We run anyway.
TWENTY-THREE
IMARA
The ravine is exactly what Kharvek described—a deep gash in the barren earth, its walls steep enough to provide cover, its floor littered with boulders that could serve as defensive positions. We scramble down the slope, the survivors slipping and sliding on loose stone, and press ourselves against the shadowed walls.
“They can’t see us from above.” Kharvek positions himself at the ravine’s northern mouth, where any approach would be visible. “But they can track by scent. By blood. The wards give them other ways to find us.”
“Can you mask us?” I settle the survivors into a protected hollow. “Your modifications—you said you could interfere with the control channels. Can you do the same with tracking?”
“Possibly.” He flexes his damaged arm. Winces. “But it would require channeling. A lot of it.”
“How much?”
His silence is answer enough.
I crouch beside Dena, make sure she’s hidden behind the largest boulder. She watches me with those too-old eyes, that quiet acceptance that breaks my heart.
“If they find us,” she whispers, “what happens?”
I should lie. Should tell her we’ll escape, we’ll be fine, everything will work out. But she’s already survived the Sacrificial Pit. Already watched people die. She deserves more than comfortable lies.
“If they find us, we fight.” I squeeze her hand. “And you run. No matter what happens, you run.”
“I don’t want to run without you.”
“I know.” I pull her into a quick embrace. Feel her thin arms wrap around my neck. “But sometimes running is the bravest thing you can do.”
Kharvek’s voice reaches me from his position at the ravine’s mouth. “Imara.”
I release Dena. Cross to where he stands, his massive form outlined against the slowly lightening sky.
“What is it?”
“The wards.” He nods toward the horizon. “They’ve stopped flaring.”
I follow his gaze. The distant glow has faded, the shimmer in the air gone still. For a moment, relief floods through me—maybe they lost the trail, maybe they’re moving in the wrong direction, maybe?—
“That’s not good.” Kharvek’s voice is grim. “The ranging signal stops when they’ve locked onto a target. They know exactly where we are.”
The relief curdles into dread.
“How long?”
“Before dawn.” He turns to face me. In the gray light, his features look carved from stone—hard, unyielding, resolved. “They’ll be here before dawn.”
Hours. We had hours. Now we have less than that.
“Your arm?—”
“I know.” He reaches out. Takes my hand. His palm against mine sends warmth spreading up my wrist. “If I have to fight, I might not survive it.”
“Don’t.” The word comes out raw. Cracked. “Don’t talk like that.”
“I’m not being fatalistic. I’m being practical.” His thumb traces across my knuckles. Gentle. That tenderness he’s still learning, that I’m still not used to receiving. “If it comes to a choice between burning myself out and letting them take you?—”
“There has to be another option.”
