I release her arm.
She doesn’t step away. Doesn’t flee. Just stands there, barely a handspan between us, this small fierce creature who should be terrified of me and isn’t.
“I need to think.” The admission costs me. Weapons don’t need to think—they just act. “This isn’t a choice I can make in a moment.”
“I understand.” She finally moves, finally creates distance, finally breaks whatever spell the alcove has cast on us both. “Find me when you’re ready. The storage alcove behind the Harvesting Halls—I’m there most nights after third bell. Alone.”
“You’re giving me your location. Your schedule. That’s dangerous.”
“I’m giving you the opportunity to kill me quietly if you decide I’m too much of a risk.” She straightens her robes, smooths her tangled hair. Putting her mask back in place. “Fair trade for the opportunity to burn this place to the ground.”
She moves toward the alcove’s entrance. I don’t stop her.
At the threshold, she pauses. Looks back at me over her shoulder.
“Imara.”
Her name feels different now than it did in the Womb Chamber. More real. More dangerous.
“Yes?”
Then she’s gone, slipping out of the alcove and into the corridor with silent steps, and I’m alone in the darkness with nothing but my confusion and the lingering warmth where her arm pressed against my palm.
FIVE
KHARVEK
The bells shatter the silence.
Not the regular bells that mark the hours—these are different. Harsh. Urgent. The kind that mean blood is about to spill.
I’m moving before I consciously decide to, instinct taking over. The corridor fills with running Attendants, all heading the same direction. Toward the lower levels. Toward the pens.
The Matron’s voice cuts through the chaos, amplified by blood-wards until it seems to come from the walls themselves.
“Escape attempt in the Breeding Pens. All Harvest Guard to containment positions. Kharvek—attend immediately.”
My name, spoken like a command. Because that’s what it is. That’s all it’s ever been.
I push through the crowd of Attendants—they scatter from my path, pressing themselves against the walls to avoid contact. Even now, even with an emergency demanding their attention, the fear is automatic. Primal.
Not her. She didn’t fear me. Not really.
I push the thought aside. Later. I can think about Imara later. Right now, there’s stock running loose, and if I don’t handle itquickly, the Matron will start asking questions about why her weapon hesitated.
The Breeding Pens are three levels down, a warren of underground chambers designed for maximum control with minimum effort. I take the stairs at a dead run, my enhanced muscles burning through the distance. The blood-wards grow stronger as I descend—denser, more watchful. The Matron protects her breeding stock with particular care.
The alarm bells continue their screaming. I crack my knuckles as I run.
Violence. Finally, violence. That I understand.
The pen entrance is chaos. Harvest Guard in formation, ritualists frantically reinforcing the blood-wards, Attendants trying to maintain order while clearly terrified of being caught in whatever’s about to happen. Through the press of bodies, I see the breach—a gap in the containment ward where someone has managed to force through.
Three escapees, I’m told. Two males, one female. Already past the primary checkpoints and heading for the surface.
I push past the guards and follow.
Their trail is easy to track. Fear leaves a distinctive scent—sharp, acrid, impossible to miss. They’re not trying to be subtle anymore, just running as fast as they can. Desperation driving them toward a freedom they’ll never reach.
