“I’m not her child.” I think of Imara. Of mornings wrapped around her. Of the future I’m starting to let myself imagine. “I’m not hers at all anymore.”
I squeeze. Feel cartilage crunch. Feel the life leave him—not through my channels but through simple mechanical force. His body goes limp. His eyes go dark.
I drop him.
Nothing but my own ragged breathing. The remaining Guards have fled—scattered into the wasteland the moment Grokh fell. They know better than to face me alone.
“Kharvek.”
I spin. Imara stands in the farmstead’s doorway, blood on her hands from her own workings, exhaustion carved into her face. She doesn’t hesitate—crosses the killing ground to where I stand, stepping over bodies without looking down.
Her arms wrap around me. Her face presses into my chest. I hold her tight, breathing in the scent of her hair, feeling her heartbeat against my ribs.
“You’re hurt.” Her voice is muffled against my shirt.
“I’ll live.”
“The cut on your ribs?—”
“Will heal.” I tip her chin up. Make her look at me. “Thanks to you.”
She raises a hand to my jaw, then my temple—tracing across the blood splatter, the evidence of violence still wet on my skin. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away.
“I was scared.” The admission costs her. “When he cut you. When you couldn’t draw power. I thought?—”
I kiss her. Swallow whatever she was going to say. Hold it until we’re both breathless, until the fear fades, until there’s nothing but the two of us and the relief of survival.
“I came back.” I rest my forehead against hers. “Like I promised.”
“You better always come back.” Her hands fist in my shirt. “I’m not done with you yet.”
“No?”
“Not even close.”
THIRTY-TWO
KHARVEK
We search Grokh’s body with our hands still finding excuses to touch.
My fingers brush hers as we sort through his equipment. Her shoulder presses against mine as we examine his belt pouches. Small contacts. Constant reassurance. I need to feel her close after the fight—need to know she’s real, she’s alive, she’s still mine.
Grokh carries the usual equipment—weapons, rations, a badge of rank. But in his belt pouch, I find something else. A sealed envelope marked with the Matron’s personal sigil.
“Orders.” Imara takes the envelope. Her other hand stays on my thigh—casual, possessive. “Let’s see what she wanted.”
Inside: two pages. The first is tactical—positioning, approach vectors, nothing surprising.
The second page makes my blood run cold.
The Matron’s handwriting, cramped and precise:
“Both must be taken alive. This is paramount. The weapon and the harvester carry more than power in their blood. They carry truth.
“Before he destroys himself with this foolish rebellion, he deserves to know what he is. Who made him. The bloodline that runs through his veins.
“Bring him to the Womb Chamber. I have something to show him.
