Kharvek
FIFTY-THREE
Getting Imara to her feet takes time.
She can barely stand—the ritual burned through her channels in ways that will take weeks to heal. I end up supporting most of her weight, her arm draped over my shoulders, her body pressed against my side. She leans into me without hesitation. Trusts me to hold her up.
She’s still mine. Still here. Still breathing. The relief is staggering.
“The children.” Her voice is steadier now, gaining strength with each word. “Are they—”
“Safe. All of them.” I nod toward the cluster of small forms beyond the ritual’s reach. “Dena kept them organized while we were… occupied.”
Imara’s gaze finds the nine-year-old standing at the group’s edge. A smile crosses her face—tired but genuine.
“Of course she did.” She takes a step toward them. Wobbles. Catches herself on my arm. “We need to get them somewhere safe. Somewhere with food, shelter, people who can help—”
“Later.” I stop her with a hand on her waist. “Right now, you need to rest.”
“I’ve rested enough. There are forty-three children who need—”
“Need you alive and functional. Not dead from pushing too hard.” I tuck two fingers under her chin, make her look at me. “Let me handle this. Let me take care of you for once.”
Her jaw tightens. I see the war playing behind her eyes—the part of her that needs to fix everything fighting against the part that can barely stay upright.
“One hour.” She holds up a finger. “One hour to rest. Then we figure out what comes next.”
“Deal.”
I guide her to a flat stretch of ground away from the destruction. Lower her carefully, settle beside her, wrap my arm around her shoulders. She curls into my side without prompting—her head finding the hollow of my shoulder, her hand coming to rest on my chest.
“Your scars.” She traces the new patterns with her fingertip. “They’ve changed.”
“I noticed.” I look down at my forearm. The channels that once blazed solid crimson have transformed—pale metallic threads now run through the familiar red. “The ritual must have altered them. Burned out the old patterns and replaced them with… this.”
“Does it hurt?”
“No.” I flex my hand. Feel the power still flowing through the channels—different now, more controlled, but present. “It feels… quieter. Less hungry.”
She nods against my shoulder. Her eyes are drifting closed.
“Don’t let me sleep too long.”
“I won’t.”
She’s unconscious within seconds. Exhaustion claiming what her will can no longer fight.
I hold her close. Watch the gray sky. And try to imagine what comes next.