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Almost.

“You don’t get people anymore.”

The root pulses beneath my palm.

“You get what is freely given.”

Another pulse.

“Food.”

THUMP.

“Drink.”

THUMP.

“Pleasure.”

The dead field shivers.

“Celebration.”

Across the field, the crowned figure slowly raises its head.

“Life.”

Warmth spreads through the root beneath my palm.

“But no more sacrifice.”

Silence.

“No more Brides.”

KEEPER burns around my wrist.

“No more blood that isn’t willingly given.”

The root moves.

A thin strand curls around my finger.

Ezra tenses beside me.

I don’t.

Because it isn’t tightening.

It isn’t trapping me.

It’s asking.

After centuries of taking… it fucking asks.

I look down at it.

“You understand?”