Kharvek
ELEVEN
We refine the plan for hours. Every contingency addressed. Every variable accounted for. She thinks in systems—sees the Sanctum as an organism with vulnerabilities that can be exploited. I think in targets—see the Matron as a problem to be eliminated with sufficient force.
Between us, we cover most of the gaps.
The moon rises above the bone garden’s eastern edge—not true moonlight, but the pale glow that filters through the Vale’s perpetual haze.
The skeletal monuments cast long shadows.
Somewhere in the distance, a scream echoes and fades—residual magic replaying some ancient death, or perhaps a fresh one. Hard to tell the difference anymore.
“Why?” I ask during a lull in planning.
Imara doesn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Why what?”
“Why the Matron? Specifically. You could escape. Your network could get you beyond the Vale’s borders. You could start over somewhere the clan can’t reach.”
“Could I?” She doesn’t look up from the map. “What’s beyond the Vale for someone with my skills? Another kingdom’s service. Another master’s orders. I wasn’t bred for freedom.”
“Neither was I.”
“No.” Now she looks up. Holds my gaze with an intensity that would make most creatures back away. “But you’re going to take it anyway. And so am I.”
She’s close. Closer than I realized—our planning brought us shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, two bodies bent over the same goal.
I can count the pulse points in her throat.
Can see the faint scarring along her collarbone where her own channels run.
The blood-wards beneath the ground pulse red, and her eyes seem to catch that light.
Something shifts in the space between us. The air grows thick. Heavy in a way that has nothing to do with the Vale’s atmosphere.
“You should fear me.” The warning rasps out, edged with something I don’t want her to hear.
“Should I?”
“I’ve killed more people than I can count. Most of them didn’t deserve it.”
“I know.”
“I enjoyed some of it.”
“I know that too.”
She doesn’t retreat. Doesn’t soften. Just sits there in the bone garden’s crimson glow and looks at me with eyes that hold no illusion about what I am.
“Doesn’t that bother you?”
“Does it bother you that I’ve sent people to their deaths?
That I’ve conducted harvests I knew were murder?
That I’ve stayed silent when speaking would have helped?
” She lowers her voice. “I’m not innocent, Kharvek.
I stopped being innocent before I had a choice in the matter.
Whatever monster you think you are, I’ve met worse. I’ve been worse.”
My name on her lips. The first time she’s used it outside of formal address. My hands curl into fists at my sides.
“This is a bad idea.”
“Probably.”
“An alliance between us serves practical purposes. Anything more—”
“Anything more is dangerous.” She finishes my sentence. Moves closer still. “I know. I’ve been telling myself that for three days. Since you cornered me in that storage alcove and asked why I lied. Since I looked at you and didn’t feel what I should feel.”
“And what should you feel?”
“Terror. Revulsion. The urge to run.” Her hand rises. Hovers near my scarred cheek without quite touching. “Instead I feel—” She stops. Jaw tight.
The moment stretches. Neither of us moves. The bone garden glows around us, dead eyes watching from arranged skulls, and all I can see is the shape of her mouth. The flutter at the base of her throat. The rise and fall of her chest beneath practical robes.
I don’t initiate. Don’t know how. Physical contact for me has only ever meant violence—hands that crush, fists that break, fingers that drain. The Matron never programmed me for tenderness. Never saw a use for it.
But Imara doesn’t need me to initiate.
She grabs the front of my shirt. Yanks me down. And presses her mouth to mine.