“I know.”
For a moment, neither of us speaks. The realization passes between us without words—we’ve both been watching the Sanctum’s workings, both cataloging vulnerabilities, bothwaiting for the moment to strike. We just never knew we had company in our rebellion.
“How long?” she asks.
“Two years of planning. Before that…” I roll one shoulder, feel the pull of modified scar tissue beneath my skin.
She nods once. Efficient. Final. “Then let’s plan.”
The night deepensas we work. She outlines her network—eleven servants positioned throughout the Sanctum, three harvesters who share her hidden rage, two guards on the outer perimeter who can be bribed with freedom rather than gold.
A decade of quiet cultivation, a façade so perfectly fitted that even Sister Vela never suspected.
I outline my capabilities. The unauthorized modifications to my scarification channels—broader paths for power, deeper reservoirs, the ability to channel more blood magic than the Matron ever designed me to hold. I show her the newest patterns, still healing along my forearms, raised tissue that itches in the cold air.
She traces one of the channels with her eyes. Doesn’t touch. Her restraint is notable.
“You’ve been preparing to fight the Matron directly.” It’s not a question.
“I’ve been preparing to survive fighting the Matron directly. Different goal.”
“Barely.”
Another sound escapes me. That same not-quite-laugh. Her mouth curves—just barely, just enough to notice.
We bend over the map. Her shoulder brushes my arm. The contact is incidental, meaningless, and yet I feel it like a brandthrough my thin shirt. She smells of ritual herbs and a deeper scent—something that belongs to her alone, sharp and clean beneath the Vale’s ever-present copper tang.
“The blood-wards anchor here.” She points to the Womb Chamber’s location. “And here, at the Sacrificial Pit. If I can corrupt both anchor points simultaneously?—”
“The entire defensive grid destabilizes.”
“For approximately seven minutes. Maybe eight if the Matron is distracted.”
“Long enough.” I study the paths between anchor points. “I can reach the Womb Chamber in four minutes from the drainage access. Faster if I’m not trying to stay hidden.”
“You won’t need to hide. By the time you reach the Chamber, I’ll have triggered the corruption. Every Attendant in the Sanctum will be dealing with cascading ward failures.”
“And the Matron?”
Her jaw tightens, almost imperceptibly. “She’ll come to the Womb Chamber. It’s her heart—her center of power. She’ll need to stabilize the wards personally.”
“You’re counting on that.”
“I’m planning for it.”
The distinction matters. Counting implies hope. Planning implies strategy. Imara doesn’t strike me as someone who wastes time on hope.
“What happens when she gets there?”
Her gaze lifts from the map to meet mine. Steady. Unflinching. “You kill her.”
Simple. Direct. The kind of answer I understand.
“I’ve never fought her at full strength.” Not a warning—an assessment. “The modifications give me an edge, but she created me. She knows my limits.”
“Then exceed them.”
“Easier said.”
