Time. Such a strange gift, after days of flight.
I look at my arm. At the bandages that need replacing, the channels that Imara stabilized through pain and magic and the kind of intimacy I never expected to survive. Then I look at her—at this woman who’s seen inside me and chosen to stay, who’s fought with me and beneath me and refused to be treated as anything less than an equal.
“What’s the plan?”
Her mouth curves. Not quite a smile—something harder. “First, we get the survivors to safety. There are contacts beyond the Vale who can take them, get them started on new lives. Then?—”
“Then we go back.”
She nods. “The Matron expects us to run. Expects us to hide. The last thing she expects is for us to walk back into her Sanctum and burn it to the ground.”
The idea is insane. Suicidal. Exactly the kind of plan I’d come up with if I were planning alone.
But I’m not planning alone. Not anymore.
“The others.” I gesture toward the survivors. “They can’t come with us.”
“No. That’s why we get them out first.” She turns toward Dena, crouches to meet the girl’s eyes. “Dena. You’re going to go with these people to a safe place. Somewhere the clan can’t find you.”
Dena’s face crumples. “I don’t want to leave you.”
“I know.” Imara cups her cheek. “But what Kharvek and I have to do next—it’s dangerous. Too dangerous for you.”
“You’re going to fight the bad woman. The one whose voice came through the sky.”
“Yes.”
“What if you die?”
The question hangs in the morning air. I watch Imara struggle with the answer—how do you explain to a child that some things are worth dying for?
“If we die”—she pauses, choosing her words—“it will be because we chose to fight instead of hiding. And maybe our fight will make things better for people like you. Maybe it will shatter what needs to be broken.” She pulls Dena into an embrace. “Either way, I need you to live. Can you do that for me?”
Dena nods against her shoulder. Small. Scared. Braver than anyone should have to be at nine years old.
Imara releases her, stands. Meets my gaze.
“We move out in an hour. I need to contact what’s left of my network, arrange passage for the survivors.” She pauses. “And you need to rest. The healing helped, but your body is still recovering.”
Rest. Another word that doesn’t fit in my vocabulary.
But she’s right. The healing took more out of me than I want to admit, and the aftermath took more still. If we’re going back to the Sanctum, if we’re going to face the Matron and everything she can throw at us, I need to be at full strength.
“One hour.” I move back toward our corner of the ravine. “Then we plan.”
“Then we plan,” she agrees.
I pause. Look back at her—at the marks visible on her neck, the disheveled hair, the fierce determination burning in her gaze.
“Imara.”
“What?”
I don’t have words for what I want to say. No vocabulary for gratitude, for affection, for the strange new ache that’s taken root in my chest. So I cross back to her. Take her face between my palms. Kiss her slowly, thoroughly, right there in front of Dena and the survivors and anyone else who might be watching.
When I pull back, her cheeks are flushed. Her breath comes quick.
“What was that for?”
