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The Harvest screams.
I smile.
“You’re scared.”
The creature moves behind the smoke.
Huge. Furious–hungry.
“You’re fucking terrified.”
The roots around Ezra loosen. The mask cracks. One stitch snaps. Then another.
Ezra gasps. “Sage.”
The Harvest howls.
I reach Ezra and rip the mask from his face. Skin tears, blood pours as he screams while I cry. “Sorry.”
“Don’t...”
“I’ve got you.”
“Sage.”
His hands are still bound.
I touch his face.
He leans into me before he can stop himself.
There. His choice. Tiny but his. Not enough for the ritual. Enough for me. “You don’t have to choose me.”
His eyes open. “What?”
“You don’t owe the Harvest anything.”
His face twists.
“You don’t owe Mercy.”
I touch his forehead with mine. “You don’t owe me.”
His breath shakes.
“And you don’t owe two hundred years of guilt another fucking second.”
“Sage...”
“When you choose me, if you choose me, I want it because you fucking want to.”
The field goes silent.
Ezra stares at me.
Then something changes. Not surrender.
Not yet.
