“Then we stop her.”
I look at the woman beside me. Battered. Bleeding. Barely able to stand without support. She should be running. Should be finding a way out of the Vale before the whole place collapses.
Instead, she’s planning how to save everyone.
I love her. The thought comes easy now. Natural.
“We stop her,” I agree. “Today.”
FORTY-FOUR
KHARVEK
We make our way through the ruined Chamber, supporting each other.
The destruction is total. Every blood-glass cylinder shattered. Every breeding chart burned. The equipment the Matron used to map bloodlines and plan conception rituals—reduced to twisted metal and sparking components.
Imara pauses at a pile of scattered papers. Genealogy records. Her bloodline. My bloodline. The theoretical projections for what our children might have become.
She picks up one page. Studies it.
Then she sets it on fire.
“No one”—her voice hardens—“is ever going to use this information. Not against us. Not against anyone.”
The paper burns to ash. She drops it and keeps walking.
I follow. My legs are steadier now—the awareness we share seems to be helping, her strength flowing into me as mine flows into her. We’re both damaged, but we’re damaged in ways that complement each other.
The exit to the upper levels is partially blocked by rubble. I clear enough of it for us to squeeze through. Imara goes first—I won’t let her be the one to stay behind if the debris shifts.
The passage beyond is chaos. Attendants running in every direction. Warning bells sounding. The wards flickering and dying throughout the Sanctum.
No one pays attention to us. They’re too busy panicking.
“The Breeding Pens.” Imara’s voice is urgent. “If she triggers the final ritual, everyone in there dies.”
“We don’t have time to evacuate hundreds of people.”
“We make time.” She meets my gaze. Steel and fire and absolute certainty. “Those people are why I started fighting in the first place. I’m not leaving them to die.”
I should argue. Should point out that the mission is stopping the Matron, not saving the stock she created us to exploit. Every minute we spend on evacuation is a minute closer to the ritual completing.
But I think of the child’s skull in the drainage tunnel. The infant who was mortared into the wall like another brick. The countless victims whose bones built the walls I grew up in.
Imara is right. Of course she’s right. She usually is.
“The Pens first,” I decide. “Then the Matron.”
Her smile is worth the lost time. She rises on her toes, presses a kiss to my scarred cheek.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet.” I pull her closer. Just long enough to breathe in the scent of her hair, to feel her heartbeat against my chest. “We haven’t won anything.”
“We’re still alive.” Her arms wrap around my waist. “That’s winning enough for now.”
The walls quake again. Harder. Closer.
