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Chapter Eleven

ELLIE

“A wound named becomes a map. A wound denied becomes a lock.”

The Healer’s Codex, ancient Tidvein manuscript

I jolt upright, heart racing, breathing coming hard and shallow like I’ve been holding it for too long. For a second I can’t remember where I am, just that something is wrong. The dark feels too still. My skin too tight. My entire body is braced for … something .

My eyes adjust slowly, sweeping the interior of the shelter. Everything is where it should be, and yet … the space feels smaller than it is. The oddest sensation crawls along my spine, and the fine hairs rise on the back of my neck.

Then I catch the shape near the entrance. A figure, motionless, cross-legged, head tilted toward the fading stars.

Sacha. But every cell in my body insists it isn’t.

His outline is familiar, but not. The angles are too exact, cut sharper than they were. Light bends when it hits him. Not glowing, just … wrong . His face holds it where it shouldn’t, casting shadows that don’t match the light.

Beneath his jaw, just above the collar of his tunic, something shifts—black, liquid, fleeting. It seems to move across his skin, then disappear beneath the fabric.

My throat tightens. I don’t know what I’m looking at. Only that whatever has changed in him, it’s not hidden. Not anymore.

And when he turns to look at me …

My stomach flips. His eyes aren’t just black, they’re pools of …

nothing . A void where eyes should be. So deep, they seem to consume the light around them.

Then he blinks. Just once. And everything looks normal again.

But my mind is screaming at me in warning.

Telling me that I’ve just seen the truth of what lies beneath the mask he wears.

“You’re awake.” His voice is lower, richer . It settles beneath my skin and stays there.

His head tilts slightly. His lips curl up. It’s not quite a smile. More like he knows I’m uneasy, and wants to see what I’ll do with it.

That’s when it really hits me.

I’m alone. No city outside. No help. No phone. No exits. Just me and this man, a man I already didn’t know, who wasn’t like this when I fell asleep.

The shelter suddenly feels like a trap. The walls too close. The air too thick. Every instinct screams to run, but there’s nowhere to go. The desert stretches for miles in every direction.

In the dim light, shadows seem to gather around him, not cast by his body, but drawn to it. Pooling at his feet, clinging to his shoulders, following the movement of his hands as he changes position.

“Something has happened to you.” It’s not a question .

It’s obvious. Power is radiating off him in ways I can almost see. A darkness that’s somehow substantial.

“My familiar has returned.” He says it like that explains everything. Maybe it does … to him .

There’s a new confidence in how he holds himself. An ease that wasn’t there before. Like he’s finally comfortable in his own skin.

“Your familiar? What does that mean?” My voice sounds thin compared to his. Fragile. I swallow hard, trying to push down the new fear rising in my throat.

His eyes study me. Not just looking, but seeing . As if he can read the fear I’m trying to hide.

He extends his hand, palm upward. Shadows gather in his skin, then spill outward, sucking in the light around him.

It coalesces, taking shape until a small bird-like form beats midnight wings against his palm.

Not a true bird, there are no real feathers, and no sound.

But it’s there, all the same, formed from something that shouldn’t move the way it does.

The creature turns its head, fixing me with eyes that hold the same knowing intelligence as Sacha’s. Its head tips to one side, its beak opens, and then it dissolves back into his skin.

My breath catches. “Was that inside the tower with you all this time?” I whisper.

“No.” He turns back to face the horizon. “It was torn from me when I was imprisoned. The binding severed our connection. Until now.”

“That’s why you’re different today … You’re ?—”

“Complete. Yes.” He leans back against the rocks, his hands resting loosely in his lap. “Does it frighten you?”

I consider lying, but what would be the point? “Yes.”

He nods, unsurprised. “It would be strange if it didn’t.”

I don’t really have an answer to that.

“I have no plan to harm you, Ellie.” His words are soft. “My familiar returning doesn’t change our agreement.”

My heartbeat slows a little. “What does it change?”

One corner of his mouth lifts a little. “Everything else.”

The way he says it should terrify me. Instead, I feel the first tentative release of tension in my body. If he wanted to hurt me, he’d have done it while I slept. Whatever he is now, whatever he’s become, he still needs me.

For now, I have to believe that’s enough.

