“I need to touch you.” I select a resonance needle from the tray. “For the reading.”
“Do what you need to do.” His focus doesn’t waver from my face. “Everyone else does.”
I lay my fingers against his forearm.
Heat. That’s my first impression—the heat radiating from his skin, far warmer than any orc should be. His body runs hot from the constant flow of power through his channels, blood magic churning through enhanced flesh. The scarification pulses beneath my touch, alive in a way that makes my own ritual marks tingle in response.
Power floods through his channels in torrents that should have burned him out years ago, held in check by the precision engineering of his scarification. He’s a weapon, yes—but he’s also a marvel. A masterwork of blood magic that the Matron has spent decades perfecting.
I trace the familiar patterns first. The original channels, carved during his childhood. The modifications added during adolescence. The refinements from his years of active service.
Then I find it.
New carvings. Recent. Hidden beneath the master-lines I drew, someone has etched amateur but effective bypasses. The style is a crude mimicry of my own technique. He hasn’t just been bleeding; he’s been sculpting himself.
My eyes snap open.
He’s watching me. Still watching. That dark stare fixed on my face with an intensity that should send me scrambling backward, should trigger every survival instinct the Sanctum has beaten into me.
I don’t flinch.
“You found it.” The words come out barely louder than a rumble. “The new work.”
“You did this to yourself.” It’s not a question.
“Yes.”
I should report this immediately. Unauthorized modifications to clan property—because that’s what he is, technically, what we all are—carries a death sentence. The Matron would want to know. The Matron specifically asked me to find anything unusual.
“Why?” The word escapes before I can stop it.
“Why did I modify myself?” He flexes his bound fingers, tendons standing out beneath scarred skin. “Or why are you asking instead of running to tell her?”
Both. Neither. I don’t know.
“The modifications increase your power output.” I trace the pattern, working through what I felt in the reading. “But they’re not about making you stronger. They’re about making you… independent. You’re trying to bypass the control channels.”
“Smart.” That almost-smile again. “Most blood readers would have missed it.”
“I’m not most blood readers.”
“No.” His focus travels down my frame—not sexual, not predatory, more calculating. Assessing. “You’re not.”
The chamber feels smaller suddenly. The air feels thicker. My skin feels too tight, every nerve alive with awareness that borders on electric.
“You’re preparing for rebellion.” I pull back but don’t step away. “These modifications aren’t random experimentation. You have a plan.”
Silence.
Then: “Maybe.”
“The Matron?—”
“Will want to know. Yes.” He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t blink. “Are you going to tell her?”
The question settles between us like a blade on a scale.
I think about ten years of sabotage. Ten years of tiny rebellions, of lives saved in secret, of waiting for a weapon—someone—capable of actually hurting the clan that made me.
