“Clear.” Kharvek steps over the bodies. Blood drips from his hands, adding to the mess on the floor. “Keep moving.”
I don’t let myself look at the corpses. Don’t let myself think about the lives that just ended, the families that might be mourning, the futures that will never happen.
They chose to serve the clan. They chose to stand between us and escape.
They chose wrong.
The western exitopens onto the Red Fields.
I’ve walked these grounds a hundred times. Attended rituals here. Watched executions. Learned to keep my face blank while people died here.
I’ve never seen the Fields look like this.
The ground is bleeding.
Not metaphorically—actually bleeding. Dark liquid seeps up from the soil, pooling in the grass, running in thin streams toward the Sanctum. The bone pits scattered across the landscape glow with internal fire, centuries of accumulated death responding to the Matron’s final ritual.
The air is thick. Copper-tasting. Every breath feels hot, heavy, tainted.
Above us, the sky has turned red. Not sunrise-red—blood-red. The color of the Vale itself, spread across the heavens.
“Gods.” One of the older children breaks the silence. Her voice is barely a whisper. “What is that?”
“The end.” I push forward, pulling Dena with me. “Don’t stop. Don’t look back.”
Behind us, the Sanctum groans. I glance over my shoulder despite my own warning—and watch a section of the seventh level collapse inward, stone and bone and iron crashing down in a cascade of destruction.
The building is eating itself.
And we’re not moving fast enough.
The Red Fieldsstretch for nearly half a mile between the Sanctum and the Vale’s outer boundaries.
Half a mile of rust-colored grass. Half a mile of stone altars and bone pits. Half a mile of bleeding earth and copper-thick air.
Half a mile with forty-three children, most of whom have never been outside the Sanctum’s walls.
They try to run. Some of them manage it—the older ones, the ones with longer legs and better conditioning. But the youngest are already flagging, their small bodies not built for this kind of escape. Years of confinement, of limited rations, of being bred for magical potential rather than physical endurance—it all shows now, when endurance is the only thing that matters.
A boy stumbles. Falls. Cries out as his knees hit the bleeding ground.
I’m there before I think about it—scooping him up, settling him on my hip, continuing to walk. He weighs almost nothing.Malnutrition. The clan feeds its stock enough to keep them functional, no more.
“Don’t cry.” I whisper it against his hair. “You’re doing fine. We’re almost there.”
He buries his face in my shoulder. His tears soak through my robe. He can’t be more than six years old.
Dena stays at my side. Her hand has found the hem of my robe, gripping tight, anchoring herself to me.
“The boundary markers.” Kharvek moves up beside me, matching my pace. His arm brushes mine—casual contact, but I lean into it. Need the reminder of his presence. “How far?”
“Quarter mile. Once we’re past them, the ritual’s reach diminishes. We’ll have more time.”
“And if we’re not past them when the ritual completes?”
I don’t answer. We both know.
The ground shudders. Not a tremor this time—a sustained vibration that makes the grass ripple, that sends waves through the pooling blood. Somewhere behind us, more of the Sanctum crashes down.
