“There’s no sense to talk.” My voice comes out steady. I’m proud of that. “I came here to destroy the clan. That hasn’t changed.”
“I know.” Vela stops a few feet away. Close enough that I can see the lines around her eyes, the gray threading through her hair. She looks old. Tired. “I’ve known for years, Imara. Thesabotages you thought were undetected. The stock you helped escape. The breeding rituals you undermined from within.”
Ice slides down my spine. “You knew.”
“Of course I knew.” A ghost of a smile crosses her face. “I trained you. Did you think I wouldn’t recognize my own techniques being used against us?”
“Then why?—”
“Why didn’t I report you? Why didn’t I have you harvested?” She sighs. “Because I kept hoping you’d come to your senses. That eventually you’d understand why we do what we do. Why the suffering is necessary.”
I stare at her.
The woman who cut my first scarification channels. Who taught me to read blood, to sense magical potential, to harvest life-force with precision and efficiency. I respected her once. Feared her, certainly. But I never understood her.
“You believe in it.” The realization settles in my gut. “You actually believe the clan is doing good.”
“I believe in order.” Vela’s voice is patient. The voice of a teacher explaining an obvious point to a slow student. “Before the Matron established the bloodline system, magic was chaos. Uncontrolled. Anyone with a spark of talent could work blood magic, and most of them used it for destruction. Wars. Plagues. The kind of horrors you can’t imagine because you’ve never lived through them.”
“So the Matron’s solution is to breed people as cattle? Harvest them for power? Build temples out of their bones?”
“The Matron’s solution is to control what would otherwise be uncontrollable.” Vela spreads her hands. “You think we’remonsters? We’re the only thing standing between civilization and chaos.”
I want to argue. Want to scream at her that order built on torture isn’t order at all—it’s organized cruelty. That the Matron hasn’t prevented suffering; she’s monopolized it.
But Vela’s eyes are calm. Certain. She believes every word she’s saying.
And that certainty terrifies me more than any threat.
“I could have turned you in a hundred times.” She takes another step closer. “Every sabotage you thought you hid, every ‘accidental’ death in the harvesting halls, every breeding ritual that failed because you introduced contaminated blood—I documented all of it. I could have ended you years ago.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because you’re valuable.” Her voice softens. “The Matron sees it. I see it. Your bloodline, your training, your precision—you could have been one of us. Really one of us. Not a harvester following orders, but an architect of the next generation.”
“I’d rather die.”
“Would you?” She tilts her head. “And what about him? Your weapon. Your… lover.” The word drips with distaste. “Would you rather he die too? Because that’s what happens if you finish what you’re doing. The Matron won’t show mercy. She’ll take what she needs from both of you and dispose of the rest.”
My hand trembles against the ward node. The seventh piece, incomplete. So close to finishing.
“Come back with me.” Vela’s voice is almost gentle now. “Both of you. The Matron is willing to be generous. You’ll be partners in the breeding program, not prisoners. Your children will be raised in comfort, trained for greatness. It doesn’t have to end in blood.”
“It was always going to end in blood.” I look up at her. “That’s all you people understand.”
Disappointment crosses her face. “I’d hoped?—”
“You hoped I’d be a true believer. Someone who could watch children die and call it necessity.”
“I hoped you’d be practical.” She sighs. “But I suppose that was foolish. You’ve always let sentiment cloud your judgment.”
Her hand moves. I see the glint of ritual iron—a harvester’s blade, designed to disrupt blood magic.
“The Matron wants you alive,” Vela says quietly. “But she didn’t specify what condition.”
I make my choice.
FORTY
