SEVENTEEN KHARVEK
SEVENTEEN
KHARVEK
The child is slowing us down.
I watch Dena stumble over another rock, her small legs unable to match the pace we need.
Imara catches her before she falls, murmurs reassurance I can’t hear, helps her regain her footing.
We’ve been moving for hours since leaving the first cave, putting distance between ourselves and the Sanctum, and every minute the child struggles is another minute the Matron’s hunters gain ground.
“We need to leave her.” The words come out flat. Practical. “She can’t keep up.”
Imara’s head snaps toward me. Her gaze blazes with what might be fury.
“No.”
“She’s compromising our speed. Our survival.”
“I said no.”
I crack my knuckles. The sound echoes off the barren rocks around us. “The Matron has already sent hunters. Every delay—”
“I don’t care.” Imara positions herself between me and the child. Protective. Pointless. “We’re not leaving her.”
The survivors scatter around us—five others who made it out of the pit’s chaos, following our trail because they have nowhere else to go. They watch this confrontation with hollow expressions, too exhausted to do more than wait for the outcome.
I could force the issue. Pick up the child, hand her to one of the others, tell them to go their own way. Imara would fight me, but she’d lose. Her blood magic is precise, not powerful. In a direct confrontation—
I won’t. I know I won’t, even as I calculate the tactical advantages of abandonment.
Something has shifted since the bone garden. Since the cave. Since she touched my face and told me I was worth fighting for.
“Fine.” I turn away. “But if the hunters catch us because we’re moving at a child’s pace, remember who made that choice.”
“I’ll remember.” Her voice is steel. “And I’ll make the same choice again.”
I don’t respond. Just start walking, trusting she’ll follow with her trail of refugees.
She does.
The Vale’s boundary lies three miles ahead—a shimmer in the air where the blood-wards thin to nothing.
Beyond that line, the Matron’s sight becomes limited.
Her power fades. We’ll still be hunted, but at least she won’t be able to track us through the magical infrastructure she’s spent centuries building.
Three miles. At our current pace, two hours. Maybe more.
The landscape grows more barren as we climb. Nothing survives this close to the Vale’s heart—centuries of the clan’s influence leached every drop of life from the soil until even weeds refuse to grow. The ground is rust-colored, the rocks are jagged, and the air tastes of copper and ash.
I’ve been outside the Vale before. Hunting missions that took me into territories the Matron wanted to claim. I never paid attention to the deadness of the land—never cared about anything except the target and the kill.
Now I notice. Now, watching Imara guide the child over another obstacle, watching the other survivors struggle to keep moving, I see what the clan has done to everything it touches.
Destruction. That’s all they create. All I create.
Is that all I’m capable of?
The question arrives without permission. I shove it aside. Now is not the time for philosophical contemplation. Now is the time for survival.
Dena cries out. I spin, power flooding my channels—
She’s fallen. Just fallen, tripped over her own exhausted feet. Imara kneels beside her, checking for injuries while the child’s thin frame shakes with suppressed sobs.
“I can’t.” Dena’s voice breaks. “I can’t keep going. Leave me. Just leave me here.”
“No.” Imara’s voice brooks no argument.
“I’m slowing everyone down. The big one said—”
“The big one doesn’t make decisions for this group.” Imara shoots me a glare that could strip paint. “We’re not leaving anyone behind.”
I approach. Dena shrinks back—a small motion, quickly controlled, but I see it. Of course she shrinks back. I’m built for killing. Children learn to fear killers before they learn anything else.
“Get on my back.” The words surprise me as much as they seem to surprise Imara. “I’ll carry you.”
Dena stares up at me. Terror and exhaustion war in her small face.
“Now.” I crouch, presenting my back. “We don’t have time for arguments.”
A moment of hesitation. Then small arms wrap around my neck, thin legs grip my sides, and I rise with a child clinging to me like I’m more than a weapon built for destruction.
Her body trembles against mine. Fear. Exhaustion. The aftermath of everything she’s survived.
I start walking. Faster now. The child’s slight form adds nothing to my burden—I was built to carry the power of centuries of sacrifice. One nine-year-old barely registers.
Imara falls into step beside me. She says nothing, but I feel her attention on my face. Questioning. Assessing.
“Don’t.” I don’t look at her. “Don’t read anything into this.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I was thinking you’re full of surprises.”
I grunt. Keep walking. Try not to think about the way Dena’s death grip on my neck is slowly relaxing, her terror fading into what feels closer to trust.
Trust. In me. The irony burns.