I slide off the shadow-bed, wincing as my muscles protest yesterday’s long ride. My clothes are filthy, stiff with dried sweat and desert dust, and every inch of me itches from it.

“I really need to wash. And these clothes aren’t going to last much longer.”

He studies me with those unnerving dark eyes. “The stream is safe. We can find more suitable clothing when we reach the first settlement.”

I nod, and walk past him into the open air. The stream is just ahead, the water glinting in the sunlight.

I hesitate, then glance back. “Could you … give me some privacy?”

“Of course.” He rises in one fluid motion. “I will wait inside.”

I watch him disappear into the shelter, then pause, scanning the surroundings. Despite his assurance, I can't shake the feeling of being watched. His newfound abilities make me wonder … Is he watching from some dark corner I can't perceive?

I wait another minute, listening for movement, before convincing myself to continue. Even then, I position myself behind a large boulder, keeping my back to solid stone rather than open space.

Once I feel reasonably secure, I make my way down to the stream on shaky legs, still thinking about what I just saw. The way he’s changed. The thing that came out of him and looked at me like it knew me.

The water runs crystal clear over smooth stones, catching the first golden hints of sunrise as it tumbles down from somewhere higher in the mountains. It looks clean enough to drink. Clean enough to scrub off the dirt of the last few days. If that's even possible.

Before undressing, I check once more over my shoulder. I can’t see the shelter from here, but I still position myself where I can see in that direction, just in case.

I peel off my winter layers with a grimace—the sweater I've been sleeping in, the T-shirt gone stiff with salt, jeans crusted with desert dust. Each piece hits the ground with a soft thud, like I’m dropping parts of a life that stopped existing the moment I stepped through that door.

Stripped to my underwear, the pre-dawn air brushes my skin, cooler than I expected. It raises goosebumps I can’t explain entirely with temperature. Vulnerable doesn’t even begin to cover it. I cross my arms, hyper-aware of how exposed I am in this alien landscape, then wade into the stream.

The first touch of water pulls a strangled gasp from my throat.

It’s beyond cold, the kind that knocks the breath out of you and makes your bones ache.

But I force myself deeper, letting the pain distract me from thoughts I’m not ready to face.

I scoop handfuls of fine sand from the streambed, using it as a makeshift scrub to scour away days of grime.

My skin turns pink under the rough treatment, but the sensation of being clean again is worth the sting.

I duck my head under, and work my fingers through my hair.

The tangles have become serious knots in places, matted with desert and sweat, but I manage to loosen the worst of it.

Without shampoo or conditioner, it's a losing battle, but at least I no longer feel like I'm wearing half the desert on my scalp.

I rinse my underwear and T-shirt, then spread them out on a sun-warmed rock to dry.

They won’t be completely clean, but it’s better than nothing.

My jeans and sweater are hopeless for this climate—too heavy, too hot, and definitely too conspicuous.

I need local clothing if I’m going to survive here.

While my clothes dry, I sit on the rock, watching the sun creep over the mountain range.

The landscape transforms with daylight—harsh, rugged, but beautiful.

Reddish-brown rock formations rise around the narrow valley, their shapes carved by wind and rare rainfall.

The stream cuts through rocky soil, creating a ribbon of green where tough plants cling to life.

It’s nothing like Chicago. Nothing like anything I’ve ever known. That hits me all over again—how far I am from everything familiar. Not just in distance, but in everything that made sense.

Despite the beauty, I can’t relax. Every few seconds, my eyes dart back in the direction of the shelter, checking for any sign of movement or watching shadows.

When my underwear is dry enough to be comfortable, I put it back on along with my jeans and T-shirt.

I leave the sweater behind. It’s useless weight in this heat.

My winter boots, meant for ice and city sidewalks, have become torture devices in the desert.

The leather is cracking, the seams stiff with sand.

I need something lighter. Something that belongs here.

But I put them back on anyway, because they’re better than being barefoot.

I return to find Sacha waiting with the sandstriders, already prepared for departure. The shelter is gone, just empty stone and him, standing as if he’s been there all along.

“We need to reach higher ground before midday,” he says, mounting his sandstrider with effortless grace. “The nomads said that patrols are more active around here.”