I watch her work. Feel pride swelling in my chest.
This is what she was made for. Not destruction—leadership. Not sabotage—salvation. The clan bred her for magical potential, but what they created was something far more dangerous: a woman who could see the system’s flaws and had the patience to exploit them.
And now that the system is gone, she’s building what comes next.
“Kharvek.” She waves me over. “We need to discuss shelter.”
I cross to her side. My hand finds the small of her back—casual contact, but she leans into it. Accepts the support. Lets me stand beside her as she addresses the gathered survivors.
“The Vale is no longer habitable.” Her voice carries across the field. “The magic that sustained it is gone. We need to move to the surrounding territories—find villages, settlements, places willing to take refugees.”
“They won’t want us.” A man’s voice. Bitter. “We’re Vale stock. Bred for sacrifice. Who would take us in?”
“Anyone who values extra hands.” Imara holds steady. “The Vale is hard territory. Every settlement needs workers, defenders, people willing to contribute. We offer that. We offer skills the outside world doesn’t have.”
“And if they turn us away?”
“Then we find somewhere else. Or we build our own place.” She gestures at the survivors around us. “There are over a hundred of us. That’s enough to start a village. Enough to create a new feeling.”
Murmurs ripple through the crowd. I see faces shifting—fear giving way to consideration, despair making room for possibility.
“What about the children?” Dena’s voice rises from near my elbow. She’s pushed her way to the front, her small face set. “They need families. Real families.”
Imara’s expression softens. She crouches to meet Dena’s eyes.
“They’ll have them.” She takes the child’s hands. “We’ll make sure of it. Every child here will find a home. A real home, with people who love them.”
“Even me?”
The question is small. Vulnerable. The voice of a nine-year-old who’s never known what family means.
Imara looks up at me. A silent understanding passes between us—unspoken, immediate.
“Especially you.” Imara pulls Dena close. “You already have one, if you want it.”
The child’s eyes go wide. Her gaze flicks to me. Uncertain.
I nod. Once.
Dena throws her arms around Imara’s neck and bursts into tears.
FIFTY-EIGHT
IMARA
Later—hours later, when the survivors have been organized into groups and plans have been made for morning—I find Kharvek at the crater’s edge.
He’s standing alone. Staring down at the destruction. His transformed scars catch the starlight—the new patterns gleaming pale against his dark skin. He looks different in this light. Softer, somehow. Still dangerous, still massive, still every inch the weapon the Matron created.
But different.
I approach quietly. Slip my hand into his.
“You should be resting.” His voice is low. Rough.
“So should you.” I lean against his arm. “Neither of us is very good at that.”
Silence. The wind blows across the dead fields, carrying the smell of ash and emptiness.
