The words hang in the air. Promise and threat and something else—something hungry, something that makes my stomach turn.
She wants what we could produce. Not just the rebellion, not just the violence.
Us. What we could make.
“Move.” Kharvek’s voice is rough. “Now.”
We run.
The Vale’swilderness swallows us.
Beyond the Sanctum’s immediate territory, the land turns barren—centuries of the clan’s influence leaching life from the earth until nothing grows, nothing survives, nothing remainsbut rust-colored soil and jagged rocks and the constant pressure of residual magic.
Dena stumbles. I catch her before she falls.
“Keep going.” I adjust my grip, half-carrying her now. “We need distance.”
“Can’t—” She’s gasping, small body pushed beyond its limits. “Can’t keep?—”
“You can.” I won’t let her stop. Won’t let her become another name I carry, another failure I catalog in the dark hours. “A little further. Just a little further.”
Kharvek ranges ahead, scouting the path, his massive form somehow silent despite his size. Every few minutes he circles back—checking on us, checking for pursuit, his attention never quite resting.
The survivors scatter behind us. Those who made it out of the pit’s chaos—maybe twenty, maybe less—fleeing in different directions, taking different routes, hoping that dispersal will improve their odds.
Most of them will die. The Matron’s hunters are thorough.
But not all of them. Not if we’re lucky. Not if the chaos we’ve created buys enough time.
We reach a ridgeline overlooking a dead valley. Kharvek signals a halt, and I lower Dena to the ground with trembling arms.
“Rest.” I brush hair from her face. “Just for a moment.”
She curls into a ball, exhausted, and closes her eyes.
I straighten. Find Kharvek watching me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.
“You weren’t supposed to do that.” He keeps his voice low. Controlled. “We weren’t ready.”
“I know.”
“The plan?—”
“The plan doesn’t matter.” I meet his stare. Hold it. “She was nine years old. They were going to throw her into that pit.”
He’s silent. The scars on his arms have dimmed, power settling back into dormancy, but his body is still coiled with tension.
“You gave up everything we built. For one child.”
“I gave up nothing.” I step closer. “The plan was always about stopping them. Saving people. If I can’t save one child when she’s standing right in front of me, then what’s the point?”
His expression shifts. That hunting focus softening into what I can’t categorize.
“You’re going to get us killed.”
“Probably.”
“That doesn’t bother you?”
