came in short, ragged bursts, and beneath it all was the creeping realization that he wasn't alone. Winry. She'd been with him. Winry!

His stomach dropped, dread clawing at his insides as fragments of the battle snapped into focus. The two men with their golden eyes, the way they had moved, calculating and relentless. He remembered now—one of them had her. The look in their eyes. The way they stared at her. His blood turned cold, fear and anger entwining, spurring him forward despite the throbbing in his skull.

"Winry," he rasped, pushing through the pain. His voice felt foreign, weak, like a man calling out from a dream. The thought of her in danger—alone, vulnerable—lit a fire in him that drove him forward. He shoved open the crude wooden door of the hut, stumbling into the harsh daylight.

The sun was oppressive, its light bearing down on him with a blinding intensity. Edward squeezed his eyes shut, trying to adjust, but the light pierced through his eyelids, sending another bolt of pain through his head. He clenched his fists, digging his nails into his palms, grounding himself in the physical sensation. He couldn't afford to stop. Not now.

"Winry!" he called again, his voice louder this time, though it still sounded hoarse, desperate. He blinked through the tears that welled in his eyes from the brightness, trying to make sense of his surroundings.

He wasn't alone.

A boy stood a few feet away, staring up at him with wide, golden eyes. The sight of the boy stopped Edward in his tracks, a chill running through him. The same eyes as the soldiers—those eyes.

"Hello," the boy said, his gaze wandering to Edward's automail leg. The metallic limb gleamed under the sun, a stark contrast to the mud beneath his feet. The boy's expression was calm, almost curious, as though the sight of a man stumbling through the street in search of his missing wife was nothing unusual.

Edward's chest tightened. He remembered those eyes—the men who'd attacked them had the same unsettling gaze.

Pain throbbed again, pulsing through his head with a cruel insistence. He gritted his teeth, swaying slightly, but managed to stay on his feet. He had to keep moving. He had to find Winry.

Ignoring the boy, Edward pushed past, but his unsteady legs nearly gave out beneath him again. The pain was becoming unbearable now, a drumbeat inside his skull, relentless and growing louder with each step.

"Winry!" His voice broke as he shouted, the desperation now fully lacing his words. People began to gather, their faces shadowed by the sun, their golden eyes gleaming with something Edward couldn't quite place—amusement? Indifference? He didn't care. His only focus was on Winry.

One of the men approached, and Edward froze. The man's features, though familiar, were unmarred by the scars Edward knew he had inflicted. But it was him. It had to be him.

"Hey there, Ed," the man called, his tone light, almost mocking. "You're not supposed to be up just yet."

Edward's fists clenched, the last threads of his patience fraying. "Where's my wife?" His voice was low, the anger simmering beneath barely contained.

"You don't look well," the man said, his grin widening. "You should rest."

Edward's vision blurred, rage boiling over. Without thinking, he launched himself at the man, but his body betrayed him—his movements sluggish, uncoordinated. He missed. His world tilted again, and he crashed to the ground. The pain in his head exploded, black spots swarming his vision, until everything faded into silence.

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Edward jolted awake, heart racing, his breath coming in short gasps as if he'd just surfaced from drowning. His hand shot up, fingers weaving through his loose, sweat-damp hair. The dream he'd just escaped clung to him like cobwebs. It had felt real—too real. He had been in some strange, suffocating place, disoriented, searching for Winry. The memory of that panicked search still lingered in his chest, heavy and tight.

His eyes darted around the room. The ceiling above him was unsettlingly familiar—the same rough beams, the same earthy scent. The same as in the dream.

A rush of urgency surged through him. "Winry," he whispered hoarsely, throwing the thin blanket aside as he scrambled out of bed. His legs wobbled beneath him, the sudden movement causing the room to spin for a moment, but he steadied himself with one determined thought—he needed to find her. Now.

He pulled back the curtain dividing the room with a sharp motion, and there she was, seated at the small wooden table. Relief flooded him, but it was short-lived. Winry wasn't alone.

Sitting beside her, calmly sipping from a ceramic cup, was an old woman with weathered skin and sharp golden eyes. And across from them, that bastard—the one Edward had wounded. The one who should've been nursing a wound that would take weeks to heal, not sitting there whole and unmarked as if nothing had happened.

