Kharvek
FORTY-EIGHT
The Matron’s power hits me in a wall of crimson flame.
I dig my heels into the bleeding earth, channel everything I have into my scars, and push back. The impact shudders through my bones. My teeth grind. My muscles scream. But I hold.
She’s stronger than I expected. Two centuries of stolen life-force, concentrated in a single strike. Any other blood mage would have been vaporized.
I’m not any other blood mage.
“Impressive.” The Matron circles to my left, her movements predatory despite their grace. “You’ve grown since you escaped. The harvester’s influence, I assume.”
I don’t waste breath responding. Attack.
My scars flare. Power surges through channels designed for destruction, and I unleash it in a torrent of raw force.
The Matron deflects—barely—and the excess energy tears a crater in the Red Fields behind her.
Rust-colored grass incinerates. Bone fragments scatter.
The blood seeping from the ground boils where my magic touches it.
“Brute force.” She sounds almost disappointed. “I taught you better than that.”
“You didn’t teach me anything.” I close the distance, driving her back with strike after strike. “You programmed a weapon. There’s a difference.”
Her counter catches me across the ribs. Pain flares—sharp, deep, the sting of magic designed to disrupt my channels. I stagger. She presses the advantage.
The Matron is faster than I expected. Not physically—she’s ancient, her body preserved but not enhanced—but magically. She moves through the blood-wards as if they’re extensions of her own limbs. The power flowing through the Vale answers her every thought.
I block another strike. Barely. Feel the force reverberate through my arms.
“The weapon speaks.” Her hand comes up, power gathering for a finishing blow. “How disappointing that it never learned its place.”
Imara saves me.
Her magic slices through the Matron’s working—precise, surgical, cutting the power stream before it can reach me. The interruption costs the Matron her concentration. Costs me precious seconds to recover.
I use them.
My fist catches the Matron in the chest. Not with magic—with simple physical force. Seven feet of enhanced muscle and reinforced bone, driven by fury and desperation. She flies backward, hits the ground hard, and for one beautiful moment, looks genuinely surprised.
“The resonance.” She pushes herself up, blood—actual blood—trickling from her lip. “You’ve weaponized it. Turned a breeding tool into a combat advantage.”
“We turned it into whatever we wanted.” Imara moves to my side, her shoulder brushing mine. The contact steadies me. Grounds me. “That’s what happens when you give people freedom. They surprise you.”
The Matron’s expression hardens. Whatever amusement she found in our defiance is gone now, replaced by cold calculation.
“Freedom.” She spits the word. “You think you’re free? You think this rebellion changes anything about what you are?”
“It changes everything.” I reach for Imara’s hand. Feel her fingers intertwine with mine. “We chose this. We chose each other. That’s more freedom than you’ve ever had.”
“I’ve had two centuries of freedom.”
“You’ve had two centuries of control. They’re not the same thing.”
The sky pulses above us. The ritual is building faster now—minutes, not hours. Behind us, the children huddle at the edge of the dead zone. Dena’s small form is visible at their front, her eyes fixed on us.
Waiting. Hoping. Trusting us to find a way.
The Matron sees us looking. And smiles.
“You have perhaps five minutes before the release.” Her voice is almost gentle. “I’d prefer you accept the binding I offered in the Sanctum. But if you’d rather burn with the rest of them, that’s your choice to make.”
She raises her hands. Power gathers—not an attack, but a working. I feel it in the wards beneath our feet, in the blood-channels running through the Vale’s infrastructure. She’s accelerating the ritual herself. Forcing our hand.
The ground shakes. The sky darkens further. The pressure building in the air becomes almost unbearable.
Five minutes. Not enough time for the children to reach safety. Not enough time to fight our way through the Matron’s defenses. Not enough time for anything except what Imara and I already chose, back at the Sanctum, when I told her I was not alone anymore.
I reach for Imara’s hand. Feel her fingers close around mine.
“Together,” she whispers.
“Together,” I agree.
I reach for the ritual.