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The unexpected praise cuts through my defenses. Is this another calculation, another move in whatever game he’s playing? Or something genuine, a rare moment of truth between us? I search his face for clues, but his expression reveals nothing beyond that intense focus.

The words stick in my throat —thank you, dismissal, challenge—all competing to emerge. Before I can formulate a response, another knock announces the return of the women. They enter with obvious excitement, shattering the moment. They stop when they see Sacha, immediately dropping into courtsey’s.

“Vashna tem, Shadowverin.”

“Narem.” Headdresses the eldest directly, and she nods, replying briefly before drawing the others out of the room.

“Ready?” He extends his arm to me.

I place my hand on his sleeve, the fabric unexpectedly soft beneath my fingers, and we follow the women through passages that wind deeper into the mountain stronghold. The passageways are mostly empty, everyone already gathered ahead of us, the distant hum of voices and music swelling the deeper we go.

The ambient noise thickens as we approach the gathering hall. Laughter, the faint clatter of cups, the low murmur of conversation echo against the stone walls. Sacha stops just before the entrance and turns to me, his presence grounding against the anticipation coiling in the air.

“This matters to them.” His voice is low, but there’s a wealth of meaning beneath the words.

“I understand.” And I do. These people have been fighting a hopeless war for decades. Sacha’s return represents something they’d stopped believing in.Hope.

The doors swing open, revealing a vast chamber carved directly from the mountain’s heart. Lightstones embedded into the walls cast a warm, living glow across the space. There must be close to a hundred people gathered, and the conversations falter immediately as attention snaps toward the entrance where we stand.

Complete silence falls for several heartbeats.

Then a voice calls out from somewhere near the back.“Vareth’el et’Varin Sacha Torran!”

The name ripples through the gathering like wildfire, voices risingin a wave of sound that crashes against the walls. Some press fists to hearts. Others bow deeply, curtsey, lower their heads. Some simply stare, disbelief and awe warring on their faces before giving way to something fierce and bright.

Sacha’s stance shifts subtly beside me. His presence expands, filling the space without effort, without arrogance. His hand covers mine where it rests against his sleeve, a brief pressure that could be reassurance or warning.

“Stay close.” His voice is so low that only I can hear him.

I nod, and follow his lead as we step into the chamber. The crowd parts before us, creating a narrow path toward a raised platform at the far end, where Lisandra and several other leaders stand waiting.

The energy in the room is a living thing. It thrums beneath my skin, a tangible pulse of relief, shock, and determination. These aren’t just fighters, I realize, as my gaze moves over faces. These are families. Children clinging to mothers’ skirts. Elders leaning on intricately carved wooden staffs. Survivors gathered from the shattered remnants of what the Authority tried to erase.

As we move through them, people reach out, brushing their fingertips against Sacha’s sleeve, the edge of his coat, the back of his hand. He acknowledges each silent touch with the smallest nod of his head, a gesture that somehow carries both acknowledgement and a promise.

When we reach the platform, he doesn’t release me. Instead, he guides me up the steps beside him, as though I belong at his side. The inclusion seems deliberate, and murmurs ripple through the crowd.

Lisandra steps forward, raising her hands. Silence falls instantly, not just the gradual quiet of attention being gathered, but a sudden, collective stillness that speaks to her authority among these people.

When she speaks, her voice carries through the chamber, low and firm, her cadence unmistakably formal.

Sacha leans close, his breath warm against my ear, sending an involuntary shiver down my spine.

“She’s telling them that this gathering is a turning point,” he murmurs, his voice pitched low enough that it threads beneath the current of Lisandra’s speech. “That when the Authority captured me, they believed they had broken the Veinwardens’ spine. But my return proves their greatest victory was nothing but an illusion.” He pauses. “That hope remains, not as a distant dream, but as a weapon they have never surrendered.”

I barely breathe as I watch the faces in the crowd. Weariness gives way to fierce determination, resignation hardens into resolve. The shift is visible in every set jaw, every clenched hand, every breath drawn deeper than before.

I know that feeling.

That stubborn refusal to accept defeat, even when logic says you should. I’ve seen it in my own reflection.

Lisandra’s hand sweeps outward, her voice rising, punctuating her words. She gestures toward Sacha, and a shout rises from the crowd. Another shout answers it. Cheers ripple outward, fierce and wild.

When Lisandra finally falls silent, she turns toward Sacha. And the silence that follows it is expectant.

He steps forward, drawing me with him, his hand light on my elbow, and I find myself stepping into the charged silence with him.

“Narem kavir.” His voice carries through the chamber.