Three miles. At our current pace, two hours. Maybe more.
The landscape grows more barren as we climb. Nothing survives this close to the Vale’s heart—centuries of the clan’s influence leached every drop of life from the soil until even weeds refuse to grow. The ground is rust-colored, the rocks are jagged, and the air tastes of copper and ash.
I’ve been outside the Vale before. Hunting missions that took me into territories the Matron wanted to claim. I never paid attention to the deadness of the land—never cared about anything except the target and the kill.
Now I notice. Now, watching Imara guide the child over another obstacle, watching the other survivors struggle to keep moving, I see what the clan has done to everything it touches.
Destruction. That’s all they create. All I create.
Is that all I’m capable of?
The question arrives without permission. I shove it aside. Now is not the time for philosophical contemplation. Now is the time for survival.
Dena cries out. I spin, power flooding my channels?—
She’s fallen. Just fallen, tripped over her own exhausted feet. Imara kneels beside her, checking for injuries while the child’s thin frame shakes with suppressed sobs.
“I can’t.” Dena’s voice breaks. “I can’t keep going. Leave me. Just leave me here.”
“No.” Imara’s voice brooks no argument.
“I’m slowing everyone down. The big one said?—”
“The big one doesn’t make decisions for this group.” Imara shoots me a glare that could strip paint. “We’re not leaving anyone behind.”
I approach. Dena shrinks back—a small motion, quickly controlled, but I see it. Of course she shrinks back. I’m built for killing. Children learn to fear killers before they learn anything else.
“Get on my back.” The words surprise me as much as they seem to surprise Imara. “I’ll carry you.”
Dena stares up at me. Terror and exhaustion war in her small face.
“Now.” I crouch, presenting my back. “We don’t have time for arguments.”
A moment of hesitation. Then small arms wrap around my neck, thin legs grip my sides, and I rise with a child clinging to me like I’m more than a weapon built for destruction.
Her body trembles against mine. Fear. Exhaustion. The aftermath of everything she’s survived.
I start walking. Faster now. The child’s slight form adds nothing to my burden—I was built to carry the power of centuries of sacrifice. One nine-year-old barely registers.
Imara falls into step beside me. She says nothing, but I feel her attention on my face. Questioning. Assessing.
“Don’t.” I don’t look at her. “Don’t read anything into this.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I was thinking you’re full of surprises.”
I grunt. Keep walking. Try not to think about the way Dena’s death grip on my neck is slowly relaxing, her terror fading into what feels closer to trust.
Trust. In me. The irony burns.
EIGHTEEN
KHARVEK
We cross the Vale’s boundary as the sun reaches its peak.