Before Edward could voice his confusion, Winry shot out of her chair and rushed to his side. "Ed!" she cried, her voice filled with a mix of worry and relief. Her hands flew to his shoulders, steadying him as if she feared he'd collapse at any moment. "You shouldn't be up! You're still not well."

Edward frowned, irritated by her concern. He should be the one making sure she was okay. He brushed her hands off and immediately started checking her for injuries—his hands moving instinctively, patting down her sides, her arms, her face. No bruises, no scratches. Nothing. But that didn't ease the knot in his gut.

He met her worried blue eyes. "Did they hurt you?" His voice came out harsher than he intended, but he couldn't help it. The dream, the lingering confusion—it all had him on edge.

Winry blinked, taken aback by his intensity. "No, Ed, nothing bad has happened," she said softly. "We're safe." She glanced briefly at the man with golden eyes, and Edward followed her gaze.

Safe? How could she say that with him sitting right there? The last thing Edward remembered was cutting that man down—and yet here he was, not a single mark on him. His eyes narrowed as he scrutinized the man's arm. No bandages. No wound.

Edward's mind raced. "How long was I out?" he asked, his voice tense, already suspecting the answer wouldn't make sense.

"Two days," Winry replied, her tone calm but weighted with significance.

"Two days?" Edward's disbelief spilled out before he could temper it. Two days might explain why his head still throbbed, but it didn't explain how that man had recovered so quickly. Unless…

"Okay, let's have a look at you," the old woman's raspy voice cut in as she stood up from the table with a surprising amount of grace for someone her age. She was smaller than Edward had realized, hunched with age, but there was something unsettling in the way her golden eyes assessed him, sharp and calculating.

Edward stiffened as she approached, every instinct on high alert. Another Xersian, he realized bitterly. He could see it in the strange glow of her eyes, in the way she carried herself—confident, like someone with power at her disposal. Her presence reminded him of Pinako, if Pinako had been more ancient, more hardened by time. He noticed her eyes, though golden, had a hint of something familiar. Al's eyes, his mind whispered—a strange, unsettling thought.

The old woman examined him in silence, her bony fingers pressing lightly against his head where he'd been struck. Edward fought the urge to pull away. Her touch was precise, clinical, and somehow too knowing.

"He's still concussed," she said finally, turning to Winry as if Edward wasn't standing right there. Her voice was casual, like diagnosing a minor injury, but Winry's eyes softened with concern.

Edward clenched his jaw. Concussed. Of course. The sharp pain in his head, the fragments of memory that came and went like flickering lights—it all made sense now. He remembered the force of the blow, the way the world had spun out of control as that mountain of a man had struck him down with the hilt of his sword. But still… two days?

"Have him drink the medicine—undiluted," the old woman said, her gaze lingering on Winry. "He'll be fully recovered by tomorrow afternoon."

Edward frowned. Fully recovered? After two days? That made no sense, unless—

The old woman turned to the golden-eyed man. "Let's go."

The man stood, bowing slightly in respect. His eyes, however, lingered on Winry for a beat too long. "Have a good afternoon, Mrs. Winry," he said, his tone almost too familiar, too... polite.

A surge of possessive anger burned through Edward. Who the hell did this guy think he was? He took a step forward, ready to confront him, but Winry's hand shot out, blocking his path.

"Easy now," she said, her voice firm but gentle. There was no room for argument in her tone. Edward hesitated, then relented, biting back his frustration. She had this under control—for now.

Once the two strangers left, Winry exhaled, her shoulders visibly relaxing. She turned to Edward, her hard expression softening. Gently, she touched the side of his head where he'd been struck, her fingers tracing the tender area with care. "Your pupils are still dilated," she said, her voice quieter now, tinged with affection and worry. She slipped her hand into his, her fingers intertwining with his as she tugged him toward the bed.

"You need to rest, Ed."

For once, Edward didn't resist. He let her guide him back to the crude bed, sitting down as she settled beside him. The weight of the day, the lingering pain, and the confusion were all catching up with him, tugging at the edges of his consciousness.

"You were in serious danger," Winry said, her voice dropping to a whisper, as if confessing something she had been holding inside. She paused, her breath hitching for a moment before continuing. "I was terrified. I thought I might lose you."

Edward felt her hand tremble in his. The admission caught him off guard. He opened his mouth to say something, to reassure her, but before he could, she added, "John... he apologized. He didn't mean to hit you so hard."

