FOURTEEN IMARA
FOURTEEN
IMARA
I’ve seen him hunt. Watched him work during the escape attempt, witnessed the precision of his violence from a distance. Nothing prepared me for this.
He doesn’t announce himself. Doesn’t roar or charge or give any warning. One moment he’s standing among the Harvest Guard; the next, his hands are buried in the chest of the guard beside him, scarification channels splitting open as he tears the orc apart from the inside.
Blood sprays. The guard’s body drops. And then Kharvek is among them, a force of destruction that leaves nothing standing in its wake.
The first four guards die before anyone understands what’s happening.
Kharvek moves from body to body with brutal efficiency—one drained through contact, life-force flooding into his open channels; one with his neck twisted until it snaps; two more with their throats opened by hands that have become weapons.
Screaming. Not the pit’s eternal wail—fresh screaming, living screaming, the sound of a crowd realizing death has arrived among them.
I drop my drum. Shove through the panicking harvesters. Reach for the power flowing through my own scarification marks, the delicate channels carved along my arms and spine.
My blood magic isn’t like his. I can’t drain with a touch, can’t tear bodies apart with raw force.
But I can do other things—precise things, subtle things.
I reach out with my awareness and find the guard’s primary resonance channel—the silver inlay at the base of his neck—and I twist the magical current.
The silver in his skin flares white-hot, short-circuiting his connection to the Sanctum’s power.
He stumbles. Clutches his chest. Falls.
Not dead—just interrupted. A clot in exactly the right place, dissolving in seconds but buying me the time I need to slip past.
Dena. I have to reach Dena.
The stock are scattering. Some run toward the chaos, toward the slim hope of freedom.
Others panic and stumble toward the pit itself, chains tangling as they flee blindly in every direction.
Bodies splash into the churning water—some thrown, some fallen, some choosing the pit over whatever’s happening above.
I fight through the crowd. My scars burn as I work—another guard interrupted, another obstacle removed. My magic isn’t made for sustained combat. Every working costs me, draws on reserves I can’t afford to exhaust. But I keep moving, keep pushing, keep searching for one small figure in the madness.
A hand closes on my arm. I spin, power crackling along my channels—
“Imara.” Kharvek. Blood-soaked, chest heaving, scars blazing with absorbed power. “Where?”
“Third row. Dark hair. Small.” I catch myself before describing her eyes. “She’s wearing a gray shift.”
He doesn’t wait for more. Just releases me and plunges back into the chaos, cutting a path through guards and panicked servants alike.
I follow in his wake.
The Harvest Guard have rallied. Eight of them form a defensive line near the pit’s northern rim, weapons drawn, waiting for Kharvek to come to them. They’ve seen what happens when he gets close. They’re hoping distance will save them.
It won’t.
Kharvek hits their line without hesitation. Two guards go down immediately—one drained, one broken—and then he’s among them, too close for their weapons to be effective, too fast for coordinated defense.
I circle wide. The stock huddle near the ritual platforms, those who haven’t scattered or fallen into the pit. I scan the terrified faces, searching for—
There.
Dena crouches behind an overturned altar, her small body pressed against the stone. Her blindfold has fallen away completely, and her eyes—too old for her face, too knowing—track my approach with desperate hope.
“Imara.” The words break on my name.
“I’m here.” I crouch beside her, working at her chains with shaking fingers. The locks are blood-keyed—designed to respond only to authorized personnel. I am authorized personnel. “I’m getting you out.”
“The others—” She glances toward the remaining stock, the ones still bound and blindfolded. “We can’t leave them—”
“I know.” The first chain falls away. I move to the second. “We won’t.”
A roar splits the air. Not Kharvek—the guards have brought out their champion. Grokh, the captain, built almost to Kharvek’s specifications. I watch him charge across the blood-slicked stone, watch Kharvek turn to meet him, and everything else fades.
They clash in a spray of crimson. Grokh is fast—faster than Kharvek, I realize with a cold spike of fear. But Kharvek channels more power, and when their bodies collide, the force sends Grokh stumbling back.
“Come on.” I pull Dena to her feet. “We need to move.”
“But—”
“He’ll catch up. He’s coming.” I don’t know if I believe it. Don’t know if Kharvek can survive Grokh, can survive all of this, can survive the disaster I’ve triggered with three beats of a drum. But I have to move, have to get Dena to safety, have to trust that he is everything I believe him to be.
We run.