“Beautiful, isn’t it?” The Matron’s voice comes from everywhere and nowhere. “My life’s work. My legacy. And you, Kharvek—you’re the culmination of it all.”
Imara’s hand tightens on mine. I can feel her tension through our resonance—her fear, her fury, her desperate desire to protect me from whatever’s coming.
I’m here. Whatever this is, I can handle it.
Her grip doesn’t loosen. But I feel her acknowledgment. Her trust.
“Show yourself.” My voice echoes off the curved walls. “You wanted me here. I’m here. Stop hiding.”
Movement at the far end of the Chamber. The Matron steps out of the shadows.
Something in my blood moves toward her.
Not attraction. Not the recognition of a face I’ve seen before. Something older than thought—her essence reaching across the room and finding the half of me that came from her. My scars warm before she speaks. My channels ease, the way a lock responds to the right key.
I hadn’t known my blood was looking for anything. I hadn’t known it was looking at all.
“My son.” She spreads her arms. Her smile is warm. Loving. Utterly wrong. “Welcome home.”
Son.
The word hits me in the gut.
“I’m not your son.” The denial comes automatically. Instinctive. “I’m stock. Bred for a purpose. You’ve said so yourself a hundred times.”
“I’ve said many things.” She drifts closer, her movement eerily smooth. “Most of them were lies. Or partial truths, which amount to the same thing. But you’re old enough now to understand the full picture. Old enough to appreciate what you truly are.”
Imara steps up beside me. Her shoulder presses against my arm—solid, grounding.
“Whatever she tells you,” Imara says quietly, “remember who you are now. Not what she claims she made you.”
The Matron’s gaze slides to Imara. Something cold moves in those crimson depths.
“The harvester speaks. How touching.” Her voice drips with contempt. “Tell me, girl—do you think your influence on my creation matters? Do you think a few weeks of rutting in abandoned farmsteads erases decades of careful design?”
“I think he’s more than your design.” Imara holds the Matron’s gaze without wavering. “I think he’s been more than that for a long time.”
“Has he?” The Matron’s attention returns to me. “Let’s find out. Come, Kharvek. Let me show you where you came from.”
She turns. Walks toward the semicircle of orc specimens.
I don’t want to follow. Don’t want to know. But my feet move anyway, drawn by a curiosity I can’t suppress. Imara walks with me, her hand never leaving mine.
We stop before the first cylinder.
“K-1,” the Matron says. “My first attempt at creating you. Strong channeling ability, but the scarification patterns destabilized during adolescence. He tore himself apart by age fifteen.”
The body in the cylinder is twisted, limbs bent at wrong angles, face frozen in a rictus of agony. The scars covering his skin have burst open, dried blood crusting the wounds.
“K-2.” She moves to the next cylinder. “Better stability, but insufficient power. He could channel, but not enough to be useful. I terminated him at twenty.”
This one looks more peaceful. Almost sleeping. But there’s a hole in his chest where his heart should be.
“K-3. K-4. K-5.” She gestures at the remaining cylinders. “Each one taught me something. Each failure brought me closer to success. And then—” She stops before the sixth cylinder. “—K-6. My almost-masterpiece.”
The orc in this cylinder looks almost exactly like me. Same build. Same scarification patterns. Same heavy features and filed tusks.
But his eyes are open. And they’re wrong—clouded, empty, devoid of anything that might be called a soul.