Edward's brow furrowed. John? The man who struck him. It hadn't been intentional? That didn't sit right with him. He replayed the fight in his mind—the power behind that blow, the way his vision had blacked out. And yet here he was, mostly functional, after just two days. It didn't add up.

"Alchemy," Winry said, as if reading his mind.

Edward blinked. "Alchemy?" He searched her face, trying to process. "Are you sure it wasn't alkahestry?"

Winry shook her head. "That's what I thought too, at first. But when I asked them, they said they'd never even heard of alkahestry. They don't know the term."

Edward felt a headache building, the pieces not quite fitting together. He pressed his fingers to his temple. "Then what is it?"

"The old woman called it blood alchemy," Winry answered, her voice dropping, as if the very words carried a weight she didn't want to acknowledge.

Blood alchemy. The term sent a shiver down Edward's spine. It felt wrong—darker, more dangerous than the alchemy he knew. He didn't like the sound of it. Not one bit.

"You're looking pale, Ed," Winry said softly, standing up. "I'll go get the medicine Noelle prepared for you."

She was halfway through the curtain when Edward called after her. "Did they tell you what they want from us?"

Winry paused, turning back. Her face was unreadable. "No, not yet." Then, without another word, she slipped out of the room.

Edward stared after her, his mind racing. What do they want? These people—these Xersians—seemed too familiar with Winry, too comfortable around her. And yet, they hadn't shared any crucial information. Why?

A grim expression settled on his face. He had thought getting captured was the worst of it, but now he wasn't so sure. Maybe the real danger hadn't even begun.

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Winry guided Edward down the uneven dirt road, the air thick with a quiet tension neither of them spoke of. As they walked, Edward took in the village for the first time with clarity. Rundown huts stood scattered, their mud walls cracked, some barely standing. Scraggly chickens pecked at the hard, dry ground, their feathers dull in the meager sunlight. Edward frowned, trying to reconcile the reality before him with the foggy memories from the day before. He couldn't recall seeing any of this—the village, the people—only fragments of that road, the boy, and the man he'd fought. That damn concussion. It had dulled his senses, and now the weight of it all hit him like a hammer.

A twisted sense of relief settled in his chest as he surveyed the humble village. This isn't the citadel Jon and Marcus spoke of. No towering walls, no grand castle. Mud huts and dirt roads didn't scream of wealth or power. Maybe, just maybe, they weren't in the heart of enemy territory.

Villagers paused their work as they passed, their eyes darting toward Edward's automail leg. A few whispered behind cupped hands, others pointed openly, their curiosity sharp, but laced with fear. Edward wasn't unfamiliar with stares, but these weren't the fascinated looks of engineers or mechanics—they were the cautious glances of people who feared what they didn't understand.

Yesterday changed things. Edward was certain of that. The violent display of power, the clash with the man he'd cut—it had marked him as dangerous. He could see it in their eyes. No one dared approach him, not even out of curiosity for his automail. They're keeping their distance because they think I'm a threat. It was an uneasy feeling.

As they walked, Edward's eyes landed on the boy from the day before—the one who had stared at him with wide, golden eyes. The boy's expression now was different—still fearful, but also curious. Edward forced a grin, hoping to reassure him, but the boy only stared in silence. Then, as they passed, the boy returned the gesture with a tentative, toothy smile, though it was more out of obligation than trust.

Their destination came into view: a larger hut, standing slightly apart from the others. The elder's hut, Winry had called it. But it was no grander than the rest—just a bigger version of the same mud walls and thatched roof. All the huts looked as though they had been built by the same hand. Edward's eyes narrowed slightly. Alchemy. There was something unnatural about the uniformity, something too precise for such an impoverished place. The thought unsettled him.

John, the muscle-bound brute who had knocked Edward out cold, stepped out of the hut as they approached. His sheer size made the doorway seem small by comparison. But what struck Edward wasn't his size—it was the look on his face. Contrition. John looked down at them like a dog who'd been scolded.

"The elders are waiting inside," John said, stepping aside. His deep voice, while booming, carried a subdued note of regret. So he's been punished for what he did. Edward's lips twitched, half in amusement, half in bitterness. Maybe they don't want their precious tributes damaged.

