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Bones tumble from the walls.

I barely have time to register them before the floor splits open beneath Mercy.

Her entire body jerks.

“Mercy?”

The roots holding her twist violently, pulling in opposite directions as new ones tear through what remains of her skin.

Her scream cuts through me.

“MERCY!”

“GO!” she screams. “Sage, get out!”

Fuck that.

I lunge for her.

The second my hands close around her arms, Mercy grabs me back.

The red mark around my wrist ignites.

So does the floor beneath my feet.

Everything disappears.

Except Mercy.

Her pain slams into me so violently I can’t tell where her body ends and mine begins.

Then come the memories.

Not one.

Hundreds.

Thousands.

They tear through me faster than I can understand them.

Autumn after autumn after autumn.

I watch Ward Farm change around her while Mercy remains trapped beneath it. Trees grow, die, and are replaced. Buildings rise where others once stood. Clothing changes. Faces change. Voices disappear and new ones take their place.

But the Harvest always comes back.

I see the celebrations grow larger with every generation.

The old Communion becomes tradition.

Tradition becomes entertainment.

Sacred tables become food stands. Offerings become meals sold beneath string lights. Masks once worn for ritual become cheap costumes. People drink and dance over ground soaked with centuries of blood, never knowing something beneath their feet is drinking with them.

I see Brides chosen for show.

Black ribbons.