“The survivors need us functional.” She’s convincing herself. “We can’t protect them if we’re exhausted.”
“True.”
Still we stand there, wrapped around each other, unwilling to let go.
“Kharvek.”
“Imara.”
I take up a position at the cave entrance. Watch the barren landscape for movement. Try to quiet the storm in my head long enough to think clearly.
The Matron wants us alive. Wants our bloodlines, our potential, the child we could create. She’ll send hunters—not to kill, but to capture. Different rules. Different dangers.
Can we outrun her? Outfight her?
I don’t know. I’ve never run from anything in my life. Running isn’t what I was built for.
Hours pass.The survivors sleep. Imara dozes against the cave wall, exhaustion finally claiming her despite her efforts to stay awake. Dena shifts in her sleep, small sounds of distress escaping before she settles again.
I watch them all. Guard them. Feel the strangeness of caring whether they live or die.
The sun drops toward the horizon. Shadows lengthen across the dead landscape. The air grows colder, that residual warmth from the Vale’s magical infrastructure fading to nothing.
We’ll need to move again soon. Find food. Find water. Find somewhere more defensible than this cave.
We’ll need to figure out what comes next.
The blood-wards stir.
I tense. The sensation is faint—we’re beyond the Vale’s boundary, beyond the Matron’s direct sight—but I feel it anyway. A ripple in the magical infrastructure, a surge of power being channeled toward?—
The words echo across the dead valley.
“Kharvek.”
Not amplified this time. Not addressing a crowd. Just my name, spoken with intimate precision, carried on currents of blood magic that shouldn’t reach this far.
But they do. Because she’s the Blood Matron. Because she built these systems. Because when she wants to be heard, nothing can stop her voice from finding its target.
“I’ve sent my hunters.” Soft. Almost gentle. “What remains of them. They’ll reach you by dawn.”
Imara jerks awake. Her hand finds mine in the darkness.
“But that’s not why I’m speaking to you now.”
I should move. Should rouse the survivors, should start running, should act rather than stand frozen while my creator’s voice wraps around me.
“There’s truth you deserve to know. Something I should have told you long ago.”
Imara’s grip tightens.
“Come back.” The Matron’s voice holds no anger. No threat. Just quiet certainty. “Come back, and I’ll show you where your bloodline really came from. Where you started. What you are.”
The words hit like physical blows.
“I’ll show you your true origins, Kharvek. The reason you’re capable of things no other orc has ever achieved.”
Static. Silence. The voice fades, leaving only the wind and my own ragged breathing.
