Kharvek
TEN
The bone garden stretches before me in the dark, a mile of arranged death glowing faint crimson beneath the starless sky.
I’ve walked through this place a hundred times.
Never once thought about the bodies that became these monuments.
Tonight, I count ribs. Femurs. The small, curved skulls of children posed in prayer.
Imara chose this location. Of course she did.
I find her at the garden’s heart, standing between two figures frozen mid-scream, their jaws wired open, their empty sockets aimed at what only the dead can see.
The residual magic casts her face in shifting red light—there, then gone, then there again.
She doesn’t look at me as I approach. Doesn’t need to.
“You’re early.” Her voice carries no inflection.
“You expected me to be late?”
“I expected you to circle the perimeter twice before committing to a meeting point.” She turns. Her gaze finds mine without wavering—steady, assessing, giving nothing away. “You only circled once.”
She’s been watching. Of course she has. I file this away—useful information about a potential ally. Or a potential threat. The line between those categories blurs when I look at her.
“Satisfied?” I stop three paces from where she stands.
“That you can follow directions? Barely.”
A sound escapes me. Not quite a laugh. I haven’t laughed in years—the mechanics feel foreign. But something about the way she speaks pulls at muscles I didn’t know I had.
She reaches into her robes and withdraws a folded cloth. Spreads it on the ground between two skeletal hands reaching up from the dirt. The cloth reveals a map—hand-drawn, detailed, marked with symbols I recognize and some I don’t.
“The Sanctum.” She crouches beside her work. “Every entrance, every blood-ward anchor, every patrol rotation for the past six months.”
I crouch across from her. The map is impressive. More than impressive—it’s comprehensive in a way that speaks to years of careful observation. She’s been planning this longer than I’ve been questioning orders.
“The drainage tunnels.” I point to unmarked space beneath the Sanctum’s western foundation. “You’re missing the access points.”
“Show me.”
I pull a bone shard from the earth beside us—part of someone’s finger, from the thickness—and scratch three marks into the dirt beside her map. “Here. Here. And here. Maintenance routes. Tomek uses them.”
“You know Tomek?”
“I know everyone who might be useful.” I set down the bone shard. “Or dangerous.”
Her lips press flat. Processing. “He’s mine. Part of my network.”
“I know.”
For a moment, neither of us speaks. The realization passes between us without words—we’ve both been watching the Sanctum’s workings, both cataloging vulnerabilities, both waiting for the moment to strike. We just never knew we had company in our rebellion.
“How long?” she asks.
“Two years of planning. Before that…” I roll one shoulder, feel the pull of modified scar tissue beneath my skin.
She nods once. Efficient. Final. “Then let’s plan.”
The night deepens as we work. She outlines her network—eleven servants positioned throughout the Sanctum, three harvesters who share her hidden rage, two guards on the outer perimeter who can be bribed with freedom rather than gold.
A decade of quiet cultivation, a facade so perfectly fitted that even Sister Vela never suspected.
I outline my capabilities. The unauthorized modifications to my scarification channels—broader paths for power, deeper reservoirs, the ability to channel more blood magic than the Matron ever designed me to hold.
I show her the newest patterns, still healing along my forearms, raised tissue that itches in the cold air.
She traces one of the channels with her eyes. Doesn’t touch. Her restraint is notable.
“You’ve been preparing to fight the Matron directly.” It’s not a question.
“I’ve been preparing to survive fighting the Matron directly. Different goal.”
“Barely.”
Another sound escapes me. That same not-quite-laugh. Her mouth curves—just barely, just enough to notice.
We bend over the map. Her shoulder brushes my arm. The contact is incidental, meaningless, and yet I feel it like a brand through my thin shirt. She smells of ritual herbs and a deeper scent—something that belongs to her alone, sharp and clean beneath the Vale’s ever-present copper tang.
“The blood-wards anchor here.” She points to the Womb Chamber’s location. “And here, at the Sacrificial Pit. If I can corrupt both anchor points simultaneously—”
“The entire defensive grid destabilizes.”
“For approximately seven minutes. Maybe eight if the Matron is distracted.”
“Long enough.” I study the paths between anchor points. “I can reach the Womb Chamber in four minutes from the drainage access. Faster if I’m not trying to stay hidden.”
“You won’t need to hide. By the time you reach the Chamber, I’ll have triggered the corruption. Every Attendant in the Sanctum will be dealing with cascading ward failures.”
“And the Matron?”
Her jaw tightens, almost imperceptibly. “She’ll come to the Womb Chamber. It’s her heart—her center of power. She’ll need to stabilize the wards personally.”
“You’re counting on that.”
“I’m planning for it.”
The distinction matters. Counting implies hope. Planning implies strategy. Imara doesn’t strike me as someone who wastes time on hope.
“What happens when she gets there?”
Her gaze lifts from the map to meet mine. Steady. Unflinching. “You kill her.”
Simple. Direct. The kind of answer I understand.
“I’ve never fought her at full strength.” Not a warning—an assessment. “The modifications give me an edge, but she created me. She knows my limits.”
“Then exceed them.”
“Easier said.”
“Is it?” She shifts closer to point at a mark on the map, and her hair brushes my scarred skin.
Dark red strands catching on raised tissue.
The sensation sends a jolt through my nerves—not pain, not quite pleasure.
Something sharper. “You’ve already exceeded her design parameters.
Every unauthorized modification. Every moment of delayed obedience.
She built you to be an extension of her will. You’re not.”
I process this. She’s not wrong. The Matron created me as a tool, and tools don’t question their purpose. Tools don’t plan in the dark. Tools don’t sit in bone gardens with women who should fear them and feel—
Feel what?
I don’t know. Can’t name it. The sensation sits in my chest, unfamiliar and demanding, refusing to be categorized as threat or opportunity.
“The Harvest Guard.” I redirect to safer territory. “They’ll respond to any disruption. How many can you pull away from the Chamber’s defense?”
“Most of them. I have routes prepared—false alarms in the Breeding Pens, apparent breaches in the outer wards. The Guard will scatter to contain what they think are multiple emergencies.”
“Grokh won’t scatter. He’ll go directly to the Matron.”
“I know.” The words don’t waver. “Can you handle him?”
Grokh. The closest thing I have to a peer. Raised in adjacent pens. Trained on the same victims. He’s faster than me, but I channel more power. In a direct confrontation, it could go either way.
“Yes.”
She reads something in my expression that I’m not aware of showing. “You’re not certain.”
“I’m never certain. That’s not how combat works.”
“Then what makes you say yes?”
Because I have a reason to fight now.
The thought arrives without permission, and I shove it aside. Dangerous thinking. Weakness dressed up as strength.
“Because he’s between me and the Matron. Obstacles get removed.”
Her mouth curves again. That slight expression that might be approval, might be more. “Good enough.”