The third escapee bursts from a service entrance fifty yards away. A woman—young, dark-haired, legs pumping with desperate speed. She’s bleeding from a gash on her temple, her thin shift torn and filthy, but she’s still moving. Still fighting.
Run. Please, just run faster.
She won’t. I know she won’t. But some part of me—the part that hasn’t been completely crushed by ten years of compliance—still hopes.
Kharvek emerges behind her.
He doesn’t run. Doesn’t need to. His stride is long and measured, predatory patience in every step. The scars along his arms glow faintly red—power already flowing, ready to be unleashed. His face shows nothing. No anger, no satisfaction, no hesitation. Just focus.
The woman sees the crowd. Changes direction. Tries to angle toward a gap in the watchers, some desperate hope that witnesses might offer protection.
They won’t. We’re all complicit here. We all know better than to interfere.
The night air carries the smell of old death and fresh fear. Torches flicker at the field’s edges, casting dancing shadows across the assembled crowd. Above us, the sky is the color of a healing bruise—purples and blacks bleeding into each other, the stars hidden behind a perpetual haze that never quite clears over the Vale.
Kharvek closes the distance in a burst of speed that shouldn’t be possible for a creature his size. One moment he’s twenty feet behind her. The next, his hand is around her throat, lifting her off the rust-colored grass with casual ease.
The crowd murmurs. Shifts. Someone near me lets out a soft sound of fear.
But Kharvek doesn’t kill her.
He holds her there—suspended, choking, feet kicking uselessly—and turns to face the assembled servants. His gaze sweeps the crowd with deliberate slowness.
When those mismatched eyes find mine, they pause.
Just for a heartbeat. Just long enough for me to know he’s seen me.
Then he turns and carries his captive toward the Sanctum’s entrance, leaving the crowd to remember what happens to those who run.
SEVEN
IMARA
The screaming starts an hour later.
I’m back at my station in the Harvesting Halls, going through the motions of routine work. Cleaning equipment. Cataloging supplies. Pretending I can’t hear the sounds echoing from the interrogation chambers two levels down.
The woman’s voice carries through the stone, raw and ragged. The Matron’s questioners are thorough. Patient. They’ll break her eventually—everyone breaks eventually—but they’ll take their time about it.
She doesn’t know anything. She can’t know anything. My network is too careful.
But the screaming continues. And continues. And continues.
Three hours pass. The other harvesters cycle through their shifts, giving me careful nods, keeping their distance. They know better than to engage when the interrogation chambers are active. Better to stay small, stay quiet, stay invisible.
The screaming stops.
I set down my cleaning supplies. Wait for the summons I know is coming.
An Attendant appears at the hall’s entrance. “Harvester Calder. The Matron requires aftercare in Interrogation Three.”
Aftercare. Such a gentle word for what it really means.
I gather my medical supplies and follow.
Interrogation Three is a small chamber,circular, designed to focus sound inward. The walls are carved with amplification runes—every gasp, every whimper, every scream reverberates until it fills the space completely. There’s no escaping the noise here. That’s the point.
The woman lies on a metal table, strapped down but barely conscious. They’ve left her alone now that the questioning is finished. Whatever she knew—whatever she didn’t know—has been extracted.
