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“This is my fault.”

Mercy touches my face with cold fingers. “No.”

“I saved the bloodline.”

“You saved a child.”

“And now…” I trail off.

“Sage exists because hundreds of people chose life after you made one choice.”

I open my eyes. “She’s here because of me.”

“She is alive because of many.”

The distinction hits.

Choice.

Again… always a choice.

I look around at the people eating, drinking, dancing, touching. Nobody forced them. The Harvest didn’t drag them here. They bought tickets and entered willingly.

Cup, table, mask, revel, hunt. Every rite disguised as entertainment and every step accepted.

My stomach drops.

“It can’t force the rites.”

Mercy smiles. “There you are.”

My blood goes cold.

“What?”

“The Harvest does not take what is not offered.”

I think of Sage. The cider she drank, the food she ate, the mask she put on and the hunt she entered. She chose Malakai. She ran from Rhett. Every fucking step.

“But the ribbon chose her.”

Mercy shakes her head. “She reached.”

“For a black ribbon.”

“She reached.”

“That isn’t consent.”

“No.” The word is immediate and strong.

For a second, Mercy is Mercy again. “The Harvest recognizes blood. It creates doors. It tempts. It calls. It amplifies.” Her fingers dig into my face. “But it cannot make the living walk through.”

I stare.

That’s why—that’s why Sage couldn’t tell Malakai no. Why Rhett waited. Why the Revel amplifies what already exists and why the boundary hurt her but didn’t physically drag her back. Now it’s making sense why the field opened paths instead of carrying her. Why everyone keeps asking.

Bride. Tiller. Reaper. Sower. Roles. Invitations. Not commands.