Kharvek
THIRTY-SEVEN
Istare at the cylinders. At the six failed versions of myself, preserved as trophies of the Matron’s experiments.
Six brothers. The thought surfaces unbidden. I had six brothers, and she killed them all.
Origins. Not father. I heard what I wanted to hear—and she let me.
“This doesn’t explain—” The words catch. I clear my throat, try again. “You said I was your son. That’s not what breeding stock produces.”
“No.” The Matron’s smile widens. “It isn’t.”
She moves past the cylinders, toward a section of wall covered in genealogy charts. Breeding records. The same kind of documents I’ve seen my whole life—bloodlines tracked, traits catalogued, pairings optimized.
But these charts are different. They don’t show two parent lines converging. They show one line—one single bloodline—modified and refined over generations.
Her bloodline.
“I was human once.” The Matron’s voice drops. “Two centuries ago. Before I discovered what blood magic could truly accomplish. Before I understood that the body is merely a vessel—one that can be improved. Perfected. Transcended.”
She traces a finger along the chart. Down through generations of modification. Each step bringing her further from humanity.
“I couldn’t breed in the traditional sense. I’d modified myself too extensively. But I could extract—essence. Genetic material, processed through ritual. Combined with carefully selected orc stock to produce…” She gestures at me. “You.”
The words take a moment to sink in.
“You’re saying I’m—”
“My child.” Her eyes burn into mine. “Not metaphorically. Not symbolically. Biologically. Half of your blood comes from me. Half of your potential. The orc characteristics—the size, the channeling capacity, the physical resilience—those come from the stock I selected. But the core of you, the essence that makes you more than a simple weapon…”
“That’s you.”
“That’s me.”
Imara’s hand squeezes mine so hard it hurts. Her shock travels through the resonance—her horror at what the Matron is describing.
But I can feel something else too. Something in my own blood responds to the Matron’s presence. That recognizes her on a level deeper than thought.
She’s not lying.
The realization is a knife in my chest.
“Why?” The word comes out hoarse. “Why tell me this now? What do you want?”
“I want you to come home.” The Matron’s voice is gentle.
Reasonable. The voice of a mother welcoming back a wayward child.
“I want you to take your rightful place as my heir. The clan needs new leadership, Kharvek. I’ve been guiding it for two centuries, but even I can’t last forever.
Someday I’ll need a successor—someone who understands blood magic the way I do.
Someone who carries my essence in their veins. ”
“You want me to… lead the clan?”
“I want you to continue my work.” She spreads her arms, encompassing the Chamber, the cylinders, the entire Sanctum above us.
“Everything I’ve built—it’s not cruelty for its own sake.
It’s progress. Evolution. I’m not harvesting bloodlines because I enjoy suffering; I’m doing it because it’s necessary.
Because the alternative is chaos. Because someone has to guide humanity’s magical development, and I’m the only one with the vision to do it properly. ”
I think of the child’s skull in the drainage tunnels. The bones built into the walls. The countless lives ended to fuel her “progress.”
“You’re insane.”
“I’m practical.” Her voice sharpens. “Do you think magical power just appears from nowhere? Do you think the abilities you take for granted came without cost? Every working requires fuel. Every advancement requires sacrifice. I simply… industrialized the process. Made it efficient. Sustainable.”
“You made it monstrous.”
“I made it work.” She takes a step toward me.
“And you—you’re proof of what’s possible when the work is done correctly.
You’re the most powerful blood mage in three generations, Kharvek.
Stronger than any natural-born practitioner.
Stronger, eventually, than me. All because I was willing to do what others considered unthinkable. ”
“And Imara?” I pull her closer, my arm wrapping around her waist. “What’s your plan for her in this glorious future?”
The Matron’s gaze flicks to Imara. Calculating. Assessing.
“The harvester would be your consort. The mother of the next generation.” Her voice is magnanimous.
Generous. “Your children would combine your channeling ability with her precision control. They would be the next step in blood magic’s evolution—more powerful than you, more refined than her, perfect in ways neither of you can achieve alone. ”
“And if we refuse?”
