ONE
IMARA
The silver-tipped stylus drags across the orc’s shoulder, etching the final curve of the resonance channel. A thin line of crimson follows the blade, glowing as the ritual ink settles into the dermis. I adjust the focus of the magnifying lens and ensure the silver-thread inlay is flush against the bone.
The Sculpting Ward smells of ozone and cauterized flesh. Above us, the ceiling is a map of the Sanctum’s power grid—silver veins pulsing with the magic that our tools carve into the living subjects below.
“You’re gentle,” the man says. The word cracks as it leaves him. “Thank you.”
I don’t look at his face.
“Hold still.” I check the collection reservoir—half full. Another few minutes and his quota will be met. “You’re doing well.”
The words taste sour. Practiced comfort, rehearsed reassurance. He isn’t doing well. He’s being drained of life to fuel rituals that keep this hellhole running, and in six months his bloodline will be deemed depleted and he’ll end up in the Sacrificial Pit with all the others who’ve outlived their usefulness.
Don’t think about it. Don’t feel it.
I’m not gentle. I’m efficient. There’s a difference, even if the stock can’t tell.
Ten years of carving the mark of the slave into muscle and bone, maintaining my mask as the Matron’s primary architect while I secretly etched flaws into the very conduits I was meant to perfect.
My movements are automatic, muscle memory honed through thousands of repetitions. The man—I don’t know his name, don’t want to know his name—slumps in the chair as Attendants unbind his restraints.
“Thank you.” He repeats it like a prayer, eyes still averted. I hate him for it.
I hate myself more.
The summons arrives justas I’m finishing my station’s cleaning ritual. An Attendant in dark robes approaches with the measured pace they all adopt—never rushing, never hesitating. The Sanctum breeds uniformity into its servants.
“Harvester Calder.” The Attendant’s hood shadows his features. “The Blood Matron requires your presence in the Womb Chamber.”
My hands don’t pause their work. I continue scrubbing dried blood from the collection equipment, keeping my expression neutral, my breathing steady.
The Womb Chamber. Shit.
“When?”
“Immediately.”
I set down the cleaning cloth. Fold it precisely. Place it in the designated bin. Every motion calculated to project calm.
The Blood Matron doesn’t summon harvesters casually. She has Attendants for routine matters, senior ritualists for complex workings. Harvesters are tools—useful, but not worthy of her direct attention unless a task requires our specific expertise.
Unless the blood has gone wrong.
I follow the Attendant out of the Harvesting Halls, through corridors that twist deeper into the Sanctum’s heart.
The Sanctum pulses around me, a heartbeat felt in the bones rather than heard.
We reach the spiral descent.
“The Matron awaits you below.”
Of course she does. No escort past this point. If I’m going to be punished, discovered, unmade, there’s no need for witnesses.
I begin the descent.
The spiral takes nearlyan hour to walk. Each step carries me deeper into the earth, deeper into the Sanctum’s bowels, deeper into territory where the blood-wards press against my skin with suffocating intensity. The stairs are worn smooth from centuries of foot traffic, slick with moisture that condenses from the warm air. Red light seeps from the walls themselves—veins of crystallized blood that the Matron cultivated during her early years, before the Vale’s magic stabilized into its current form.
