Except traps don’t look at you the way she did. Traps don’t understand your modifications better than the ritualists who were supposed to design them. Traps don’t tell you their schedules and their hiding places and offer you their throats while demanding to be used.
I press my hands against the cold stone wall of my quarters. Somewhere above me, the survivor is screaming her secrets to people who will use them to prevent anyone else from trying what she tried.
Somewhere else, Imara is waiting. Patient. Willing to gamble her life on a monster’s choice.
Third bell. Storage alcove behind the Harvesting Halls. Alone.
I could kill her. Eliminate the risk. Go back to my modifications, my slow preparation, my solitary war against the clan that made me.
Or I could take what she’s offering. Let her into my plans. Trust—no, not trust. Use. Let her use me while I use her, two weapons pointed at the same target.
SIX
IMARA
The alarm bells haven’t stopped screaming.
I press myself against the corridor wall as Attendants rush past, their dark robes billowing. The chaos is useful—no one notices a harvester standing frozen outside her quarters, no one questions why my hair is tangled or my hands are shaking.
No one saw him corner me in that alcove. No one heard what I offered.
Escape attempt in the Breeding Pens.
The Matron’s amplified voice still echoes in my skull. Escape attempt. Three stock running for freedom they’ll never reach. Running through a weak point in the wards that I created six months ago, a subtle flaw I’d been saving for the right moment.
This wasn’t the right moment.
I didn’t plan for today. Didn’t know anyone would try today. The weakness was supposed to be a backup option, an emergency exit for when my network finally made its move. Someone must have discovered it independently—tested the wards, found the gap, and made a desperate choice without any idea what they were running into.
Without any idea who would be sent to hunt them.
I push off the wall. Start walking. My feet carry me toward the upper levels, toward the Red Fields where containment protocols always end. The Matron likes her recaptures public. Likes the message they send.
He’s out there. Hunting them right now.
Kharvek. The weapon I just offered to help aim. The monster who cornered me in the darkness and demanded to know why I’d lied for him, whose hand on my arm burned hotter than any blood-ward.
I need to see what he does. Need to know if the alliance I’m gambling my life on is worth the risk.
The Red Fields await.
Attendants rush past without acknowledging me—too focused on the crisis to notice a single harvester moving against the flow. I keep my head down, my pace measured, my expression blank.
My mind won’t stop replaying the confrontation in the alcove. His hand on my arm, burning hot. His breath on my face, close enough to taste. The way he listened when I offered to help him destroy everything we’ve both been enslaved by.
Focus. Three people are running for their lives right now. You can think about the monster later.
The grass crunchesbeneath my boots—brittle, rust-colored, nourished by centuries of spilled blood. The Red Fields surround the Sanctum in every direction, open ritual grounds dotted with stone altars and bone pits. Crows watch from the scattered bone pillars, their black eyes tracking movement with patient interest.
They know what’s coming. They always know.
A crowd has gathered near the eastern edge—Attendants, ritualists, a handful of harvesters who aren’t on rotation. They cluster at a safe distance, faces illuminated by the blood-wards’ crimson glow. No one speaks above a whisper.
I find a position at the crowd’s edge. Keep my expression neutral, my posture appropriately subdued. Just another servant come to witness the Matron’s justice.
The hunt isn’t over yet. I can tell from the tension in the gathered bodies, the way heads turn toward every sound. Two of the escapees have already been dealt with—I heard the reports as I climbed. One drained in the lower corridors. One torn apart near the surface tunnels.
One still running.
