Imara
NINE
I’ve almost reached my quarters when a voice stops me cold.
“Harvester Calder.”
I know that voice—have heard it deliver orders, pronounce sentences, speak the Matron’s will with absolute authority. Every harvester in the Sanctum knows that voice.
Sister Vela emerges from an adjacent corridor, her dark robes pristine, her expression carefully neutral. The Matron’s primary assistant moves with the measured grace of someone who’s learned that haste suggests weakness.
My hand is still wet with Kharvek’s blood. I tuck it behind my back, casual, hoping she didn’t notice.
“Sister Vela.” I incline my head. “How may I serve?”
“A moment of your time.” She gestures toward an empty chamber. “If you please.”
Not a request. Never a request, with Vela.
I follow her into the chamber—a small ritual space, currently unused. She closes the door behind us, and the blood-wards seal with a soft hum. Privacy. Concerning.
“The Matron is pleased with your work today.” Vela folds her hands, watching me with sharp attention. “The aftercare you provided was… thorough.”
“I’m honored to serve.”
“Mmm.” She circles the chamber’s perimeter, trailing her fingers along the ritual implements arranged on a side table. “The blood reading you performed yesterday. On the weapon. The Matron found your report… interesting.”
My heart stutters. My face stays calm.
“I reported my findings accurately.”
Vela stops her circuit. Turns to face me directly. “His behavior continues to concern us. Small rebellions. Delayed responses. The Matron had hoped you might identify a physical cause.”
“Perhaps the cause isn’t physical.”
Vela’s expression doesn’t shift. I hold her gaze and continue.
“Psychological factors can affect performance. Even weapons need maintenance of a different kind.”
“Perhaps.” Vela’s focus sharpens. “The Matron has also noticed your interest in the weapon. You were present at the Red Fields tonight. You took the long route back to your quarters afterward.”
They’re watching. They’ve been watching this whole time.
“The Red Fields are public during containment events. Many servants attended.” I meet her stare. Hold it. “And I often take varied routes. The Sanctum can be… oppressive. Walking helps.”
“Walking.” Vela’s lips curve into what isn’t quite a smile. “Of course.” She moves toward the door, then pauses. “The Matron values loyalty above all else, Harvester Calder. She rewards those who serve faithfully. And she… addresses… those who do not.”
“I understand completely, Sister.”
“I hope so.” Vela opens the door. “The weapon is the Matron’s property. Her creation. Her responsibility. She would be… displeased… if others attempted to interfere with that relationship. Even with good intentions.”
The blood-wards unseal. The corridor waits beyond.
“Your counsel is appreciated, Sister Vela.” I bow my head. “I will endeavor to remain… appropriate.”
“See that you do.”
She sweeps away, dark robes trailing. I wait until she’s out of sight before I let myself breathe.
The Matron has noticed. She’s having me watched. The window is closing.
I look at my hand. The blood has dried now, brown and flaking. Kharvek’s blood. Sera’s blood. The blood of the men he killed in the tunnels. All of it mixed and crusted across my palm, a map of tonight’s violence.
I should wash it off. Should return to my quarters, sleep, prepare for whatever comes tomorrow. Should be smart, be careful, be the controlled and calculating harvester I’ve spent a decade pretending to be.
Instead, I stand in the empty corridor and think about Kharvek’s smile.
Think about the promise in his voice when he said he could destroy the Matron.
Think about how his hand felt around mine—hot, bloody, strong enough to crush me and gentle enough not to.
Ten years of planning. Ten years of patience.
The right moment is coming. I can feel it.
And it terrifies me almost as much as it thrills me.