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Sacha is standing at the central table, his back to me, studying maps spread wide across the wood. He’s changed too. His bloodstained clothes are gone, replaced with something plain and dark, similar to what he wore in the tower. His hair is damp, the single braid now threaded with three new beads that remind me of the shadowstones he showed me. The last traces of blood are gone from his skin.

He looks up as I approach.

The shadows that covered him are gone. His eyes are clear again, dark but human, and for the moment he looks like the man I first met in the tower.

“You look rested.”

“I feel better.” I nod toward the tray. “Someone brought food. And clean clothes.”

“Lisandra would have arranged it.”

He adjusts the edge of one of the maps. “The Veinwardens will be gathering soon. They’ll want to know about our journey, and I need to know more about the Authority’s current movements.”

He speaks as if nothing has changed between us. As if the blood on his hands, the distance I demanded, no longer matters. I don’t know if that should comfort me, or make me feel even more alone.

I swallow the lump rising in my throat. I can’t afford to fall apart here. Not in front of them. Not in front ofhim. Whatever this gathering is, whatever they see when they look at Sacha, I need to survive it. I need to understand enough to keep up.

“What should I do? I can barely understand what’s happening.”

“Stay close to me. I’ll tell you what matters.” He pauses, studying me in that way he has—silently, like I’m being judged and being found lacking. “They may be curious about you. I’ll tell them you helped me escape the tower.”

“And the rest?”

“The less they know, the better for now.” His voice is soft, but there’s no give in it. It’s a warning that I shouldn’t push. “Your presence alone will raise enough questions, without adding more complications.”

Before I can say anything else, a knock sounds against the outer door. Sacha straightens. The change in him is subtle, but it’s there. Ashift in his stance, a lift of his chin. The mask of command settles over him like a second skin.

“They’re here.”

The door opens to reveal Lisandra, flanked by five others.

Three men and two women of varying ages, all bearing the same focused intensity I’ve begun to associate with the longer-serving Veinwardens. Their eyes find Sacha first, then slide briefly to me.

“Meshavan Shadowverin,” the eldest man says. “Varamek nul’tor.”

We have waited faithfully.

The words strike a chord. It’s the phrase Sacha taught me, spoken now not as a plea, but with reverence.

“Varash kavir.” His voice changes as he speaks, quiet authority threading through the soft cadence he uses with me.

Lisandra moves to the table, and takes a seat, the others following her lead. I sit to one side, slightly behind Sacha, where I can watch without being a distraction. The Veinwardens arrange themselves, and it feels like every seating choice is a statement of some kind.

The conversation begins immediately, a rapid exchange in the beautiful language that I struggle to follow. I catch words and phrases: ‘Authority.’Navirak kavir—something about what comes.Thornreave—a place name, maybe.Selurin et meresh—time, distance.

I stop trying to follow the words, and study their faces instead. Disbelief eroding into acceptance. Hope flickering behind suspicion. And again,again, those sidelong glances at me.

Kavir selurin?Who is this stranger? What role does she play?

One woman, older than Lisandra, watches me with a particular intensity. Shecuts across whatever Sacha is saying, pointing directly at me while she speaks.

The room stills, every gaze turning sharply toward me.

Sacha replies, calm but firm. She doesn’t accept it. Her voice rises, not in volume but in force, and she jabs a finger in my direction.

“Navirak et Shadowverin kavir telmar?” Even without understanding what she’s saying, I can’t miss the suspicion in her tone.

The atmosphere changes, tension thickening the air.