Page 30

From my position at the table, I can see a polished metal plate hanging on the wall opposite.

It reflects portions of the common room behind me, and in its distorted surface, I can track the room without turning around.

Merchants concluding deals, travelers sharing stories, locals meeting after work.

The inn thrums with the heartbeat of Ravencross, a nexus where lives intersect.

While I eat, Sacha’s hands are in constant motion.

First, he slides the salt cellar to one side.

Next, he angles his spoon away from his bowl.

Then he folds his napkin into a triangle, its longest edge parallel to the table’s edge.

To anyone watching, he might appear to be straightening things idly, but I’ve spent enough days watching him to know better.

Every movement this man makes serves a purpose. He doesn’t fidget. He calculates.

“What are you doing?” I keep my voice level while curiosity burns through me.

“Writing a message. A signal that might be recognized.”

“By who?” Intrigued, I lean closer.

“Anyone connected to my old networks.” He lifts his mug, and takes a sip, then places it exactly a hand’s breadth from his bowl, forming an invisible line with the salt cellar. “If any have survived, and happen to be here.”

I'm struck again by the loss embedded in his words, even though there’s no hint of it in his voice. All those years stolen, friendships severed, a life interrupted. Everything paused for him while the world moved on. How many of his companions are still alive? Would they know him?

His fingers work with surgical precision, tearing his bread into pieces of identical size, arranging them in what must be a meaningful pattern along the edge of his plate.

I want to ask more—about his life before the tower, about the friends I’m sure he hopes might still be alive—but the intensity in his eyes stops me.

This matters to him in ways I can never understand.

For the first time, I don’t see the calculating strategist who escaped the tower, but a man searching for connections to a life that was stolen from him.

So I keep my question simple. Focused. Safe .

“How will you know if someone recognizes it?”

“They'll respond in kind. A mirror to this signal.”

I continue eating, using the metal plate's reflection to watch the room without being obvious.

The Authority officials remain absorbed in their discussion, occasionally making notes but paying no attention to anyone else.

Their indifference doesn't comfort me. Predators are most dangerous when they seem disinterested.

A server moves between tables, refilling mugs and tankards, while they clear away plates.

"How long do we have to wait?" I try to keep the impatience from my voice, but exhaustion is settling into my bones now that my stomach is full, and my eyelids are drooping. The days of vigilance and hard travel are catching up with me all at once.

"As long as necessary." Sacha has barely touched his food, his focus divided between his carefully arranged patterns and his constant surveillance of the room. "Patience often yields better results than action."

I nod, fighting the urge to drum my fingers against the table. Since leaving the tower, our differences have become increasingly obvious. Where I crave movement, he embodies stillness. When I reach my limit of patience, he seems to have only just begun.

Is this who he always was, or did imprisonment sculpt him into a man who measures time differently?

Either way, I force myself to mimic his composure, even though it feels like wearing ill-fitting clothes.

His hand covers mine lightly where it rests on the table. “Be still.”

The shock of the contact goes through me like lightning. One thing I’ve noticed about Sacha in the time we’ve spent together is that he rarely initiates touch. Ever . Not even by accident.

"Someone is watching us." His fingers tighten slightly when I start to turn—a warning to stop. "Don't look."

My heart slams against my ribs, pulse thundering in my ears.

"Authority?" The word comes out breathless.

And that’s when I realize that I've begun to think of the Authority as monsters, not because I know their crimes, but because they're the ones who imprisoned Sacha. Somehow, at some point in our journey, I accepted his enemies as my own .

The thought rattles me. I don't know why it scares me, I don't really know anything about them other than the small things Sacha has shared. For all I know, they’re not even the bad guys.

"No." His fingers remain on mine for a moment longer before withdrawing as he subtly adjusts his mug. "Someone who recognized my message."

I force air into lungs that feel too tight, willing my racing heart to slow.

The space his hand occupied on mine tingles with phantom warmth.

Minutes stretch like hours as I wait, tension winding tighter with each breath.

Then, something in Sacha's face shifts, a minute change most wouldn't notice, but after days of studying his expressions, I catch it immediately.

“He’s responding.” His voice reveals nothing.

