The sky pulses. The ground bleeds. The Sanctum collapses in on itself, a dying beast consuming its own flesh.
The Matron’s expression hardens. She expected surrender. Capitulation. The broken compliance of creatures who know they’re beaten.
She didn’t expect defiance. Didn’t expect us to find a third option between her victory and everyone’s death.
Her miscalculation. Her final one.
“You don’t know what you’re attempting.” The Matron’s eyes narrow. “The power involved?—”
“We know.” Kharvek’s voice is calm. Certain. “We know exactly what we’re risking.”
“And we’re doing it anyway.” I take his hand. Feel the warmth of his skin, the steady pulse of his heartbeat, the resonance that burns between us—not a weakness, but a weapon. Our weapon. “Because that’s what freedom means. The right to choose our own fate, even if that fate is death.”
The Matron stares at us. Something almost human flickers in those crimson depths. Regret, perhaps. Or just the cold calculation of a plan going wrong.
Then her expression smooths into acceptance.
“So be it.” She raises her hands. Power gathers around her—the accumulated might of two centuries, focused into a single devastating strike. “If you won’t serve, you’ll burn with the rest.”
I feel Kharvek draw power beside me, every channel in him opening at once, the resonance we share humming with shared purpose, shared fury, shared love.
The final battle begins.
FORTY-EIGHT
KHARVEK
The Matron’s power hits me in a wall of crimson flame.
I dig my heels into the bleeding earth, channel everything I have into my scars, and push back. The impact shudders through my bones. My teeth grind. My muscles scream. But I hold.
She’s stronger than I expected. Two centuries of stolen life-force, concentrated in a single strike. Any other blood mage would have been vaporized.
I’m not any other blood mage.
“Impressive.” The Matron circles to my left, her movements predatory despite their grace. “You’ve grown since you escaped. The harvester’s influence, I assume.”
I don’t waste breath responding. Attack.
My scars flare. Power surges through channels designed for destruction, and I unleash it in a torrent of raw force. The Matron deflects—barely—and the excess energy tears a crater in the Red Fields behind her. Rust-colored grass incinerates. Bone fragments scatter. The blood seeping from the ground boils where my magic touches it.
“Brute force.” She sounds almost disappointed. “I taught you better than that.”
“You didn’t teach me anything.” I close the distance, driving her back with strike after strike. “You programmed a weapon. There’s a difference.”
Her counter catches me across the ribs. Pain flares—sharp, deep, the sting of magic designed to disrupt my channels. I stagger. She presses the advantage.
The Matron is faster than I expected. Not physically—she’s ancient, her body preserved but not enhanced—but magically. She moves through the blood-wards as if they’re extensions of her own limbs. The power flowing through the Vale answers her every thought.
I block another strike. Barely. Feel the force reverberate through my arms.
“The weapon speaks.” Her hand comes up, power gathering for a finishing blow. “How disappointing that it never learned its place.”
Imara saves me.
Her magic slices through the Matron’s working—precise, surgical, cutting the power stream before it can reach me. The interruption costs the Matron her concentration. Costs me precious seconds to recover.
I use them.
