“Is it?” She shifts closer to point at a mark on the map, and her hair brushes my scarred skin. Dark red strands catching on raised tissue. The sensation sends a jolt through my nerves—not pain, not quite pleasure. Something sharper. “You’ve already exceeded her design parameters. Every unauthorized modification. Every moment of delayed obedience. She built you to be an extension of her will. You’re not.”
I process this. She’s not wrong. The Matron created me as a tool, and tools don’t question their purpose. Tools don’t plan in the dark. Tools don’t sit in bone gardens with women who should fear them and feel?—
Feel what?
I don’t know. Can’t name it. The sensation sits in my chest, unfamiliar and demanding, refusing to be categorized as threat or opportunity.
“The Harvest Guard.” I redirect to safer territory. “They’ll respond to any disruption. How many can you pull away from the Chamber’s defense?”
“Most of them. I have routes prepared—false alarms in the Breeding Pens, apparent breaches in the outer wards. The Guard will scatter to contain what they think are multiple emergencies.”
“Grokh won’t scatter. He’ll go directly to the Matron.”
“I know.” The words don’t waver. “Can you handle him?”
Grokh. The closest thing I have to a peer. Raised in adjacent pens. Trained on the same victims. He’s faster than me, but I channel more power. In a direct confrontation, it could go either way.
“Yes.”
She reads something in my expression that I’m not aware of showing. “You’re not certain.”
“I’m never certain. That’s not how combat works.”
“Then what makes you say yes?”
Because I have a reason to fight now.
The thought arrives without permission, and I shove it aside. Dangerous thinking. Weakness dressed up as strength.
“Because he’s between me and the Matron. Obstacles get removed.”
Her mouth curves again. That slight expression that might be approval, might be more. “Good enough.”
ELEVEN
KHARVEK
We refine the plan for hours. Every contingency addressed. Every variable accounted for. She thinks in systems—sees the Sanctum as an organism with vulnerabilities that can be exploited. I think in targets—see the Matron as a problem to be eliminated with sufficient force.
Between us, we cover most of the gaps.
The moon rises above the bone garden’s eastern edge—not true moonlight, but the pale glow that filters through the Vale’s perpetual haze. The skeletal monuments cast long shadows. Somewhere in the distance, a scream echoes and fades—residual magic replaying some ancient death, or perhaps a fresh one. Hard to tell the difference anymore.
“Why?” I ask during a lull in planning.
Imara doesn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Why what?”
“Why the Matron? Specifically. You could escape. Your network could get you beyond the Vale’s borders. You could start over somewhere the clan can’t reach.”
“Could I?” She doesn’t look up from the map. “What’s beyond the Vale for someone with my skills? Another kingdom’s service. Another master’s orders. I wasn’t bred for freedom.”
“Neither was I.”
“No.” Now she looks up. Holds my gaze with an intensity that would make most creatures back away. “But you’re going to take it anyway. And so am I.”
She’s close. Closer than I realized—our planning brought us shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, two bodies bent over the same goal. I can count the pulse points in her throat. Can see the faint scarring along her collarbone where her own channels run. The blood-wards beneath the ground pulse red, and her eyes seem to catch that light.
Something shifts in the space between us. The air grows thick. Heavy in a way that has nothing to do with the Vale’s atmosphere.
