“You have ten.”
I close my eyes. Reach for the blood magic in my scars, let it flow into the ward-lock. The system knows me—I’m a harvester, authorized access, part of the clan’s machinery. But the emergency protocols are fighting my override, trying to keep the doors sealed.
Come on. Open. Let them go.
The lock flickers. Stutters.
Footsteps behind us. Kharvek moves—fluid, brutal, silent. I hear a wet crunch, a body hitting the floor. Don’t look. Focus on the lock.
Another body. Another.
The ward-lock dies. The doors grind open.
And forty-three pairs of eyes stare at me from the darkness beyond.
The Red Childrenhuddle in the back of the training hall, pressed against the far wall. Ranging in age from five to maybe twelve. Some I recognize from previous assessments. Most are strangers—new stock, brought in since my last visit.
Their faces hold the same expression: terror, confusion, hope warring with conditioning.
They’re waiting for permission to move. The realization turns my stomach. They’ve been trained to wait for orders even while the building falls around them.
“Listen to me.” I step into the hall, hands raised, voice steady. The harvester’s mask—calm, authoritative, in control. “The Sanctum is falling. The Matron has triggered a final ritual. We need to get you out.”
Silence. None of them move.
“Now.” I let command sharpen my voice. “Form a line. Stay close. Don’t stop for anything.”
Training takes over. They move—arranging themselves in neat rows, the older children guiding the younger ones. Efficient. Obedient. Heartbreaking.
Kharvek appears at my shoulder. Blood on his hands. Blood on his clothes. His expression is carefully blank.
“Four Attendants,” he murmurs. “More coming.”
“We move fast.” I scan the children, counting heads, assessing injuries. “Through the western exit, across the Red Fields, past the boundary markers. Once we’re outside the Vale’s wards?—”
“Aunt Imara?”
The voice comes from the middle of the group. Small. Familiar.
My heart stops.
No.
Dena pushes through the other children, her dark hair tangled, her face smudged with dirt. She’s thinner than when I last saw her, her eyes too large in her gaunt face. But she’s alive. She’s here.
She’s supposed to be miles away, safe with the survivors from the Breeding Pens.
“Dena.” I cross to her in three strides, drop to my knees, grab her shoulders. “What are you—how did you?—”
“I followed you.” Her chin lifts. Defiant despite the fear in her eyes. “You left me with those strangers. They didn’t know where you were going. They didn’t care what happened to you.”
“I left you with people who would protect you?—”
“I don’t want protection.” Her voice cracks. “I want to help. I want to fight.”
Nine years old. Bone-thin. Marked with the same breeding-program scars I carry. And the most burning expression I’ve seen on any face, child or adult.
I don’t know whether to embrace her or scream.
