Page 170 of May: Bloom & Bane

“Reaper!” War bellows, slamming against the barrier. “It has been three days. Open this sāken⛨ door before I tear the whole meadow apart. (Fucking)

Behind him, Famine leans against a tree with the patience of a stone. Pestilence is a silent shadow at the tree line. And Death simply waits, his blade resting across his lap.

“He isn’t tearing anything apart,” I growl as I wrap my clawed fingers around the heavy brass handle. The wood writhes beneath my touch, a low warning against my palm before it yields. I yank the door inward, and the morning air rushes in, heavy with the scent of the Riders.

“You’re late,” War booms, stepping to the threshold.

“Late? The sun has barely cleared the trees, Horseman. It’s dawn on the third day. By any count that matters, we have until nightfall—so unless you’ve forgotten how to read the sky, you’re early.”

The bronze plates of his shoulder armor grind in annoyance. “Semantics,” he growls. “You will not have an answer at nightfall any more than you have one now⁠—”

“Then you have wasted a perfectly good tantrum, haven’t you?” I murmur.”The bond hasn’t sealed, and we don’t know why. That hasn’t changed.”

His bell tilts in the direction of the staircase, fury draining out of him. His gauntleted hands fall slack at his sides.

“There’s a third heartbeat,” he says quietly.

The whole world narrows to a pinpoint.

“You’d do well not to finish that⁠—”

“A baby.” His bell rings once, hand lifting toward the door in pure wonder. “Reaper. You made a⁠—”

“Don’t say it!” Ashán explodes to the surface. An absolute tsunami of black magic forcibly erupts from our spine. Shadows surge forward, shrieking like a thousand dying souls as they engulf him. They lift his heavily armored frame right off the porch.

Ashán, stop! I roar, trying to yank on the reins of our power, but it’s like trying to leash a wildfire with my bare hands. I stumble, my right hand clawing at my own chest as I attempt to pull the shadows back. He wasn’t threatening her. Reel it in!

The yard outside erupts into chaos. Nook wails in warning, the walls juddering so hard dust pours from the ceiling. Damien’s massive, stitched arms flare out as he prepares to throw his towering weight between the Horsemen and me.

Famine is off the tree in a flash, his frail-looking frame radiating an oppressive hunger, his eyes flashing with surprise. Pestilence surges forward, a swarm of rot following his heels, while Death’s blade materializes from his lap into his hand with a lethal hiss.

Down the thread we left curled around her ankle, I feel Eden’s panic—she’s crying.

Ashán! She’s afraid, I breathe. She can feel all of this.

The shadows falter.

No—Ashán’s voice cracks.

War drops an inch, gasping for air as his hands claw at the smoky shadows around his neck.

Her next sob shudders down the thread, and it guts him. Because this is the one thing Ashán cannot handle. He can rage at gods. He can strangle Horsemen. But he cannot be the reason she cries.

Black tendrils unspool from War’s body so fast he drops on his ass. The shadow leeches back into our spine, vorí receding as flesh knits back over bone.

I made her cry, Ashán whispers.

The weight of his guilt leaves me breathless. He retreats so deeply into the dark corners of our mind that the connection goes completely numb.

War stays seated, his chest heaving as he sucks lungfuls of morning air.

My head automatically turns toward the staircase.

“Kaeran,” Famine’s rasping voice cuts through the quiet, cautious as he moves toward the porch. “Can you stand?”

He lets out a rough cough, his bell tilting at me as he forces himself back onto his feet.

Damien steps toward me, but keeps his eyes trained on Death’s sword.