Imara
THIRTY-FOUR
Tomek is waiting at the tunnel entrance.
He’s thinner than I remember—gaunt, gray, with the hunched posture of a man who’s spent too many years in confined spaces. But his eyes are sharp. Alert. The eyes of a survivor.
“Neither did I.” I cross the distance between us, Kharvek a solid presence at my shoulder. “What’s the situation inside?”
“Chaos.” His gaze flicks to Kharvek, assessing. Taking in the massive frame, the scarification, the predatory stillness. “After the Sacrificial Pit, after Grokh—the Matron pulled all remaining forces to the inner Sanctum. Blood-wards strengthened on every level. Attendants patrol in pairs.”
“The Harvest Guard?”
“Mostly dead or scattered. She’s running on skeleton staff.
” He produces a folded paper from his coat—a map, hand-drawn, marked with symbols I taught him years ago.
“The drainage tunnels are still accessible. Wards are weakest there. She never bothered reinforcing infrastructure she considered beneath her notice.”
Kharvek takes the map. Studies it with tactical focus. “These access points—watched?”
“The main ones. But there’s a secondary entrance here—” Tomek points. “—that feeds into the old processing channels. Nobody uses it anymore. Too cramped. Too foul.”
“Perfect for us.” I trace the route with my finger. The tunnel winds beneath the Sanctum’s foundations, emerging near the Womb Chamber’s lower levels. “How long to reach the Chamber?”
“Two hours through the tunnels. Perhaps less if you move fast.” He hesitates. “I should warn you—the underlevels are… difficult. Even for people who know what to expect.”
“Difficult how?”
“You’ll see.” He pulls a bundle from behind a nearby rock—supplies, by the look of it.
Water skins, dried rations, a set of dark robes that might pass for Attendant’s garb.
“I’ll meet you at the junction where the drainage system connects to the main tunnels.
I have more intelligence to share. Patrol schedules.
Ward configurations. Things you’ll need before you reach the Chamber. ”
“Why not give us everything now?”
“Because some of it I haven’t written down.” His expression darkens. “Some of it I can only show you.”
I glance at Kharvek. He gives a slight nod—trust her judgment.
“The junction, then.” I take the bundle of supplies. “Two hours.”
Tomek doesn’t offer his hand. Neither do I. In the Crimson Vale, such gestures feel hollow.
“Two hours,” he agrees. Then he’s gone, melting into the rocks as if he was never there.
The entrance to the drainage tunnels is a gaping wound in the earth.
A rusted grate covers it, but time and neglect have warped the metal, leaving gaps wide enough to squeeze through.
The stench hits us before we’re within ten feet—copper and rot and something worse.
The accumulated waste of centuries of blood magic, concentrated in tunnels that were never meant to be walked by the living.
Kharvek pulls the grate aside. Darkness yawns below.
“I’ll go first.” He’s already moving toward the opening.
“I know these tunnels.” I’ve studied maps of them for years, memorized every turn and junction. “Let me lead.”
He pauses. I watch the war play across his features—the instinct to protect battling with respect for my expertise. His jaw works.
“Fine.” He steps back. “But I’m right behind you.”
I squeeze his hand. Then I descend into the dark.
The Sanctum’s underlevels are horror made architectural.
The tunnels are narrow—barely wide enough for Kharvek to fit, his shoulders scraping the walls with every step.
The floor is slick with substances I refuse to examine closely.
Rivers of darkness run along the channel’s center, viscous and foul-smelling, occasionally lit by the faint crimson glow of blood-wards embedded in the stone.
And the bones.
They’re everywhere. Pressed into the walls, forming patterns that might be decorative or might be structural.
I’ve studied these tunnels theoretically. Read descriptions. Examined maps that noted “organic architectural elements” in clinical shorthand. Nothing prepared me for the reality.
“They built this.” Kharvek’s voice echoes strangely in the narrow space. Disturbed in a way I’ve rarely heard from him. “Infrastructure out of the people they killed.”
“The clan wastes nothing.” I force one foot in front of the other. If I stop, I might not start again. “Blood for magic. Flesh for rituals. Bones for—”
A skull grins at me from the wall. Small. A child’s skull.
I stop. Can’t help it. My hand flies to my mouth.
Kharvek is there immediately. His arms wrap around me from behind, pull me against his chest. His chin rests on top of my head.
“Breathe.”
I can’t. The skull is staring at me. A child. A baby. Mortared into a drainage tunnel as another brick.
“Imara.” His voice is rough. “Breathe.”
I force air into my lungs. Out. In again. His heartbeat pounds against my back—steady, strong, alive.
“I knew,” I whisper. “I knew what they did here. I’ve known my whole life. But seeing it—”
“It’s different.” His arms tighten. “I know.”
His warmth seeps into me, pushing back the cold that threatens to overwhelm. His lips press against my hair.
“When this is over”—his jaw tightens—“we burn all of it. The Sanctum. The tunnels. Every bone they ever desecrated. We burn it all and we never come back.”
“Promise?”
“I do.”
I turn in his arms. Look up at him. In the dim crimson light, his features are harsh, alien—but his eyes hold something soft. Something that belongs only to me.
I rise on my toes and kiss him. Hard, fast, everything I have. Fear and fury and love in one sharp beat.
“We need to move,” I manage.
“We do,” he agrees.
We walk on. His hand stays locked in mine.