I approach the table. Set down my supplies. Begin the assessment.
The damage is extensive. Burns along her arms where they applied heated implements. Cuts on her torso, shallow but numerous. Her fingers are bent at wrong angles—at least three broken on each hand. The gash on her temple has been left untreated, crusted with dried blood.
She’s dying. Slowly, but certainly. The blood loss alone would be fatal without intervention, and the internal damage from hours of sustained trauma?—
I’ve seen this before. Dozens of times. The questioners always push too far, always extract more than the body can survive losing. They don’t care if the subject lives afterward. Why would they? Stock is replaceable. Information is not.
Her eyes flutter open. Find my face.
“Please.” The word is barely a whisper. Her throat is destroyed—she screamed herself raw. “Please, I didn’t—I didn’t tell them?—”
“Shh.” I brush hair from her forehead. The gesture is automatic, meaningless comfort that changes nothing. “I know. You did well.”
“The others—” She coughs. Blood flecks her lips. “Jeren and Tam—are they?—”
Dead. Both dead. One drained, one torn apart. I watched Kharvek carry their killer across the Red Fields with her throat in his fist.
“They’re at peace.” I brush damp hair from her face. “They’re not suffering anymore.”
A flicker in her broken face shifts. Acceptance, maybe. Or just exhaustion beyond the capacity for hope.
“We found it,” she breathes. “The weak point in the wards. We thought—we thought maybe?—”
“I know.” My throat tightens. “You were brave. All three of you.”
She doesn’t know I’m the one who created that weak point. Doesn’t know her desperate bid for freedom was only possible because of sabotage I planted months ago. She thinks she found what feels like a miracle, a chance—and she took it.
She’s dying because of my work. Because I wasn’t careful enough about who might discover it.
“What’s your name?” I ask quietly. “I’d like to remember.”
“Sera.” Another cough, weaker this time. “My mother named me—named me for the sunrise—she said—she said?—”
The words trail off. Her eyes lose focus.
I take her hand. Hold it carefully, mindful of the broken fingers. Her grip is weak—barely there—but she squeezes back.
“Sera,” I repeat. “I’ll remember.”
She dies holding my hand, fifteen minutes later. I don’t move until her body goes cold. Then I close her eyes, cover her with a sheet, and signal for the disposal team.
Sera. Named for the sunrise. She never saw it—never saw anything outside the pens and the tunnels and the Sanctum’s bloody halls. She died chasing light she’d only heard about in stories.
This is what you’re fighting for. This is what the Matron does. Remember it.
I gather my supplies and leave the chamber.
EIGHT
IMARA
The Sanctum’s corridors are quiet now. The crisis has passed, the message has been sent, and the machine grinds on. Tomorrow there will be rituals. Next week there will be harvests. Next month, another desperate soul might find another weak point in the wards and try their luck.
They’ll fail. They always fail.
Unless a change occurs.
I take the long way back to my quarters, moving through less-traveled passages. My mind churns with images I can’t escape—Sera’s broken hands, her ruined voice, the hope in her eyes when she asked about her friends.
