Kharvek’s blood sang under my touch. His power roared through channels designed for destruction. He’s a monster—there’s no question of that.
But he’s evolving. Becoming what the clan never planned.
He’s not just rebellious.
He’s preparing for war.
And I just put my life in his hands.
I don’t know if that makes me brave or stupid. Probably both. But as I lie on my narrow bed and stare at the ceiling, I can’t stop thinking about his eyes. The way they tracked me. The way they saw through me without even trying.
The way I held my ground.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Sleep doesn’t come. I don’t expect it to. But somewhere in the red-tinted darkness, between one heartbeat and the next, I make a decision.
THREE
KHARVEK
She lied.
The Attendants release my restraints. Blood-wards fade from the metal with a hiss. I flex my wrists, roll my shoulders, let the power flow settle back into its usual channels. The examination chair groans as I rise—cheap reinforcement, built for bulk but not for what I’ve become.
She lied for me.
I don’t understand it. Understanding things has never been my purpose—that’s what the ritualists are for, the strategists, the Matron herself. But the harvester’s words echo through my skull, and I can’t make them fit into any pattern I recognize.
His blood shows normal patterns. Power flow is optimal.
Lies. All of it. She felt my modifications—I saw the moment her fingers went still against my arm, the slight widening of those gray-green eyes. She knows what I’ve been doing. And she told the Matron nothing.
Why?
The question irritates me. I don’t like questions without answers. Don’t like puzzles that won’t yield to force. When I don’t understand something, my instinct is to break it apart until I can see how the pieces fit.
Maybe I need to break her.
The Attendants gesture toward the exit. I ignore them. They won’t touch me—won’t even come within arm’s reach unless they’re suicidal. The Matron’s weapon walks where it wants.
I move through the Womb Chamber, past the preservation alcoves with their floating horrors, past the Matron herself. She doesn’t look at me. Already dismissed from her attention, filed away as a problem temporarily solved. Her mistake.
The spiral stairs await. I take them three at a time, my enhanced muscles eating the distance without strain. The blood-wards press against my skin as I climb, that constant buzzing awareness that the Sanctum sees everything, knows everything.
Almost everything.
At the top of the stairs, I pause. Scent the air.
There. Antiseptic. The particular blend of sweat and exhaustion that clings to harvesters after their shifts.
Her trail.
I follow.
The Sanctum’scorridors twist and branch, but her scent cuts through the maze. She moves quickly—I can tell from the spacing of her steps, the way her trail concentrates in a straight line rather than lingering at intersections. Not running. That would draw attention. But close to it.
She’s afraid.
