Page 151

But I was the spark. The match that lit the fuse. The moment I reacted, everything shifted. And now the clearing reeks of blood and death, because I couldn’t hold back whatever this thing inside me is.

Sacha appears beside me, moving without sound, as though the violence he unleashed left no weight on him at all. The darkness still clings to him, swirling just beneath the skin on his arms, beautiful andterrible, a living thing that answers only to him. His eyes are still black as night.

“Are you hurt?” His voice is steady, controlled—a stark, jarring contrast to the carnage that still bleeds across the ground.

I shake my head, throat tight, but the words slip out before I can stop them.

“Was it my fault?”

Sacha’s gaze flicks to me, but he doesn’t answer.

That’s it. A look. No softening. No explanation. He doesn’t tell me what I need to hear. That the outcome would have been the same, that my reaction didn’t tip the scales, that these deaths don’t rest on my hands.

And because he doesn’t say it, the doubt sinks deeper. Heavy.Permanent.

The merchants are staring at us, athim, with expressions caught between terror and something else. Varam moves among them, cutting their restraints, while Mira checks their injuries.

“What …” The eldest one struggles to speak, his gaze locked on Sacha like a man who just witnessed something from beyond the grave. “Whatareyou?”

“Just travelers,” Sacha replies, his tone dismissive. But the darkness hasn’t fully receded. His eyes remain black. No iris, no white, just depthless void that seems to swallow light itself.

The merchant shakes his head, backing away slightly. His hand forms a symbol against his chest. A ward against evil, or a prayer to something he doesn’t believe in enough to save him.

“No. I’ve heard the stories.Oldstories.” His voice shakes. “You are the Shadowvein Lord.”

The words drop into sudden silence. A silence so heavy it seems to push the trees outward, to shudder through the ground beneath our feet.

Even the two still-living bandits stop groaning, their pain momentarily forgotten.

Sacha doesn’t deny it. He doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, just stands there while darkness rolls off him in slow, living currents, caressing the air like a thing alive.

In this moment, he’s not a man. He’s something else. Something vast. Somethingterrifying.

“The High Authority said you were dead,” the merchant continues, words tumbling out faster now, as if speaking them will protect him. “I remember the announcement. I’ve been in Ashenvale during their yearly celebration. They burn an effigy of you every year.”

“The Authority is not as infallible as they would have their subjects believe.” Sacha’s voice cuts through the clearing like a knife.

One of the surviving bandits, barely conscious, struggles to his knees. Blood drips from his split lip as his gaze moves between Sacha and me, fear giving way to something like awe.

His breath shudders from him in a harsh rasp.

“TheVareth’el…” He swallows hard, then looks at me, eyes widening further. “And his companion with stars in her eyes.”

My hand darts to my face, fingers pressing against my skin like I can wipe away whatever he sees. A fresh wave of uneaserolls through me. His words aren’t just fear-driven. He knows something. Something I don’t.

Sacha turns to the gathered merchants.

“Tell them.” His voice is cold. “Tell them that the Shadowvein Lord has returned. Tell any Authority soldiers you see that the Vareth’el is coming, and their time of reckoning approaches.”

Varam steps closer, his blade still dark with blood. “We need to kill them.”

The words are calm. Practical. No malice, just necessity.

My breathing stops, the world narrowing to the tight, frozen moment where Sacha’s choice will fall. He considers Varam’s words, his gaze sweeping over the terrified faces. His eyes pause on me.

“No. Let them live to spread the word. Fear will weaken the Authority’s hold faster than any direct attack.”

His decision should ease the weight crushing my chest, but it doesn’t. There’s no mercy behind it, and the bodies on the ground—the ones still breathing, and the ones that aren’t—are proof of something I set in motion. Proof that I’m not blameless.