Page 56 of May: Bloom & Bane

“Give me one reason I shouldn’t put you through that tree line.”

He turns slowly, and his pale eyes find mine.

“I will not give you one,” he says quietly. “You are right to be angry. That—was unlike me.”

I hate that he said that. It’s significantly harder to stay furious at someone who gives up without a fight.

“She isn’t a tool for whatever grief you’re carrying.” I dig my claws into my palm. “She is not the maker of your pain. And if you ever⁠—”

“Sage.” His voice lands in a way that makes my thoughts scatter. “I lost myself for a moment. It will not happen again.”

“What happened with the paint?”

He glances at the house, the leaves in his halo pausing. Through the kitchen window, I can see her hair catching the morning light like copper fairy lights.

“It is not a story you would enjoy, Little Reaper.”

I let silence sit between us for a long moment, until the anger has mostly drained out of me.

“Eden said she could feel your pain.” I rub the back of my neck. “Through your skin.”

Something akin to surprise crosses his face. “She could feel that through a single touch?”

“She is so connected to everything. Especially those she comes in contact with.” I fold my wings back slowly. “Which is exactly why you will never grab her like that again.”

He holds my gaze and nods once. I wish he would argue with me so this guilty feeling would quit gnawing on my stomach.

I drag a hand through my hair and exhale slowly. “You said you came to help me with my powers.”

“I did.”

“Then let’s get started. But if you⁠—”

“I understand. Believe me. I understand protecting what you love, more than you know.”

He turns toward the open meadow and gestures for me to follow.

“Take off your boots.”

I stare at him blankly. “I don’t wear boots.”

He looks at my bare feet. “Good. Then we can begin.”

Eden asked us not to hurt him.

What if we attack him and Eden doesn’t see? Ashán counters.

“Stand here,” he says, stopping in a patch of short grass. “Feet apart. Wings relaxed.”

“My wings are relaxed.”

He glances at my wings. Which are pressed so tightly against my back they’re practically one piece.

“Mm,” is all he says.

I force them open slightly, the gold membranes sparkling in the sun. The meadow smells like dew and pretension.

“Your power,” he begins, clasping his hands behind his back while he circles me like I’m a garden he’s deciding whether or not to prune. “What does it feel like when it rises?”