He releases me. Steps back. That controlled violence settling into what looks almost like calm.
But his eyes follow me as I return to check on Dena. Hot. Hungry. Patient in a way that makes my skin prickle with anticipation.
I settle beside the sleeping child, watching Kharvek take up his guard position, the Matron’s voice still moving through my memory.
You’ve shown me what you could produce.
She thinks she knows what we are. What we could become. She thinks our value lies in bloodlines and breeding potential and the offspring we might make.
She’s wrong.
What we’re building isn’t a bloodline. It’s a rebellion. A choice. Two people deciding they’re worth more than the purposes they were made for.
And whatever comes next—hunters, war, the Matron’s wrath—we’ll face it the same way we faced the pit.
I close my eyes and let myself rest, feeling Kharvek’s presence at the cave mouth, knowing he’s watching over us.
Knowing that, for the first time in ten years, I’m not fighting alone.
SEVENTEEN
KHARVEK
The child is slowing us down.
I watch Dena stumble over another rock, her small legs unable to match the pace we need. Imara catches her before she falls, murmurs reassurance I can’t hear, helps her regain her footing. We’ve been moving for hours since leaving the first cave, putting distance between ourselves and the Sanctum, and every minute the child struggles is another minute the Matron’s hunters gain ground.
“We need to leave her.” The words come out flat. Practical. “She can’t keep up.”
Imara’s head snaps toward me. Her gaze blazes with what might be fury.
“No.”
“She’s compromising our speed. Our survival.”
“I said no.”
I crack my knuckles. The sound echoes off the barren rocks around us. “The Matron has already sent hunters. Every delay?—”
“I don’t care.” Imara positions herself between me and the child. Protective. Pointless. “We’re not leaving her.”
The survivors scatter around us—five others who made it out of the pit’s chaos, following our trail because they havenowhere else to go. They watch this confrontation with hollow expressions, too exhausted to do more than wait for the outcome.
I could force the issue. Pick up the child, hand her to one of the others, tell them to go their own way. Imara would fight me, but she’d lose. Her blood magic is precise, not powerful. In a direct confrontation?—
I won’t. I know I won’t, even as I calculate the tactical advantages of abandonment.
Something has shifted since the bone garden. Since the cave. Since she touched my face and told me I was worth fighting for.
“Fine.” I turn away. “But if the hunters catch us because we’re moving at a child’s pace, remember who made that choice.”
“I’ll remember.” Her voice is steel. “And I’ll make the same choice again.”
I don’t respond. Just start walking, trusting she’ll follow with her trail of refugees.
She does.
The Vale’sboundary lies three miles ahead—a shimmer in the air where the blood-wards thin to nothing. Beyond that line, the Matron’s sight becomes limited. Her power fades. We’ll still be hunted, but at least she won’t be able to track us through the magical infrastructure she’s spent centuries building.
