Imara
FIFTY
I’m drowning in red.
The power is everywhere—flooding my scars, tearing through my channels, scorching every nerve. I can feel Kharvek somewhere ahead of me, a beacon in the crimson storm, pulling the worst of it through himself so I don’t have to bear it all.
But there’s so much. Gods, there’s so much.
Every death. Every sacrifice. Every life ended in the Vale’s name. They scream through me—thousands of voices, centuries of pain, an ocean of horror that I’m trying to hold back with nothing but will and desperation.
Let go. You’ve done enough. Let me—
No. We finish this. Both of us.
The power surges. I feel a part of me crack—a channel giving way, a piece of myself burning out to make room for more. The pain is beyond description. Beyond thought. Beyond anything except the single unwavering truth that holds me anchored:
He needs me. I won’t let him die alone.
The ritual reaches its peak. For one suspended moment, I feel everything—every soul the clan ever consumed, every life the Matron ever stole, every drop of blood ever spilled on this cursed ground. They’re not screaming anymore. They’re singing. Celebrating.
Finally free.
Then the power releases, and the world goes white.