“Then I take what I need regardless.” The warmth drains from her voice.
“I don’t require your cooperation, Kharvek.
Merely your genetic material. The Womb Chamber can extract what’s necessary from both of you.
Conception, gestation, birth—all of it can be accomplished without your willing participation.
I would prefer your partnership, but I’ll accept your mere existence if that’s all you’re willing to give. ”
Imara moves before I do.
Her hand comes up, scars flaring with crimson light. A lance of power stabs toward the Matron—precise, deadly, aimed at the throat.
The Matron deflects it with a casual wave. The attack splatters against an invisible barrier, dissipating into nothing.
“Disappointing.” She shakes her head. “I’d hoped you might see reason, but I suppose that was too much to expect from a harvester. You’ve spent too long pretending to be one of the faithful—you’ve forgotten what true power looks like.”
She raises her hand.
The blood-wards throughout the Chamber flare to life. I feel them clamp down on my channels—not blocking them, not quite, but constricting. Limiting. Like chains wrapped around my magic.
“The Chamber’s defenses are keyed to my blood.” The Matron’s voice is patient. Instructive. “And since my blood runs through you, I can control exactly how much power you’re allowed to access. Right now, you have just enough to stand upright. Try to attack me, and I’ll reduce that to nothing.”
I strain against the invisible bindings. Feel my scars burn as power builds with nowhere to go. The pressure is agonizing—not pain exactly, but a fullness that threatens to burst me apart from within.
“Stop fighting it.” Her voice softens. Almost kind. “You can’t overpower me in my own Chamber. You can’t escape wards that recognize you as part of themselves. The only path forward is acceptance. Partnership. Family.”
Family. The word is obscene in her mouth.
“I have a family,” I manage through gritted teeth. “I have Imara.”
“You have a breeding partner.” The Matron’s expression hardens. “A temporary amusement. When you’ve been alive as long as I have, you’ll understand the difference. Love fades. Blood endures.”
“You’re wrong.”
“I’m never wrong about blood.” She turns toward the Chamber’s exit. “Think about what I’ve offered, Kharvek. Take as long as you need. The wards will keep you contained until you’re ready to make the right choice. When you are—” She glances back over her shoulder. “—call for me. I’ll be waiting.”
She vanishes into the shadows.
The blood-wards pulse brighter. Tighter.
And we’re alone in the heart of the monster’s lair.
The moment she’s gone, I collapse.
The wards don’t let me fall far—they catch me, hold me in place, keep me upright through force alone. But the strength drains out of my legs. My arms. Everything except my grip on Imara’s hand.
“Kharvek—” Her voice is frantic. Her free hand cups my face, tilts it toward her. “Look at me, Kharvek. Don’t close your eyes.”
“I’m here.” The words scrape out. “She’s… in me. Part of me. I can feel it now. How didn’t I feel it before?”
“Because she hid it from you.” Imara’s eyes burn with fury—not at me, never at me. At the creature who created us both. “She designed you not to recognize her signature. But now that you know what to look for—”
“I can’t stop feeling it.” My stomach churns. “She’s right. Her blood is in me. Half of what I am came from her.”
“Half.” Imara’s voice sharpens. “Half of what you were born as. Nothing of what you’ve become. Nothing of who you are now.”
I want to believe her. Want it more than I’ve ever wanted anything. But the Matron’s words echo in my skull—blood endures—and I can feel the truth of it in my very cells.
“She made me to be a weapon.” My voice breaks.
I think of the moment I first decided to rebel. Not against the clan—against myself. Against the programming that said I had no value beyond violence. Against the certainty that I could never be more than what they made me.
Imara gave me that choice. Showed me it existed. But I was the one who made it.
I was the one who decided to be more.
“She can’t control what I feel.” The realization steadies me. Grounds me. “She can limit my power, lock down my channels, keep me trapped in this Chamber. But she can’t make me stop loving you. She can’t make me stop fighting.”
“No.” Imara’s smile is fierce. Triumphant. “She can’t.”