Kharvek
FORTY-FOUR
We make our way through the ruined Chamber, supporting each other.
The destruction is total. Every blood-glass cylinder shattered. Every breeding chart burned. The equipment the Matron used to map bloodlines and plan conception rituals—reduced to twisted metal and sparking components.
Imara pauses at a pile of scattered papers. Genealogy records. Her bloodline. My bloodline. The theoretical projections for what our children might have become.
She picks up one page. Studies it.
Then she sets it on fire.
“No one”—her voice hardens—“is ever going to use this information. Not against us. Not against anyone.”
The paper burns to ash. She drops it and keeps walking.
I follow. My legs are steadier now—the awareness we share seems to be helping, her strength flowing into me as mine flows into her. We’re both damaged, but we’re damaged in ways that complement each other.
The exit to the upper levels is partially blocked by rubble. I clear enough of it for us to squeeze through. Imara goes first—I won’t let her be the one to stay behind if the debris shifts.
The passage beyond is chaos. Attendants running in every direction. Warning bells sounding. The wards flickering and dying throughout the Sanctum.
No one pays attention to us. They’re too busy panicking.
“The Breeding Pens.” Imara’s voice is urgent. “If she triggers the final ritual, everyone in there dies.”
“We don’t have time to evacuate hundreds of people.”
“We make time.” She meets my gaze. Steel and fire and absolute certainty. “Those people are why I started fighting in the first place. I’m not leaving them to die.”
I should argue. Should point out that the mission is stopping the Matron, not saving the stock she created us to exploit. Every minute we spend on evacuation is a minute closer to the ritual completing.
But I think of the child’s skull in the drainage tunnel. The infant who was mortared into the wall like another brick. The countless victims whose bones built the walls I grew up in.
Imara is right. Of course she’s right. She usually is.
“The Pens first,” I decide. “Then the Matron.”
Her smile is worth the lost time. She rises on her toes, presses a kiss to my scarred cheek.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet.” I pull her closer. Just long enough to breathe in the scent of her hair, to feel her heartbeat against my chest. “We haven’t won anything.”
“We’re still alive.” Her arms wrap around my waist. “That’s winning enough for now.”
The walls quake again. Harder. Closer.
Time to move.
The journey to the Breeding Pens takes too long.
The Sanctum is a maze at the best of times—seven levels of twisting corridors, hidden passages, and trapped doorways. Now, with the wards failing and the structure itself groaning under the strain of the building ritual, it’s a death trap.
We move as fast as our injuries allow. Imara leans on me when her leg gives out. I lean on her when my vision blurs and the blood loss catches up.
Our shared awareness helps. Every time one of us starts to flag, the other’s strength flows in to compensate. It’s not healing—we’re both still damaged—but it’s enough to keep us moving.
We find the Pens on the fourth level, below the Sacrificial Pit but above the deepest ritual chambers. The guards have already fled—probably smart enough to recognize what’s coming. The doors stand open.
Inside, chaos.
Hundreds of people in various stages of panic. Some are trying to break through locked exits. Others are huddled in corners, too conditioned to disobedience to even try escaping. Children cry. Adults scream. The air smells like fear and copper and impending death.
Imara pushes into the crowd without hesitation. “LISTEN TO ME!”
Her voice carries. Cuts through the noise. The stock turn to look—recognize her harvester’s robes, her air of authority.
“The Sanctum is falling.” She climbs onto a raised platform—one of the breeding evaluation stations—so everyone can see her. “The Matron has triggered a final ritual. You have less than an hour to get out.”
Silence. Then a wave of questions, protests, disbelief.
“Why should we trust you?”
“You’re one of them!”
“There’s nowhere to go—the Vale is sealed—”
“The wards are failing.” Imara’s voice doesn’t waver. “That means the seals are failing too. There are routes out—through the drainage tunnels, through the ritual gates, through the gaps in the defenses. Anyone who wants to live, follow me.”
She jumps down from the platform. Reaches for my hand.
“Anyone who wants to stay and die for the clan that bred them, stay where you are.”
She starts walking. Doesn’t look back.
I follow her. Of course I do.
Behind us, after a moment of hesitation, the stock begin to move.
Leading hundreds of panicked people through a collapsing structure isn’t what I’d call a good time.
The passages are crowded. People push, shove, fall behind. Children get separated from adults. The elderly and injured can’t keep pace.
Imara manages it. Somehow. She deploys the more able-bodied stock as guides, positions me at the rear to discourage anyone from falling too far behind.
Her voice carries commands with authority I’ve never heard from her before—the harvester’s mask she spent a decade perfecting, now turned toward something other than the clan’s service.
The resonance between us hums with her determination. Her fear. Her fragile hope that we can actually pull this off.
I feel all of it. Feel her.
The first group reaches the drainage tunnels. Imara shows them the route—the same one we used to enter, now reversed. They flood into the darkness, fear of the unknown finally overwhelmed by fear of the falling Sanctum.
The second group follows. The third.
The whole structure is in constant motion now. Not individual tremors—a sustained vibration that makes the walls bleed dust, that cracks the floor beneath our feet.
“That’s most of them.” Imara watches the last stragglers disappear into the tunnels. Her face is pale with exhaustion. “The rest… some won’t leave. Too scared or too loyal.”
“You can’t save everyone.”
“I know.” The words catch. “But I had to try.”
I pull her into my arms. She sags against me—finally letting the exhaustion show, finally allowing herself to be weak.
“You did enough.” My lips brush her hair. “You did more than enough.”
“It’s not over.” She pulls back. Meets my gaze. “The Matron.”
“I know.”
The ritual is still building. It’s in my bones now—the power gathering, the pressure increasing. When it releases, everything within the Vale’s boundaries will be consumed.
Unless we stop her.
“Ready?” Imara asks.
I take her hand. Lace our fingers. Her grip is strong despite her injuries. Mine is the same.
“As I’ll ever be.”
We turn toward the Sanctum’s heart. Toward the Matron. Toward the final battle that will determine everything.
The blood-wards scream around us. The walls shake. The floor cracks.
We walk forward anyway.