Inside the hut, the scent of burning frankincense filled the air, its sweet, musky aroma threading through Edward's senses. He felt a strange calm settle over him, though he didn't trust it. They're trying to put me at ease. The thought was enough to make him wary. Winry moved ahead with a familiarity that made Edward frown. How many times had she been here? He didn't like that she was more at ease in this place than he was.

She parted a curtain, revealing the chamber beyond. There, on large cushions, sat two elders: the old woman who had checked on him before, and beside her, an equally ancient man. The way they sat, their bodies angled slightly toward each other, told Edward all he needed to know. They weren't just partners in leading the village—they were bonded, likely husband and wife.

"I see you're doing better, Edward," Noelle, the old woman, said softly, her voice threaded with age but still sharp.

Edward nodded, though his mind was already elsewhere. His body did feel better—stronger even—but his thoughts were far from the healing. Blood alchemy. That's what had done this. The idea gnawed at him, unsettling in its implications. He had dealt with enough forbidden alchemy in his time to know it always came with a cost.

"Yes, ma'am," Edward said, his tone flat. "Your blood alchemy is... impressive." He decided to go straight for it. No need for pleasantries. He wasn't here to exchange idle words.

Noelle's lips curved in a knowing smile. "You came to us with a cracked skull. Blood alchemy saved you. The medicine only helped speed your recovery." Her tone was matter-of-fact, as if she were discussing nothing more than a routine healing.

Cracked skull? Edward's hand instinctively went to his head, his fingers brushing the spot where he had been struck. The memory of the blow still reverberated through his mind, the sickening crack, the flash of pain. He suppressed a shudder. That blow should've killed me.

"Don't worry," the old man said, his voice rumbling like distant thunder. "John received proper punishment for his actions. You can call me Edgar," he added with a nod of introduction.

Edward narrowed his eyes. Punishment? For what, following orders? His cynicism got the better of him.

"Yeah, a dead tribute won't do you any good, now would it?" Edward said caustically as he lowered his hand, his golden eyes narrowing with suspicion.

Edgar's lip curled into a humorless smile. A heavy silence settled over the room, the tension thick between them. After a few moments, Edgar spoke again, his voice calm but carrying an undeniable weight.

"You're informed of your fate, I see. Yes, you and your wife were to be sacrificed during the summer solstice, so our land might be blessed with new life. This sacred event is what we call The Red Harvest."

"And it's a big load of crap," Noelle spat, her tone sharp with disdain.

Edward's eyebrows shot up at her outburst. "Care to explain?" he asked, crossing his arms, his curiosity now piqued despite his rising frustration.

Noelle glanced at Edgar, who gave her a small nod, and then continued. "The blood offering does nothing for the land, nor for the people. It's a lie told by the King and his chosen ones to maintain their power."

Edgar nodded, picking up where Noelle left off. "The truth is that the offering only benefits the King and those in his inner circle. What they practice isn't some holy ritual—it's something far darker."

There was that word again. Blood. Edward's mind flashed back to the strange sensations in his own body, the rapid recovery that seemed impossible under normal circumstances. His expression darkened. "You're talking about blood alchemy, aren't you?"

Noelle hesitated, then gave a slow, deliberate nod. "It is... part of our people's history. A method long kept secret, used for... purposes best left in the past."

"Bullshit!" Edward snapped, his frustration finally boiling over. "Blood alchemy hasn't been mentioned in any historical accounts. If it existed, it would have been recorded."

Edgar's bushy brows knit together, his eyes narrowing as he leaned forward slightly. "Just because it wasn't recorded in your books doesn't mean it wasn't practiced. History is written by those in power, boy. Surely you, an Amestrian, of all people, should understand that. Don't your own texts speak of the Dwarf in the Flask and what he did to our people?"

Edward's breath hitched at the mention of the first homunculus. That knowledge wasn't common—not unless these people had firsthand experience with the devastation caused by that being. Could it be possible? he wondered, his mind racing. Could blood alchemy have roots deeper than he had ever known?

He opened his mouth to argue, but the weight of what Edgar had said hung heavy in the air. His thoughts churned as he considered the possibility. Maybe blood alchemy had been practiced... maybe it was something no one wanted recorded. But then—

"Healing someone's injuries and human sacrifice are on completely different levels," Edward said, his voice hard as he tried to push aside his growing unease.

