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“Fantastic. Tell your farm.”
Her smile disappears. “It is not mine.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“It was never ours.”
“Then whose is it?”
Mercy looks toward the table and the candles flicker. “Older.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“It is the only one I have.”
She walks and I follow. Not because she told me to. Because I decide to.
That distinction matters now.
Mercy notices the shift in my expression. “Good.”
I narrow my eyes. “Don’t do that.”
Her brow furrows. “Do what?”
“Look at me like I just passed some fucking test.”
“I wasn’t…”
“And don’t praise me like a dog because I managed to make a choice for myself.”
Understanding settles across her face, softening something in her expression.
“Fair.”
We stop at the end of the table, where four places have been set apart from the rest.
Three chairs sit side by side.
A fourth waits alone across from them.
I stare at the arrangement, and understanding settles over me.
Three for them.
The Sower. The Reaper. The Tiller.
And the one sitting opposite them?
The Bride.
My stomach turns.
“What happens to the Bride?”
Mercy goes still.
No riddles. No half-answers.
