Ice floods my veins.
Kharvek moves in front of me, scars flaring hot, power flooding his channels. But there’s no one visible—just the voice, carried by the blood-wards, filling the corridor from every direction.
“Did you think I wouldn’t know?” Her voice is almost gentle. Maternal. “The moment you crossed my threshold, I felt you. Both of you. That beautiful resonance your blood creates—it sings to me, Imara. Tells me exactly where you are.”
My hand finds Kharvek’s back. Presses flat against his spine. I need to touch him. Need to feel him solid and real.
That’s what we couldn’t understand—out in the open territory, the resonance between us is too diffuse to trace. But inside the Sanctum’s ward lattice, every pulse we make is caught and magnified. We didn’t walk into a trap. We built one the moment we stepped across the threshold.
“I’m not angry.” The voice drops, becomes warmer. Almost loving. “You’ve proven everything I hoped for. The strength of your compatibility. The power you generate in proximity. My calculations were correct. My breeding programs, vindicated.”
“Show yourself.” Kharvek’s voice is a growl. “Face us.”
“Face you?” A laugh, soft and terrible. “Why would I face what I created? You’re not enemies, children. You’re my masterpiece. And when you reach the Chamber—when you see what I have to show you—you’ll understand everything.”
The voice fades. The blood-wards’ humming returns to normal.
Kharvek turns. His expression is controlled, but I sense the fury beneath.
“Trap.”
“Obviously.” I look down the corridor. The Womb Chamber waits at its end. The Matron waits with it. And whatever truth Tomek started to reveal—it’s there too. “But we already knew that.”
“We could turn back.”
“No.” I shake my head. “She can track us anywhere inside these walls. The only way this ends is if we end it.”
He crosses to me. Takes both my hands in his, makes me look at him.
“Whatever she shows me in there. Whatever truth she thinks will break me.” His thumb traces my knuckles. “It doesn’t change anything. Not about us. Not about what I feel for you.”
“I know.”
He pulls me close. His mouth finds mine—not desperate this time, but sure. Certain. The kiss of a man who knows exactly what he’s fighting for and refuses to let it go. I melt into him, let his arms anchor me, let the solid wall of his chest remind me that we’re still here. Still alive. Still choosing each other.
When he finally releases me, his hands stay wrapped around mine.
“Ready?”
I take his hand. Thread my fingers through his.
THIRTY-SIX
KHARVEK
The Womb Chamber opens before us, and I finally understand why they call it that.
The space is vast—circular, domed, warm and humid in a way that makes my skin prickle. The walls curve inward, smooth and organic, pulsing with a faint crimson light that seems to breathe. Channels carved into the floor collect runoff from dozens of smaller tubes, directing it toward the center of the room where a raised platform holds…
I stop. Stare.
Blood-glass cylinders line the walls. Dozens of them. Each one contains a preserved specimen—fetuses at various stages of development, suspended in crimson fluid. Some are barely recognizable as humanoid. Others are nearly complete, their features frozen in expressions of unfinished potential.
And six of them are orcs.
Six cylinders, arranged in a semicircle near the platform. Each one holds an orc body—not fetuses, but full-grown specimens. Male. Massive. Covered in scarification patterns that I recognize.
That I wear on my own skin.
