I do both.
FORTY-SIX
IMARA
The embrace is brief—we don’t have time for more. But I hold her tight for three heartbeats, feeling her small body tremble against mine, breathing in the smell of her hair.
Mine. This child is mine. Not by blood, not by design—by choice.
“You’re going to stay close to me.” I pull back, grip her chin, make sure she’s looking at me. “No matter what happens. No matter what you see. You don’t leave my side.”
“I won’t.”
“Swear it.”
“I swear.” She glances past me to Kharvek, who’s watching us with an unreadable expression. “Is that your orc?”
Despite everything—despite the screaming Sanctum and the dying wards and the final ritual building in the walls—I almost laugh.
“Yes. That’s my orc.”
Kharvek’s expression shifts. Softens for half a second before hardening again.
“We need to move.” He offers me his hand, pulls me to my feet. His palm is warm against mine. “The western exit is three corridors away. Can you lead?”
“I can lead.”
“Then lead.”
I take Dena’s hand in my free one. Turn to face the children.
“Stay close. Stay quiet. And if I tell you to run—run.”
We move.
The western corridorsare worse than the eastern wing.
The wards here have failed almost completely. Crimson light bleeds from cracks in the walls, and the floor is slick with—I don’t want to know what. The smell is overwhelming: copper and rot and burning magic. The Sanctum’s heartbeat, once a steady pulse, has become erratic. Staggering. Dying.
The children march in formation behind me. Silent except for the shuffle of feet, the occasional whimper quickly stifled. They’ve been trained not to make noise. Right now, I’m grateful for that training.
Kharvek brings up the rear. His presence presses against my awareness—alert, dangerous, ready to kill anything that threatens us. A steady heat at my back, constant reassurance that I’m not alone.
We turn a corner. Three Attendants block the passage.
They see the children first. See the formation, the orderly retreat. Then they see me—blood on my robes, terror in my wake. Then they see Kharvek.
“Stop—” one of them starts.
Kharvek doesn’t let him finish.
He moves through them with brutal efficiency. The first dies before he can raise a hand. The second manages to scream—cut short when Kharvek’s fist crushes his throat. The third tries to run.
Kharvek catches him. Drags him back. Snaps his neck with a sound that echoes off the walls.
The children don’t look away. They’ve seen worse.
They’ve seen worse. The thought is its own kind of horror.
