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I almost sob. “Good.”

Then every mouth in the Harvest opens.

SOWER.

Ezra goes rigid.

Here it is.

I feel his hand leave mine and my stomach drops.

He takes one step away.

I don’t grab him—don’t stop him. The choice is his and I will not interfere.

He looks at the three chairs, at the table, at the Harvest then at me.

The crowd begins whispering.

Sower.

Sower.

Sower.

Ezra’s mask rises from the dirt. The broken one with the stitched mouth. It floats toward him.

“No,” I whisper.

He catches it and looks down at it. The stitches twitch almost mocking him. His grip tightens and then… his fingers dig into the thread, tearing them out one by one.

The mask screams, black liquid pours from the mouth but Ezra doesn’t seem to give a fuck, he just keeps ripping until the mouth is fully open then he places the mask over his face.

My breath catches. Not because the Harvest forced him, he chose to.

The creature lowers its head and Ezra walks toward the table, taking three steps then stops at the Sower’s chair.

The Harvest extends its hand but this time nothing rests in its palm. No knife. No food. No cup. Just an empty hand—waiting.

Ezra looks at it, then to me. “I remember.”

My heart pounds.

“What?”

“What the Sower gives.”

Nobody moves.

He removes the mask, drops it, and walks toward me.

My lungs stop working.

“Ezra.”

He doesn’t stop until he’s directly in front of me.

The Harvest whispers behind me.