"Are you sure about that?" Edgar challenged, his voice low. "Couldn't they be two sides of the same coin? Both requiring life—both taking something from it?"

Edward clenched his fists, ready to snap back, but Winry's voice cut through the tension. "Edgar, you said you'd show us the way home once Edward was recovered." Her tone was calm but firm, a subtle plea for peace amidst the growing storm.

Edward felt a wave of gratitude for her. She had shifted the conversation just when he needed it most.

Edgar's hardened expression softened as he turned to Winry. "I did, Mrs. Winry, and I will keep that promise. But for now... it must wait."

Edward's patience snapped. He threw his hands in the air, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Of course! Let me guess, you're keeping us here for our own protection, right? Because we're so fragile you think we can't handle ourselves?"

Noelle's eyes flashed, but she kept her voice measured. "We don't want blood needlessly spilled, Edward."

Edward wasn't buying it. He'd heard enough. His jaw tightened, and without another word, he grabbed Winry's hand and pointed toward the exit with the other. "So, that means the gorilla outside won't be stopping us, right? Since you don't want blood spilled and all that."

An awkward silence fell over the room like a blanket. The elders didn't raise their voices to protest. They didn't move to stop him, either. They simply sat, watching, waiting.

Edward turned to Winry. "We're leaving," he said firmly, tugging her hand. But Winry stood still, her eyes fixed on his, a deep worry clouding her expression.

"Are you sure about this, Ed?" she asked quietly, her voice gentle, but laden with concern.

No, I'm not sure, Edward thought bitterly, his frustration gnawing at him. I don't know what the hell is going on here, and I don't know what's waiting for us out there. But he didn't say it. All he knew for certain was that these people couldn't be trusted.

"We're leaving," he repeated, his grip tightening on Winry's hand, though this time, the words were softer—more for himself than anyone else.

The curtains rustled behind them.

"Be a good boy, Ed, and listen to what the elders have to say."

Edward instantly bristled, recognizing the voice. It was that bastard he'd injured a couple of days ago. He turned slowly to face him, scowling as the man moved to join the elders' side, his expression as smug as ever.

"No," Edward said, his voice tight with defiance, his eyes locked on the man as if daring him to make a move.

The man merely shrugged, his calm demeanor infuriating. Edward turned back to Winry, voice urgent. "We don't need them," he insisted, his frustration barely contained. He knew Winry's heart—she was like Alphonse, too trusting, too willing to believe in people. "We'll find the way home ourselves."

Winry's eyes dropped to the floor, uncertainty pulling her into silence. Edward's chest tightened. He could feel her doubt, her hesitation. She didn't fully trust these people, but she also didn't want to run headfirst into danger. After what felt like an eternity, she raised her eyes back to his, the faintest shadow of fear still lingering there.

"I trust you," she said softly, though her voice trembled just enough to betray the worry she was trying to mask.

Edward gave a small nod and started for the exit, pulling the curtain aside. But before they could take another step, John blocked their path, his massive frame looming in the doorway.

"Don't be stupid," John said, his voice low, almost a growl.

Edward's anger flared hot and fast. "Get out of the way," he demanded, his tone dark, threatening. But John remained unmoved, his arms crossed over his chest, that same infuriating smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

"I said, move!" Edward's patience snapped. His voice thundered through the room, making Winry pull her hand from his, startled by the sudden surge of emotion.

John's smile didn't waver. "You won't make it out there in one piece," he said calmly. "Literally."

Edward felt the heat rise in his chest. He turned to face the other man, who had stepped forward, clearly preparing to interject himself into the conversation.

The man ignored Edward entirely, his focus shifting to Winry. "Mrs. Winry," he began, his voice suddenly soft and almost apologetic, "what I'm about to tell you won't be pleasant, but your husband has left us no choice."

Winry swallowed, her eyes darting between the man and Edward. "Okay, Luke, we'll listen," she said, her voice small but steady.

"Luke, was it?" Edward muttered under his breath, fists clenched at his sides. The way Luke spoke to Winry—so familiar, as if he had the right—made Edward's blood boil. He's too damn comfortable.

Sensing Edward's rising anger, Luke turned to him, a faint smile playing at his lips. "Let's walk through this genius plan of yours, shall we?" he said, his tone condescending. "You're thinking of heading back to the villa. I mean, that's what I'd do if I were you."

