I arrange what contacts I can through the old network—messages left in dead drops, signals that Tomek taught me years ago. Most of my people are dead or scattered, but a few might still be watching, might still respond. If they do, they can help smuggle the remaining survivors beyond the territories the Matron can reach.
If they don’t, we’re on our own.
Dena shadows me through the farmstead, asking questions I don’t have answers for. Where are we going? When can we stop running? What happened to the other children in the training pens? I tell her what I can—not much—and distract her with small tasks. Sorting the edible supplies we scavenged. Counting our remaining water. Anything to keep her mind occupied.
She falls asleep in the afternoon, curled on a pile of rotted blankets with the button-eyed doll clutched to her chest. I watch her sleep and try not to think about all the ways I could still fail her.
The light shifts. Afternoon bleeds toward evening. The other survivors stir, eat what little we have, settle back into uneasy rest.
Kharvek hasn’t moved from his post.
I cross the room to where he stands. His gaze tracks my approach.
“You need to sleep.”
“I’ll sleep when we’re safe.”
“We’re not going to be safe for a long time. You can’t stay awake forever.”
He grunts. Doesn’t argue. Doesn’t move.
I step closer. Into his space, where his body radiates outward, where I can smell blood and dust and that undertone that belongs only to him. “You’re hurt.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re lying.” I reach for his arm—the left one, where I noticed him favoring his movements during the march. “Let me see.”
“Imara—”
“Let me see.”
He holds my gaze. That stubbornness I’ve come to expect warring with a new emotion. Then he extends his arm, and I see what he’s been hiding.
The scarification along his forearm is damaged. Not just damaged—torn. The channels that should carry power in clean lines are ragged, the raised tissue split in places where too much magic flowed too fast. Dried blood crusts the wounds. Fresh blood seeps from the deepest tears.
“This happened at the pit.” My voice comes out sharper than I intend. “Three days ago. You’ve been channeling through damaged scars for three days.”
“I’ve been keeping us alive for three days.”
“You’ve been destroying yourself for three days.” I grab his wrist, pull him toward the back room where we found a basin and some stagnant water. “Sit. Now.”
He could resist. Could plant his feet and refuse to budge, and there’s nothing I could do about it. Instead, he follows. Sits on the edge of a broken table. Extends his arm when I reach for it again.
The damage is worse than I thought.
I workin silence at first, cleaning the wounds with what little clean water we have. The scarification channels are delicate work—I’ve seen them carved during training rituals, watched the precision required to create paths that can carry blood magic without burning out the flesh around them. What Kharvek has done to himself… it’s a wonder he’s still functioning.
“You knew.” His voice is low. Rough. “In the cave. When you said I took damage. You knew it was this bad.”
“I suspected.” I dip a cloth in water, press it against a particularly ugly tear. He doesn’t move. “I hoped I was wrong.”
“You’re never wrong about blood.”
“No.” I rinse the cloth. Start on the next wound. “I’m not.”
Silence stretches between us. The evening light filters through cracks in the wall, casting long shadows across the room. I can feel him watching me work—that intense focus that makes my skin prickle.
“You’re staring.” The words escape before I can stop them.
