The stock are scattering. Some run toward the chaos, toward the slim hope of freedom. Others panic and stumble toward the pit itself, chains tangling as they flee blindly in every direction. Bodies splash into the churning water—some thrown, some fallen, some choosing the pit over whatever’s happening above.
I fight through the crowd. My scars burn as I work—another guard interrupted, another obstacle removed. My magic isn’t made for sustained combat. Every working costs me, draws on reserves I can’t afford to exhaust. But I keep moving, keep pushing, keep searching for one small figure in the madness.
A hand closes on my arm. I spin, power crackling along my channels?—
“Imara.” Kharvek. Blood-soaked, chest heaving, scars blazing with absorbed power. “Where?”
“Third row. Dark hair. Small.” I catch myself before describing her eyes. “She’s wearing a gray shift.”
He doesn’t wait for more. Just releases me and plunges back into the chaos, cutting a path through guards and panicked servants alike.
I follow in his wake.
The Harvest Guard have rallied.Eight of them form a defensive line near the pit’s northern rim, weapons drawn, waiting for Kharvek to come to them. They’ve seen what happens when he gets close. They’re hoping distance will save them.
It won’t.
Kharvek hits their line without hesitation. Two guards go down immediately—one drained, one broken—and then he’s among them, too close for their weapons to be effective, too fast for coordinated defense.
I circle wide. The stock huddle near the ritual platforms, those who haven’t scattered or fallen into the pit. I scan the terrified faces, searching for?—
There.
Dena crouches behind an overturned altar, her small body pressed against the stone. Her blindfold has fallen away completely, and her eyes—too old for her face, too knowing—track my approach with desperate hope.
“Imara.” The words break on my name.
“I’m here.” I crouch beside her, working at her chains with shaking fingers. The locks are blood-keyed—designed to respond only to authorized personnel. I am authorized personnel. “I’m getting you out.”
“The others—” She glances toward the remaining stock, the ones still bound and blindfolded. “We can’t leave them?—”
“I know.” The first chain falls away. I move to the second. “We won’t.”
A roar splits the air. Not Kharvek—the guards have brought out their champion. Grokh, the captain, built almost to Kharvek’s specifications. I watch him charge across the blood-slicked stone, watch Kharvek turn to meet him, and everything else fades.
They clash in a spray of crimson. Grokh is fast—faster than Kharvek, I realize with a cold spike of fear. But Kharvek channels more power, and when their bodies collide, the force sends Grokh stumbling back.
“Come on.” I pull Dena to her feet. “We need to move.”
“But—”
“He’ll catch up. He’s coming.” I don’t know if I believe it. Don’t know if Kharvek can survive Grokh, can survive all of this, can survive the disaster I’ve triggered with three beats of a drum. But I have to move, have to get Dena to safety, have to trust that he is everything I believe him to be.
We run.
FIFTEEN
IMARA
The pit’s edge is chaos. Bodies and blood and the constant wailing of the dead beneath us. I guide Dena around the worst of it, my hand tight on her arm, my magic stretched thin from the workings I’ve already performed.
The other stock—I can’t save them all. I know this. The chains, the guards, the sheer numbers—even with Kharvek’s rampage creating opportunities, I can’t reach everyone.
But I can reach some.
“You.” I grab a young man stumbling past—stock, maybe twenty, strong enough to run. “There’s a drainage tunnel fifty yards east. Take as many as you can. Don’t stop until you’re beyond the Vale’s boundary.”
He stares at me with blank terror.