Edward scowled. The villa's a dead end. There was no way to use alchemy there, no chance to reactivate the transmutation circle—not since he'd lost the ability to perform alchemy. But he wasn't about to show his hand. "Not what I had planned," he replied tersely, taking the bait just to see where Luke was going with this.

Luke chuckled darkly. "Of course, how foolish of me. A warrior like you wouldn't waste time at the villa—you'd head straight for the King's door." He paced slowly, thoughtfully, as if weighing his next words. He paused in front of Winry again, his gaze softening slightly. "Mrs. Winry, tell me—are you a warrior yourself?"

Winry blinked, clearly taken aback by the question, unsure how to respond. The surprise on her face seemed to amuse Luke, who gave a small, almost satisfied smile. "I'm just teasing, Mrs. Winry. Pay no mind to this fool." He gestured dismissively toward Edward, as if Edward weren't even worth addressing directly.

Edward's fists clenched tighter, his knuckles white. Keep pushing, and I'll wipe that smug grin right off your face.

Luke finally turned his attention back to Edward, his expression more serious now. "I hope you weren't planning on waiting until after the solstice to make your grand escape, thinking they wouldn't need you after that."

Edward opened his mouth, ready to snap back, but Luke cut him off, his voice growing darker, more pointed.

"Those freaks—the King's men—they're like a dog with a bone. They won't let go. They'll hunt you down, and when they catch you—and they will catch you—they'll take their time." Luke's smile faded, and for a moment, his expression turned dark, haunted. His eyes clouded with a disgust he couldn't fully hide. "They'll have an entire year to do whatever they want with you." He looked at Edward and Winry, the weight of his words sinking in, as if the mere thought of what awaited them sickened him. "You have no idea the things they'll do—" His voice dropped, a trace of bitterness and revulsion creeping in. "It's beyond cruelty."

Edward's stomach dropped at the way Luke's words hung in the air, heavy and ominous. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Luke glanced toward Noelle for a brief moment, as if seeking her approval before continuing. When none came, he pressed on, his voice now laced with horror, though he didn't let it show fully. "A full year of torture," he said quietly, his eyes meeting Edward's with a haunted seriousness that sent a chill through the room. "That's what's in store for tributes. It's the only way they can extract what they need—the chemicals that form in the blood when a person's subjected to extreme, prolonged pain."

His expression twisted, as if he were forcing the words out despite his revulsion. "They won't stop. Those blood-sucking beasts… they'll break you down piece by piece, mind and body. Every day. Until you're nothing..." He hesitated, his eyes darkening with disgust, but there was something else there too—guilt, perhaps. "The things they'll do... no one deserves that."

Edward's blood ran cold. His mind raced as he realized the implications of Luke's words.

Winry moved closer to Edward, her face pale, her hands trembling slightly. He could feel the weight of her fear, and it echoed his own.

Luke continued, though now there was a faint tremor in his voice, as though even speaking the words disgusted him. "They'll break you down, piece by piece. Starting with that automail leg of yours. Maybe they'll even take it apart, just for fun." He swallowed hard, clearly disturbed by the thought. "They enjoy it—the process. It's not just about breaking your body. It's the way they savor the pain."

Edward's fists trembled at his sides, rage and fear swirling in his chest like a storm. He wanted to lash out, to shut Luke up, but he couldn't—there was something in Luke's tone that made it clear he wasn't lying.

Luke then turned to Winry, his expression softening slightly, though it seemed more out of pity than kindness. "And you, Mrs. Winry..." He hesitated, his voice dropping to a grim whisper. "The King and his men—they'll take a special interest in you." His eyes darkened, a shadow of disgust crossing his features. "You'll keep them entertained for quite some time, I imagine."

Luke's gaze flicked back to Edward, a grimace forming on his face. "Or maybe it'll be you, Edward." His voice grew colder, more bitter. "They don't discriminate. Man, woman—it makes no difference to them. They take what they want." There was a faint tremor in his voice again, and it was clear that even speaking these words revolted him. "No one's spared."

Edward couldn't hold back any longer. "Shut up!" he snapped, his voice shaking with fury. "Just shut up!"

Luke held up his hands in mock surrender, his face tight with distaste. "Believe me, Edward, I'm not saying this to provoke you. But you need to understand the reality of what's coming."

John, who had remained silent until now, spoke up, his voice deep and somber. "The King's men are monsters. Their... perversions have no limits."

