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Chapter Thirteen

ELLIE

“Even dust remembers the hands that shaped it.”

Sayings of the Earthvein Sages

A stable boy emerges from the shadowed doorway, his eyes widening at our sandstriders.

He approaches with hesitant steps, gaze locked on the beasts as though they might vanish if he blinks.

Around us, passersby give the scaled creatures a comically wide berth, murmuring low phrases or sketching quick symbols in the air—protective gestures, maybe. Superstition? Respect? I can’t tell.

“ Shaverik nul’ma? ” The boy points to the animals, voice pitched high with wonder.

Sacha replies, pressing a small coin into the boy’s palm. His dirt-smudged cheeks split into a grin so wide it looks like it might crack him open. He takes the reins of both mounts with the reverence of someone handling ancient relics rather than desert-bred mounts.

“Our sandstriders will be well cared for.” Sacha adjusts his hood to keep his face hidden. “The boy seems quite fascinated by them. He’s never seen desert mounts before.”

“I guess they’re unusual here.” I watch the stable boy lead them away, his small frame swaggering with newfound importance. Something twists in my chest. I know what it is. The feeling of being watched and not understood. “Just like me.”

Sacha’s head turns, eyes finding mine. “Which is why we need to remain inconspicuous.” His fingers brush my elbow, light as breath, but warm, startling. A guide. A warning. Maybe both. “Come. We’ll secure food and lodging. And try not to be quite so …” His gaze sweeps over me. “Noticeable.”

The inn’s interior is dim after the bright sunlight, shadows clinging to the corners like cobwebs.

The air is thick with noise and warmth—laughter, clinking tankards, the low thrum of conversations in a language I don’t understand.

The scent of roasted meat, fresh bread, and spices I can’t name wraps around me.

I inhale deeply, drawn in by the unfamiliar comfort of it all.

It’s not Chicago. But it’s civilization … of a sort.

A large common room stretches before us, dominated by a wide stone hearth where flames dance high despite the spring warmth. Heavy beams cross the ceiling, blackened by years of smoke and burnished smooth by time. Stairs hug one wall, winding up past a long bar where servers hustle between patrons.

The room teams with life—a shock after days of empty landscapes and hushed conversations.

Tables crowd with people in clothing ranging from simple homespun to fabrics dyed in colors so vibrant they hurt my eyes.

Two women with elaborately braided hair, adorned with tiny silver beads that catch the light, share a pitcher of something amber colored.

At the bar, three men drink in silence, their bodies tense as coiled springs.

The room presses in. My nerves hum like a live wire .

I almost step closer to Sacha. Almost . His presence pulls at me. Not because I trust it, but because it’s familiar. And right now, I need something familiar.

An older woman appears from behind the counter, her face creased with smile lines, hands calloused from years of work. There’s something grounded about her. She reminds me of the kind of person who knows every secret this building has ever held. Her eyes sparkle with warmth as she greets us.

“Vashna tem, vashira!”

“Vashna tem,” Sacha replies.

Their conversation flows quickly, full of inflections and sounds I haven’t learned to decode.

I keep my hands still in front of me, conscious of how out of place I must look, even wearing the clothes from the caravan.

The innkeeper’s eyes flick to me several times, her expression more curious than suspicious, but still assessing.

I can’t tell if she sees me as a lost traveler or something stranger.

“Our room will be ready in an hour,” Sacha says once he’s slid coins across the worn counter. “Would you like something to eat?”

My stomach answers before I can. The growl is loud enough to make the innkeeper chuckle. Heat floods my cheeks. “Yes, please.”

The innkeeper leads us to a corner table tucked behind a weathered support beam. Sacha positions himself with his back to the wall. I take the seat across from him, my back to the room, but with a view of the fireplace.

The bench isn’t padded, but it might as well be velvet after the endless jostling of a sandstrider’s saddle.

The moment I sit, my body releases all the tension it’s been holding.

My muscles ache—the tight pull along my spine, the sting of raw skin beneath ill-fitting seams, the quiet throb that lives behind my eyes.

A small sigh escapes before I can stop it.

Sacha’s eyes flick to mine, narrowing slightly as he tilts his head, before looking away again.

