And underneath it all, another image. Kharvek in the Red Fields, holding that woman by the throat, his scars glowing with banked power.
He could have killed her instantly. I’ve seen him do it—watched him drain a man in seconds, watched him tear another apart with his bare hands. The efficiency of his violence is legendary.
But he didn’t kill her. He brought her back alive because the Matron wanted a survivor. Made a spectacle of the capture because the Matron wanted a message. Performed his role withprecision and purpose, every action calculated for maximum effect.
This is different. This is violence with purpose.
The thought shouldn’t comfort me. It does anyway.
I round a corner into a maintenance alcove—one of hundreds scattered throughout the Sanctum, places where supplies accumulate and servants rarely linger—and stop.
He’s waiting for me.
Kharvek fillsthe alcove the way he fills every space—completely, overwhelmingly. His shoulders brush both walls. His head nearly touches the ceiling. In the dim light, his scars pulse with residual power, and that hunter’s focus fixes on me.
There’s blood on his hands.
Not metaphorical—actual blood, still wet, darkening the green-gray of his skin. He hasn’t cleaned himself since the hunt.
“You watched.” The words come out graveled, quiet. Not an accusation—a statement.
“I watched.” I don’t step back. Don’t flee. “I wanted to see.”
“And what did you see?”
The question hangs in the air between us. I could give him an easy answer—horror, revulsion, second thoughts about the alliance I offered. That’s what he expects. What anyone would expect after watching him work.
The alcove feels smaller with every word. The air grows thicker, heavy with tension and unspoken possibility. His scars catch the dim light, and I find myself watching the faint glow—fascinated despite myself.
Something shifts in his expression.
“Most people just see the violence.”
“I’m not most people.” I take a step closer. My pulse kicks, but my voice stays steady. “I’ve watched the clan’s violence my whole life. I know what mindless brutality looks like. What you did out there wasn’t mindless. It was precise. Deliberate. You performed exactly what was required, nothing more and nothing less.”
“That’s supposed to make it better?”
“It makes it useful.” Another step. I’m close enough now to smell him beneath the blood—that strange heat, that power thrumming just beneath his skin. “A weapon that thinks. A monster that calculates. That’s what I need.”
His scarred hands flex at his sides. Blood flakes off his knuckles, drifting to the stone floor.
“The woman I brought back.” He doesn’t look at me when he speaks. “You were with her when she died.”
“Yes.”
“Did she suffer?”
The question catches me off guard. Not the words—the way he asks them. Not casual, not dismissive. Closer to careful.
“Yes.” No point in lying. “For hours. The questioners were thorough.”
“Did she tell them anything useful?”
“She didn’t know anything useful. She just found a weak point in the wards and took her chance.” I pause. “Her name was Sera. Her mother named her for the sunrise.”
He’s quiet. The scarification on his arms flares briefly, then dims.
“You memorize their names.”
