“The western edge.” I pitch my voice low. “There’s an exit through the collapsed memorial. Can you reach it?”
“Can you?”
“I’ll catch up. Go.”
She doesn’t argue. Doesn’t waste time on protests that would only draw attention. Just presses her lips to my shoulder—quick, fierce, claiming—and slips into the shadows between bone sculptures.
I watch her go. Make sure she reaches the darkness safely. Only then do I turn my attention to the patrol.
Six guards. Easy kills if I wanted them. But bodies mean questions, and questions mean investigation, and investigation means the Matron looking closer at what her weapon has been doing in the dark hours.
Not yet. We’re not ready yet.
I circle wide. Use the monuments for cover. The bone garden has been my stalking ground since childhood—I know its paths, its shadows, its places where a seven-foot orc can disappear into darkness.
The guards pass within twenty feet of where I crouch. Their conversation drifts toward me on the night air.
“—said she wants the weapon monitored. Every movement. Every contact.”
“Monitored, not engaged. I’m not stupid enough to confront that thing without the Matron’s direct orders.”
“Think he knows? About the observation orders?”
“Does it matter? He’s just a tool. Tools don’t think about who’s watching.”
Their laughter fades as they move toward the garden’s eastern edge. I remain motionless until the torchlight disappears. Until their scent fades from the air.
Then I rise. Slip through the darkness. Follow the path Imara took toward the collapsed memorial.
She’s waiting in the shadows beyond the bone garden’s boundary. Her face pale in the weak light. Her breathing controlled despite what just happened.
“They’re watching you.” Not a question.
“They’ve been watching for weeks. Since the evaluation.”
“This changes the timeline.”
“No.” I look back toward the garden, toward the place where we planned rebellion and kissed among the dead. “This means we move faster. Before they see what we’re building.”
She nods. Professional again. The careful control sliding back into place.
But I saw what’s beneath that control now. Felt it pressed against my lips. And nothing about this situation is simple anymore.
“Tomorrow night.” She turns to go. “I need to adjust the ward corruption sequence. Account for increased surveillance.”
“Tomorrow night.”
She turns to go. Hesitates. Turns back.
“What you said. About not knowing how to want things.” She holds my gaze across the darkness. “For what it’s worth—neither do I. But I’m tired of not wanting. I’m tired of being empty.”
“Empty.”
“I built walls so thick there was nothing left inside them. Killed off everything that could be used against me.” She pauses. “You make me feel full. I don’t know what to do with that either.”
Then she’s gone. Slipping through the night toward the Sanctum’s distant silhouette. I watch until she disappears through a service entrance, safely inside, safely anonymous among the clan’s faithful.
I stand in the darkness for a long time. Processing. Cataloging. Trying to file this night into categories that make sense.