“What do we do now?” I straighten my spine, forcing focus through the fatigue. The sooner we finish whatever we came here to do, the sooner I can sleep in a real bed.

“We watch. We listen.” His voice drops to a pitch meant only for me, the soft rumble sending an unexpected shiver across my skin. “And we seek information.”

The ambient noise creates a peculiar intimacy. A wall of sound cocooning our conversation from eavesdroppers. I lean forward, reducing the space between us until I can smell the faint desert scent that still clings to him beneath the dust of travel.

“What kind of information?” I match his hushed tone, unable to shake the feeling that we’re conspirators in some dangerous game.

“Signs that old networks persist.” His eyes continue their methodical sweep of the room while he speaks. “Traces of former alliances. Unusual shifts in Authority movement. And most importantly, whether news of the tower’s collapse, or my absence, has reached Ravencross.”

A chill goes through me at his words.

If the Authority discovers he’s free, what lengths would they go to recapture or kill him? And what would happen to anyone found helping him?

To me ?

He leans slightly to one side, a subtle shift most wouldn’t notice. “The three men near the fireplace. One wears a silver Authority pin.”

“Authority?” I whisper.

“Lower officials. Administrative tier. Still dangerous. They can authorize arrests, sanctions, and executions. All without drawing a blade.”

My heartbeat quickens. I resist the impulse to turn and stare.

Instead, I adjust in my seat, using the natural movement to cast a casual glance in that direction.

Three men in simple, but well-made clothing occupy a table.

Despite their understated appearance, they carry themselves with the unmistakable confidence of power.

I spot the silver pin on the oldest man’s collar, catching the firelight when he moves.

It’s circular, but uneven. Three broken rings curve out of alignment, intersected by a sharp diagonal slash. Red enamel marks part of the lower arc.

The expressions on their faces suggest they’re holding a serious discussion. One is making notes on a small parchment while the others speak in hushed tones.

Those three men could order Sacha’s death, and mine, without a second thought. The realization turns my blood cold.

The innkeeper returns, interrupting my thoughts, with two earthenware tankards of something that smells sweet and spiced.

I wrap my hands around it, drawing comfort from its heat, and take a cautious sip.

The liquid blooms across my tongue—sweet, spiced, with unexpected depth.

After days of tepid water, the richness is almost shocking.

It reminds me of Christmas markets back home, of mulled cider on snowy evenings, but with unfamiliar notes I can’t place.

For a heartbeat, homesickness crashes through me.

I force it away before it overwhelms me.

“This is good!” I take another sip to hide the crack in my composure.

“Mountain apple brew.” Sacha’s lips tip up as he watches me drink. His tankard remains untouched by his elbow. “Ravencross was known for it. I haven’t tasted it in … a long time.”

The subtle shift in his tone pulls at something inside me. It’s a glimpse of a man who lost years. For him, this isn’t just a strange world. It’s a changed one. A home that’s become unrecognizable.

When the innkeeper returns with heaping bowls of food, she says something that makes Sacha’s mouth curl up into a smile that transforms his face.

I freeze with my spoon halfway to my mouth.

The change is so complete it steals my breath.

The hard lines soften, and for a brief moment, he looks younger.

I don’t know why it catches me off guard, but it does.

Maybe because it softens him. Maybe because it vanishes before I can hold onto the image.

“What did she say?” I ask as soon as she leaves, still caught in the afterimage of that smile.

“That you look half-starved and should eat every bite.” He tears off a piece of bread and dips it into the stew. It’s too normal an action for him. Too human . As if he’s remembering how to be a person again, one small gesture at a time. “Apparently, she’s taken a maternal interest in you.”

I duck my head. “At least someone has.”

The words slip out before I can catch them—raw and revealing too much. My growing awareness of how alone I am in this world, how dependent I've become on him. I didn’t mean to say it out loud. I don’t want him to hear it.

I’m sure he does, but he lets it go without comment.

The stew is delicious. Tender chunks of meat swim alongside vegetables in a broth thickened with something similar to barley but nuttier.

The flavor clings to my tongue, rich and comforting.

The bread beside it is dense and hearty, its crust cracking between my fingers as I tear a piece to dip into the bowl.

I eat slowly, savoring each bite, trying to look like someone who belongs here.