Each day at the appointed time, in the fading light before the last sun sets on Ghastor’s Reach, an unassuming solitary figure can be found within the sprawling grounds of the planetary governor's residence. 

Quietly tending to the verdant expanse as the capital city's daily hum ebbs into a tranquil hush, he moves with purpose through the paths and groves of a garden quite unlike any other.

The man’s labours begin each day when Ollanius — the least fierce of the system’s three suns — takes its rightful place in the sky, casting a warm and comforting light upon the weary world below. 

His name, lost to the passage of time, matters little to those who pass by the Governor’s residence or stroll through its gardens. Even to the rest of the Governor’s household staff he is known simply as the Gardener. Clad in weathered attire, he moves with a calm and measured gait, his hands deftly navigating the foliage that thrives under his attentive care.

Each day’s service begins much like the last, with the Gardener methodically making his rounds. With patient diligence he tends to the delicate blooms and hearty shrubs, his actions guided by a lifetime of experience and an unspoken reverence for the natural world. Each leaf, each petal, bears witness to his gentle touch, nurtured by hands weathered by time and burdened by secrets untold.

But it is not the mundane flora of Ghastor’s Reach that hold his deepest devotion. Hidden within the depths of the garden, offworld specimens flourish under his special attention — and within the gnarled branches of a tree older than some worlds beats the true heart of his craft. From its twisted boughs and the dark earth beneath its dappled shade he harvests strange and exotic fruit; gnarled tangles of root and branch whose shape and form somehow hint at something entirely *other*. The Governor does not know of this secret harvest. None do.

These small effigies have become his truest companions amidst the enforced solitude of his indentured labour. In the few quiet moments between his designated working hours, he carves intricate designs upon their surfaces, leaning closely over their gnarled features with an intensity of focus that would alarm any who happened to see it.

And as he moves amongst the other trees and plants the Gardener will occasionally pause. From within his many pockets, he’ll produce a small carven trinket or curiously decorated object that he will carefully place among the foliage, aligned just-so, before continuing on his way.

As the days and years pass, the garden flourishes under his attentive gaze, its outward beauty seemingly a testament to the Gardener's skill and dedication. And yet — and yet — beneath the surface a subtle unease lingers; a feeling that whispers of secrets buried deep within the earth.

Unbeknownst to the inhabitants of Ghastor's Reach, a darkness lurks within the garden's tranquil facade, slumbering beneath the roots of the ancient trees, waiting patiently for the moment when it should awaken and cast its shadow over all who have dared to tread upon its soil.

And as the Gardener works he hums a soft melody, his gaze lingering fondly upon the burgeoning flora. A chill wind sweeps through the garden, carrying with it a whisper of something ancient and malevolent. *Grandfather…*

…but to the untrained ear, it is merely the rustle of leaves in the evening breeze, a sound as ordinary and unremarkable as any other.

The Harvesting Hour