Chapter 5 – The Circle of Iron
The air smelled too clean.
At first, Leah thought it was just spring in the valley—fresh rain on tilled earth, sunlight glinting off wet fenceposts. But the deeper she and Clara walked into the farmland, the more the smell shifted. Sharp. Bitter. Like bleach soaked in dust.
They had crossed into southern Ohio two days ago, following gravel roads and winding past wide fields flanked by hedgerows. This was supposed to be one of the last Amish regions still intact—communities that had survived by staying apart from the old world.
But something was off.
The houses looked right—white wood, steep roofs, hand-pulled carts in the driveways. Black buggies stood lined near a meeting hall, and children played quietly in the yard, their clothes plain and hand-stitched.
But the fields told another story.
The corn stood too straight, too uniform. The leaves were waxy, unnaturally green. A fine mist coated the soil. Metal drums marked with a spiral glyph sat near irrigation pumps—glyphs Leah had seen before, but not in this context.
“The Beast’s brand,” Clara whispered, keeping her voice low.
Leah knelt beside one of the rows and brushed the soil. A chemical film clung to her fingertips.
“This isn’t compost,” she said. “It’s engineered fertilizer.”
Clara’s mouth tightened. “They’re growing it for the East.”
Leah looked up at her. “To feed the cities?”
Clara nodded. “More than that. This is a supply zone.”
As they walked farther, Leah noticed more signs: machines tucked behind barns, modified pesticide rigs mounted on carts. A warehouse marked only with a sunburst glyph surrounded by iron circles. A man stood guard near its door with a long staff—not a gun, but not a welcome either.
When they reached the edge of the central farm, a woman approached them. Her dress was dark gray, and her bonnet was tied so tightly that Leah couldn’t see her hair.
“You’re travelers,” the woman said plainly.
“We’re seedkeepers,” Clara answered, meeting her eyes. “Passing through on the way to the valley.”
The woman looked them over. “Outsiders don’t usually stop here.”
“We’re not looking for trouble,” Leah added. “We just want safe passage.”
The woman hesitated, then gestured for them to follow. “You can stay the night. But only one.”
As they passed through the village, Clara leaned toward Leah. “This place feels wrong.”
Leah nodded. “Everything looks right on the outside. But the land’s been twisted.”
That evening, they sat in a guest cabin—simple but too quiet. No singing. No stories. Just heavy silence and the echo of distant machinery running under the fields.
Clara pulled out her journal and flipped to a page near the back.
“These people don’t talk about their seeds,” she said. “No names. No history. Just product.”
Leah frowned. “That’s not memory. That’s control.”
Clara nodded. “And look at this.”
She pulled a waxed packet from her coat—taken from the gift bin in the community’s exchange building. The glyph printed on the label was unmistakable: a spiral surrounded by four iron rings.
Leah traced it with her finger.
“The Circle of Iron,” she whispered. “That’s not tradition. That’s the Order.”
Clara sat back. “They don’t use electricity. They don’t touch fiber. But they serve the Beast all the same.”
Leah closed the packet and stared at the lantern-lit wall. “And the food they grow keeps the cities quiet. Fed, but hollow.”
Outside, a bell rang once. Then twice. A signal of curfew.
Clara whispered, “Tomorrow, we leave before dawn.”
They would make their way through the hills of West Virginia, through Beast-run company towns built around chemical plants and storage depots. But tonight, they were surrounded—trapped in a place that wore the face of simplicity but knelt to something far more dangerous.
Something cold.
Something hungry.
American Prophet 