Edward felt the weight of the words crash down on him. He stood frozen, his mind whirling. They're not lying. This is real.

Winry looked up at him, her face ashen, her eyes wide with horror. She was trying to hold it together, but Edward could see the cracks in her calm facade.

"We understand your pain, your frustration," Luke said softly, though there was a bitterness in his tone. "It's our pain and frustration too."

Edward let out a shaky breath, his resolve faltering. We're screwed. One way or another, we're screwed.

John stepped forward slightly, his voice quieter now, almost pleading. "Listen to the elders, Edward. We're not your enemies."

Edward swallowed hard, his throat tight. He looked at Winry, searching her face for a sign, some reassurance that staying might not be the worst choice.

Her expression was all the confirmation he needed. She was terrified.

Edward glanced between John and Luke, his fists still tight but his voice quiet now, defeated. "Okay," he said finally, his shoulders slumping. "We're ready to listen to what the elders have to say."

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Alphonse made his way back up the stairs, Pinako's terse response echoing in his mind. The automail shop had always been a place of warmth, filled with the clanking of metal and the smell of machine oil, but today it felt different—quiet, heavy, almost suffocating. Pinako's irritation was understandable. Edward and Winry were supposed to call by now, and the silence stretched far too long to be a simple oversight.

He stepped into his room and began to pack, though the task did little to quiet his thoughts. His movements were automatic, folding clothes and slipping them into his bag, but his mind stayed fixed on the unanswered question: Why haven't they called? Edward might have been careless about keeping in touch, but Winry would've made sure they called. The silence felt too deliberate—like something was keeping them from reaching out.

He snapped the suitcase shut, his worry deepening. His plan to visit Central felt necessary, but the creeping sense that something was wrong only grew stronger with each passing moment. Maybe the Brigadier General knows something. Maybe Ed and Winry had checked in with Mustang and his team instead, seeing as they were the ones who had gifted the stay at The Red Harvest. But still, the lack of any contact left an uneasy knot twisting tighter in his stomach.

Once his bag was packed, Alphonse made his way downstairs to the kitchen. He moved quietly, not wanting to disturb Pinako, who was likely back to her work in the shop, alone and buried in commissions. He opened the pantry and pulled out some bread and a jar of jam. He wasn't really hungry, but he needed something to steady himself. The simple act of making a sandwich gave him a moment to think.

The rotary phone hung on the kitchen wall, its familiar presence offering a small bit of comfort. Alphonse paused for a second, glancing at it while spreading jam over his bread. He wanted to call Mei. She had a way of calming him down, of offering perspective, and even though he didn't want to worry her, the need to hear her voice weighed on him.

But it wasn't urgent enough to bother her, not yet. He'd call her tonight, once he was in Central. He'd just mention it in passing, his concern over Ed and Winry. No need to make it into something more—at least, not yet.

As he sat down at the small kitchen table, eating without tasting, his thoughts circled back to the phone call that never came. What could have gone wrong? He'd seen Ed and Winry head off on plenty of trips, and even when Edward was forgetful, Winry always kept them grounded. They should have called. It was like an itch in the back of his mind that wouldn't leave him alone.

The clock ticked loudly in the quiet house, and Alphonse glanced at the time. He needed to head out soon if he wanted to catch the next train to Central. He finished his sandwich, wiped his hands, and stood up, the knot of unease tightening again. As much as he wanted to believe this was all a misunderstanding, his instincts told him otherwise.

Before leaving, Alphonse paused at the rotary phone again, fingers brushing the dial, but he pulled his hand back. Later. He'd talk to Mei later. He didn't want to burden her until he knew for sure what was going on. Besides, it wasn't her problem—not yet. He'd call her once he had more answers.

Alphonse headed out of the house, his bag slung over his shoulder, the feeling of dread still gnawing at him. He tried to shake it off, to push the worry down, but it clung to him, thick and persistent.

The train to Central would take a few hours, but Alphonse couldn't help but think that no matter how fast it moved, it wouldn't be fast enough to quiet the gnawing thoughts in his head. Something was wrong. Something had gone terribly wrong.


A/N: I'm busy, so new chapters will be uploaded slowly but steadily.

Check out my Tumblr page: hirstories dot tumblr dot com for artwork and other stories.

Thanks for reading!