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I know them.

I’ve seen those same symbols carved into the stone beneath Ward House, etched across the altar and worked into our masks. They even mark graves that have no names.

Sage whispers, “What does it say?”

I don’t answer. Because I know. And for once in my very long existence, I don’t find any part of this amusing.

“What does it say?”

I look at her. “Given.”

Something shifts in her expression.

Then the corn begins to rustle around us.

There’s no wind.

The sound grows, spreading through the field as thousands of stalks move together, their leaves brushing against one another until the rustling becomes something else.

A whisper.

One.

Sage goes completely still.

I grab my clothes. “Get dressed.”

“What?”

“Now.”

She doesn’t argue. That’s how she knows I’m afraid. We dress quickly. I find my mask. The moment I pick it up, a crack splits across the forehead. One line.

I stare at it.

Sage comes beside me. “What?” Before I can answer, something whistles from deeper in the field.

Not my whistle.

Different. Low. Three notes.

I feel it. I don’t know how.

Then another sound.

Closer to the house.

A whisper.

Sower.

Sage hears that too and her eyes widen. “Ezra.”

Yes.

I look toward Ward House. The Harvest has counted me. One.

Malakai already gave himself to the Revel. But perhaps the Harvest didn’t count what happened between them the way we assumed.