Time to move.
The journeyto the Breeding Pens takes too long.
The Sanctum is a maze at the best of times—seven levels of twisting corridors, hidden passages, and trapped doorways. Now, with the wards failing and the structure itself groaning under the strain of the building ritual, it’s a death trap.
We move as fast as our injuries allow. Imara leans on me when her leg gives out. I lean on her when my vision blurs and the blood loss catches up.
Our shared awareness helps. Every time one of us starts to flag, the other’s strength flows in to compensate. It’s not healing—we’re both still damaged—but it’s enough to keep us moving.
We find the Pens on the fourth level, below the Sacrificial Pit but above the deepest ritual chambers. The guards have already fled—probably smart enough to recognize what’s coming. The doors stand open.
Inside, chaos.
Hundreds of people in various stages of panic. Some are trying to break through locked exits. Others are huddled in corners, too conditioned to disobedience to even try escaping. Children cry. Adults scream. The air smells like fear and copper and impending death.
Imara pushes into the crowd without hesitation. “LISTEN TO ME!”
Her voice carries. Cuts through the noise. The stock turn to look—recognize her harvester’s robes, her air of authority.
“The Sanctum is falling.” She climbs onto a raised platform—one of the breeding evaluation stations—so everyone can see her. “The Matron has triggered a final ritual. You have less than an hour to get out.”
Silence. Then a wave of questions, protests, disbelief.
“Why should we trust you?”
“You’re one of them!”
“There’s nowhere to go—the Vale is sealed?—”
“The wards are failing.” Imara’s voice doesn’t waver. “That means the seals are failing too. There are routes out—through the drainage tunnels, through the ritual gates, through the gaps in the defenses. Anyone who wants to live, follow me.”
She jumps down from the platform. Reaches for my hand.
“Anyone who wants to stay and die for the clan that bred them, stay where you are.”
She starts walking. Doesn’t look back.
I follow her. Of course I do.
Behind us, after a moment of hesitation, the stock begin to move.
Leadinghundreds of panicked people through a collapsing structure isn’t what I’d call a good time.
The passages are crowded. People push, shove, fall behind. Children get separated from adults. The elderly and injured can’t keep pace.
Imara manages it. Somehow. She deploys the more able-bodied stock as guides, positions me at the rear to discourage anyone from falling too far behind. Her voice carries commands with authority I’ve never heard from her before—the harvester’s mask she spent a decade perfecting, now turned toward something other than the clan’s service.
The resonance between us hums with her determination. Her fear. Her fragile hope that we can actually pull this off.
I feel all of it. Feel her.
The first group reaches the drainage tunnels. Imara shows them the route—the same one we used to enter, now reversed. They flood into the darkness, fear of the unknown finally overwhelmed by fear of the falling Sanctum.
The second group follows. The third.
The whole structure is in constant motion now. Not individual tremors—a sustained vibration that makes the walls bleed dust, that cracks the floor beneath our feet.
“That’s most of them.” Imara watches the last stragglers disappear into the tunnels. Her face is pale with exhaustion. “The rest… some won’t leave. Too scared or too loyal.”
