42. Kharvek
FORTY-TWO
KHARVEK
The Matron keeps talking.
She outlines her plans in detail—the breeding schedule she’s devised, the traits she hopes to cultivate, the timeline for producing the first viable offspring. Two years, she estimates. Maybe three. She has patience. She’s had two centuries to develop it.
I stop listening to the words. Focus instead on the warmth in my chest.
Imara is there. Hurt and weakened but present. I can feel her working—slow, careful movements of magic that brush against my awareness like fingertips. She’s doing something to the wards around us. Something subtle.
Trust me. I have a plan.
I don’t know if she’s actually communicating or if I’m imagining it. Doesn’t matter. I trust her anyway.
The problem is keeping the Matron distracted long enough for whatever Imara is doing to work.
“Why tell me this?” I interrupt the Matron’s monologue. “If you’re going to take what you want regardless, why bother explaining?”
She pauses. Considers the question.
“Because I want you to understand.” She steps closer, close enough that I can smell the old blood on her robes, the death that clings to her skin. “What I told you in this Chamber an hour ago wasn’t a tactic. You owe me everything you are.”
I think of Imara’s hands on my scars. Warm. Gentle. Healing instead of hurting.
“You gave me nothing.” My voice comes out steady. Certain. “You designed a weapon. That’s not creation—it’s manufacture.”
Something crosses her expression. Not hurt—nothing so human. More like calculation disrupted.
“You’re angry,” she observes. “That’s understandable. The truth is rarely comfortable.”
“I’m not angry.” I meet those unblinking crimson orbs without looking away. “I’m done. Whatever you thought I was, whatever you designed me to be—that’s over. I belong to myself now. And to her.”
My gaze flicks to Imara. Just for a heartbeat.
The Matron follows my look. Sees Imara sitting up, hands pressed to the floor, eyes closed in concentration.
“What—”
The Sanctum groans.
The tremor is small at first. A vibration in the stones. A flicker in the blood-ward glow.
Then it builds.
The wards pulse erratically—bright, dim, bright again. The blood-glass cylinders rattle against their moorings. Somewhere in the walls, I hear a grinding sound. Stone shifting against stone.
The Matron’s attention snaps from me to Imara. “What have you done?”
Imara’s eyes open. Blood trickles from her nose, from the corners of her eyes—the cost of working magic while injured. But she’s smiling.
“I finished what I started.” Her voice is raw. Triumphant. “The sabotage I introduced to the wards? It’s spreading. Faster than you can stop it.”
“That’s impossible. I would have detected—”
“You were too busy talking.” Imara pushes herself to her feet. Sways, but stays standing. “Too busy explaining how perfect your plans were. You didn’t notice me reopening the channels.”
Another tremor splits the floor between two cylinders, harder this time, and crimson light bleeds from the wound.
The Matron raises her hands. Power gathers around her—raw, tremendous, the accumulated strength of two centuries of sacrifice. She’s going to try to stabilize the wards. Going to try to undo what Imara has done.
But her attention is no longer on me.
And the wards pinning me to the wall? They’re part of the same system Imara just poisoned.
I feel them weaken. Not much. Just a fraction. But a fraction is all I need.
The awareness between us flares.
Imara’s magic pulses through it—not attacking, not healing, just present. I feel her will brush against mine. Feel her strength add to what little I’ve managed to preserve.
Now.
I don’t know if she says it or if I just know it. Doesn’t matter.
I pour everything into breaking free. Every scrap of power I’ve been hoarding since the Matron captured me. Every ounce of rage and fear and desperate love. The resonance between Imara and me blazes bright, and the power flows through a channel the Matron never designed—one we created ourselves.
The chains scream.
Metal twists. Ward-sigils flare and fail. The iron manacles holding my arms above my head crack, split, shatter into fragments that spray across the Chamber.
I hit the floor hard, knees buckling, hands catching myself before I crash completely. My channels are on fire. My scars blaze so bright they illuminate the entire space. I’m weak—weaker than I’ve ever been—but I’m free.
And I’m angry.
The Matron whirls. Her hands come up, power gathering for an attack.
I don’t give her the chance.