The next few minutes stretch into eternity.

I finish my stew and pick at my bread, pretending casual interest while every nerve stands at attention.

Unseen eyes watch us from somewhere in the crowded room, making my skin prickle with awareness.

Sacha continues his adjustments to items on our table, each move slow, meant to be seen.

A wordless conversation with someone I can’t see.

Then footsteps approach from behind. My muscles tense.

“ Vashnak tem solavin .” A male voice speaks just above a whisper, close enough that I feel his breath stir the hair near my ear.

“Narash nul’tor,” Sacha replies.

The stranger moves into my field of vision.

He's tall and lean, his face carved with deep lines like a landscape weathered by harsh seasons. He isn’t elderly, but someone who has lived most of his life outdoors.

A faded scar cuts across his jawline, disappearing beneath the collar of his simple tunic.

Despite his unremarkable clothing, he carries himself with the quiet assurance of a blade kept in its sheath—dangerous, but controlled.

His eyes, sharp and assessing, study Sacha, trying to penetrate the shadows of his hood. There's something in his gaze that unsettles me, like he’s seconds away from violence.

“ Kavirak et Thornevale solavin? ” His voice rumbles deep in his chest, the words flowing with the musical cadence I'm beginning to recognize as characteristic of this language.

"He's asking if we've come from Thornevale," Sacha translates quietly for me before turning back to the man. “ Navin. Sunfire neresh kavir.”

The stranger's eyebrows climb toward his hairline, surprise breaking through his careful composure.

“Sunfire Dunes? Marishan lorath nevik? ” His fingers tap once against our table, a gesture that seems casual but carries a deeper meaning.

His eyes sweep the room in a pattern too systematic to be random before returning to Sacha. “ Narivak et selurin kavir neresh?”

“He’s surprised we crossed the desert, and is asking our purpose in Ravencross.” He rests one hand palm-down on the table—another signal, I assume. “ Narash selurin. Navirak et temresh kavir?”

The effect is immediate and electric. The man freezes completely, his hand suspended midway to the table.

His eyes dart toward the Authority officials before snapping back to Sacha, something shifting behind his expression too fast for me to read.

Recognition? Fear? I can't decipher what I'm seeing, only that something unexpected has just passed between them .

"What did you ask him?" I whisper, afraid to break whatever spell has fallen over them.

"If he fears the dark." Sacha's voice is so low I nearly miss it. "It's a test."

Only then do I understand. This isn't merely an information exchange. It's an identification ritual. Secret words passed between people who risk death for recognizing each other. I'm witnessing something few outsiders ever see.

The man leans in, his body angled to block our conversation from other tables.

“ Telkavin naresh kavir solavin. Navirak et melvar selurin. ” Though his posture appears relaxed, tension coils through him like a spring wound too tight. His hand drifts to his belt where the slight bulge beneath his cloak suggests a concealed weapon.

"He suggests we continue this conversation elsewhere," Sacha translates, his voice barely stirring the air between us. "He says it's not safe to speak openly here."

The stranger's eyes shift toward the Authority officials, tracking their movements with the wariness of prey monitoring predators. Or maybe he’s the predator. It’s hard to say.

“ Navirak et kavir meresh solavin? Telkavin naresh tol’var. ” Though his voice remains steady, urgency vibrates through each word.

“ Narem kavir meresh ,” Sacha replies with a slight nod.

The man's shoulders relax fractionally.

“ Solavin kavir naresh. Telkavin meresh. ”

He gestures toward the door with a movement so subtle it could be mistaken for brushing lint from his sleeve, then turns and weaves through the crowded room.

My throat tightens as I watch him disappear. “What happens now?”

“He wants us to follow him somewhere more secure.” Sacha's eyes remain on the door. “He says he has something I need to hear.”

“Can we trust him?” I don’t know this world, but I know people. I know how quickly they lie when they’re scared. And he looked scared.

Sacha’s eyes follow the man's retreating form, his gaze tracking every step like he’s remembering something he isn’t quite sure of.

“There is something familiar about him,” he admits slowly. “But people change over time, and memories can be deceptive when viewed through the lens of necessity.”