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My fucking ribbon.

The thing that started all of this.

I bend down and snatch it from the dirt.

For a second, I just stare at it.

At the strip of red fabric that turned me into a title before anyone bothered asking whether I wanted it.

Bride.

Harvest Bride.

The McBride.

Something to choose.

Something to plant.

Something to grow.

Something to fucking own.

No.

I wrap the ribbon around both fists and pull.

The fabric tears straight down the middle.

The sound is tiny.

Barely anything.

But the Harvest recoils.

I let both pieces fall from my hands.

“And I am done being anybody’s fucking Bride.”

The Harvest screams.

The sound tears across the field.

The Witnesses cover their ears. Goblets shatter across the table. Corn bends nearly to the ground as the scream rips through it, but I stand there and let it fucking scream.

Because something on my wrist is burning.

I look down.

The mark blazes beneath my skin, red so bright it throws light across my fingers.

The old symbols twist.

Change.

Letters carve themselves through the glow one by one.

KEEPER.