Her pulse hasn’t slowed. Her breathing hasn’t steadied. But her gaze—direct, unwavering, seeing too much—doesn’t drop from mine.
She holds my gaze.
Why doesn’t she flinch?
“Because you’re going to kill her.”
The words hang between us.
“The Matron,” she continues. Calm. Too calm. “That’s what you’re preparing for. The modifications, the increased power output—you’re building toward a confrontation. A fight you think you can win.”
“And if I am?”
“Then I want to help.”
I go still.
Every muscle locks. Every thought stops. She just offered to help me kill the Blood Matron, and the words don’t compute.
“Help.” The word tastes foreign in my mouth. “You want to help me kill the Blood Matron.”
“I’ve been trying to destroy this place for ten years.” No hesitation. No fear. Just cold, hard truth. “Alone, I can manage sabotage. I can save a few lives here and there, corrupt somerituals, slow the machine. But I can’t stop it. I don’t have the power.”
“And you think I do.”
“I think you’re the most dangerous thing in this Sanctum.” Her chin lifts. Defiant. “I think you’ve spent your whole life being pointed at targets and told to kill. And I think you’re sick of it.”
She’s not wrong.
I hate that she’s not wrong.
“You don’t know anything about me.” My grip tightens on her arm. Not enough to bruise—not yet. “You read my blood. That doesn’t mean you know who I am.”
“No.” She doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t yield. “But I know what you could be. A weapon that chooses its own targets. A monster with a cause.”
The phrase settles into me. Finds purchase in places I didn’t know existed.
“Why do you care?” I lean closer still. Our faces are inches apart now. I can smell her skin beneath the herbal compounds—warmth, life, a presence that doesn’t belong in this place of death and blood. “Why does it matter to you what happens to this clan?”
Vulnerability flickers behind her eyes. A crack in the mask she wears.
“I was born here.” She lowers her voice to a raw whisper. “In the Breeding Pens. My mother was stock. My father was stock. I never knew either of them—they were separated after I was conceived, disposed of when their bloodlines were no longer useful.”
“That’s common enough.”
“Yes.” She doesn’t blink. “It’s common. It’s normal. And I’ve spent ten years watching it happen to others, conducting rituals that make it happen, being part of the machine thatgrinds people into resources.” A breath. Sharp. Controlled. “I’ve marked children, Kharvek. I’ve carved the conduits of power into their small limbs, knowing the magic would eventually burn them out from the inside. I didn’t just take their blood; I designed their cages.”
“And you regret it.”
“No.” The word surprises me. “I don’t have that luxury. Regret doesn’t change anything—it’s just self-indulgence. What I have is rage. Cold, patient, focused rage that I’ve been feeding for a decade while I wait for the right weapon to point it at.”
Her eyes hold mine.
“You’re that weapon.”
FOUR
KHARVEK
