Imara
TWENTY-TWO
Night falls.
I’ve done what I can for Kharvek’s wounds—cleaned them, applied what healing magic my limited reserves allow, bound the worst of the tears with strips of cloth from my own robes.
The damage is still severe. The channels that carry his power have been compromised, some of them possibly beyond repair.
“Can you still fight?” I ask as I tie off the last bandage.
“I can always fight.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
His jaw works. “I can fight. But—”
“But?”
“If I channel too much, too fast, the damaged channels could rupture completely.” He flexes his bandaged arm, testing the range of motion. “If that happens, the power will burn through instead of around the scarification. It could—”
He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t need to.
“It could kill you.”
“It could do worse than kill me.” He meets my gaze. Holds it. “If I lose control of that much power, I won’t just die. I’ll destroy everything around me. Everyone.”
The implication lands in my gut. Cold. Heavy.
“The survivors. Dena.”
“Yes.”
I think through the mathematics of risk. The terrible calculus I’ve been performing since I first decided to fight the clan. If the hunters come—when the hunters come—Kharvek is our only real weapon. Without him fighting at full capacity, we’re all dead anyway.
But if he fights at full capacity, he might kill us all himself.
“How long until the channels heal?”
“Days. Maybe a week. Longer if I have to keep using them.”
We don’t have days. The Matron’s hunters are out there somewhere, tracking us through the barren wastes. Every hour we spend in one place is an hour they use to close the distance.
“We need to move.” I stand. Start gathering our supplies. “Find somewhere more defensible. Somewhere we can hold if they find us before you’re healed.”
“There’s nowhere more defensible within a day’s march.” Kharvek rises too, testing his arm. “This farmstead is the best option.”
“Then we make it better. Set up early warnings. Plan escape routes. Give ourselves every advantage we can.”
He nods. Starts toward the door.
And stops.
His whole body goes rigid. The scars on his arms flare—not the dim glow I’ve grown used to, but a sharp, bright surge of crimson.
“What—”
“Blood-wards.” His voice drops to almost nothing. “In the distance. They just flared.”
I cross to the window. Peer through the gaps in the warped boards.
The horizon glows.
Not dawn—it’s too early for that, and the wrong direction anyway. This is something else. A shimmer in the air maybe a mile out, maybe less. The residual blood-ward network that extends beyond the Vale’s borders, used for tracking, for communication.
For hunting.
“The Matron’s people.” My blood runs cold. “They’ve found us.”
“Not yet.” Kharvek moves to the door. Scans the darkness beyond. “The flare was a ranging signal. They know our approximate location. They’re narrowing it down.”
“How long?”
“Hours. Maybe less.”
Hours. We have hours until the hunters arrive, and Kharvek can barely use his magic without risking self-destruction.
“Wake the others.” I grab Dena’s shoulder, shake her gently. She blinks awake, confusion clouding her face. “We need to move.”
“What’s happening?”
“Bad people are coming.” I help her to her feet, press the button-eyed doll into her hands. “We’re going to run again. Can you do that?”
She nods. Small. Scared. Trusting me to keep her safe when I’m not sure I can keep anyone safe anymore.
The other survivors stumble upright, registering the urgency in our movements. They don’t ask questions. They’ve learned not to ask questions.
Kharvek appears in the doorway. “There’s a ravine half a mile north. Deep enough to break line of sight. If we move now—”
“Your arm.”
“Will hold.” His gaze meets mine. “I won’t let them take any of you. Whatever it costs.”
I want to argue. Want to remind him that he’s not expendable, that his life matters beyond his usefulness as a weapon, that I didn’t kiss him just to watch him burn himself out protecting us.
But there’s no time. No time for arguments, no time for careful plans, no time for anything except running.
“Stay close,” I tell Dena. “Don’t let go of my hand.”
She grabs on with fingers that tremble.
We slip out into the darkness, leaving the farmstead behind, heading north toward a ravine I can only hope will save us.
Behind us, the horizon continues to glow. The hunters are coming.
And Kharvek is wounded, I’m exhausted, and all we have between us and the Matron’s wrath is a handful of terrified survivors and whatever desperate measures we can improvise.
We run anyway.