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Chapter Fourteen

SACHA

“You cannot disobey what you cannot see.”

Authority Codex

Darkness embraces me as we descend the steps.

Our guide’s lamp casts meager light against the shadows, but for me it might as well be daylight.

Every detail reveals itself—stones worn smooth by countless footsteps, moisture seeping from cracks, the scent of damp stone rising from below.

The shadows whisper to me, welcoming me back to paths I once knew intimately.

Ellie presses close behind me, her breathing quiet but quick. The warmth of her body reaches my back, close enough that I don’t need to check she’s following. Each slide of her foot against the steps betrays her caution.

I lift a hand to drag it along the wall as we move deeper below ground.

These steps are familiar. An underground route I helped build.

The tunnel network extends beneath all of Ravencross, connecting safe houses and providing escape routes.

It gives me hope to see that it’s been preserved, despite the amount of time that’s passed.

It suggests care. Maintenance. Intention .

When we reach the bottom of the steps, our guide turns left, navigating confidently through the labyrinthine passages, and occasionally glancing back to make sure we’re still following.

After several turns, we reach a door. I have to stop myself from reaching out to touch it.

An emblem marks the center. A raven enclosed in a fractured ring, wings held half-spread, caught between stillness and flight.

Our guide places a small metal token against the raven’s eye. Something clicks a second later.

I duck my head, masking a smile. The security mechanism appears to have remained unchanged from when I first established it.

He turns to me. “Speak your purpose.”

The familiar phrase unlocks something long dormant. A piece of myself I thought the Authority destroyed during those years of isolation. The raven stirs, drawn by the echo of old command, recognizing this ritual from another lifetime.

I don’t even have to dig through my memories to find the response. “Shadows fall where light fears to reach.”

The man stills, his entire demeanor changing. His hand remains pressed against the door, but his stance has shifted to combat readiness. Gone is our guide, and in his place stands a soldier.

“That passphrase,” he says slowly, “hasn’t been used in decades.” His eyes narrow, and he leans forward, trying to see through the shadows cast over my face. “Who are you?”

I lower my hood slowly, and allow the lamplight to fall fully on my face. “Shouldn’t you have asked that back at the inn … Kelren?”

His name in my mouth bridges decades. He was one of my senior lieutenants, commanding our western operations. The soldier I remember is now an aging warrior, his survival alone testament to his skill.

At first, he just stares at me. His eyes scan my face, my stance, the lines of my shoulders—cataloging what is in front of him, and trying to force it into something that makes sense.

It doesn’t. Not immediately. I watch him trying to place me, his mind scanning memories of faces he’s met over the years.

Then his lips part, and close again.

“What is—” I raise a hand, cutting off Ellie’s whisper, my eyes never leaving Kelren’s.

But her words break his shock. His hand goes to his sword. Steel clears the scabbard with a sound too loud for the narrow passageway. I don’t stop him from raising it, point angled toward my throat.

He thinks this is a trap. A test. Something made to look like me. I don’t need to see inside his head to know that. I haven’t aged since we last stood face to face. There is no reasonable explanation for it.

“You’re dead.” The words come out harsh. “I saw your body. I—” His voice breaks completely. The sword tip wavers, but he forces it steady again. “Who are you?”

I don’t move. “I’m no illusion, Kelren.”

His fingers tighten around the hilt. He doesn’t believe me. He's locked between my face and a memory twenty-seven years old. A face that should be older, more worn, or consumed by death, is staring back at him unchanged. His breathing comes faster now, harsh in the confined space.

I repeat the code. “Shadows fall where light fears to reach.”

The token slips from his nerveless hand. It clatters to the stone, spinning across the floor, but he doesn't notice. His sword arm trembles violently. The blade dips, rises, dips again as shock wars with training.

“That’s not …” He shakes his head, the movement jerky. “You can’t be …” His eyes dart to my face, my eyes. His tongue swipes over his lips.

His knees buckle. The sword clatters from his grip as he hits the stone hard enough to bruise. His hands shake as he reaches for the fallen token, fingers missing it twice before finally closing around the cold metal.

“Shadow preserve us.” The words tear from his throat. “Vareth’el.”

I touch his shoulder. “Rise, soldier. You know I don’t stand on ceremony. That hasn’t changed.”

When he gets to his feet, it’s with the unsteady movements of a man whose world has just shifted beneath his feet.

He doesn’t meet my eyes again, but his entire body is shaking with surprised emotion—grief, shock, disbelief warring with hope.

His face is slack, decades of assumed mourning colliding with the impossible reality standing before him.

“Commander Varam needs to see this.” With a hand that still trembles, he presses the token against the door once more. The mechanism clicks, and the door swings open. “He’s controlled what’s left of the network since your capture.”

Relief hits me hard. Varam survived. I’ve imagined this moment. Replayed it in silence until the shape of it warped. I’ve tortured myself wondering who endured, who bent, who broke , and who tried to carry what I left behind. Of everyone, I needed it to be Varam.

Not just because he was my second in every sense that mattered. And not because I trusted him with my life. But because after Thornreave, someone had to take my place. Someone had to guide our forces through the aftermath.

How many missions did he lead? How many nights did he shoulder those decisions, knowing I was gone?

The questions spiral inward, each one twisting deeper than the last. Did he mourn for a week and move forward?

A month ? Or did he throw himself into the cause with the same ruthless focus I would have demanded?

It doesn’t matter. He's alive . That simple fact grounds everything else. Whatever choices he made, whatever burdens he carried in my absence, he endured. My second. My friend. The one person who could have kept the Veinwardens moving forward through it all.

I don't let the relief show on my face. Not here. Not yet. But something settles in me, a tension I didn't realize I'd been carrying since the tower door finally opened.

I draw my hood back up before we step through the doorway. The air is warmer than the passageway behind us, carrying the scent of old stone, oil, sweat, and iron. Familiar … and not.

Beyond the door lies a chamber with stone walls and a low ceiling crossed by timber beams. Several oil lamps cast steady light across the space. An unexpected wave of familiarity washes over me.

This was once our central meeting room—part command, part sanctuary.

The maps on the wall are marked in the system I designed, though the ink is faded, and some symbols altered.

A large table anchors the room. The chairs around it are mismatched, but the formation speaks of discipline.

The opposite wall holds shelves of supplies—papers, weapons, and dried provisions.

Three people look up at once. Two men, and one woman. They wear the simple clothing of mountain traders, similar to Kelren, but there is nothing casual in their stance. Their hands immediately move toward weapons, and their eyes lock on us.

No one speaks.

I scan their faces. The oldest of them, a scarred man with silver-gray hair, stands partially behind the table. His expression is stone, his eyes sharp and focused. He may look older, but I know him. Even in silence. Even after all this time.

Varam Kellis. My second-in-command. My closest friend.

His face has new scars layered over the ones I remember, but his eyes are the same.

“Kelren?” It’s him who breaks the silence, moving around the table with the fluid motion of someone who never learned to rest. “Report? Who have you brought here?”

Kelren steps forward, his voice unsteady when he speaks. “Commander …” He shakes his head, as if to clear it, and points at me.

Varam’s gaze shifts. He scans me, seeing a hooded stranger in the heart of his sanctuary. His expression hardens further, his hand resting on the dagger tucked into his belt.

“Identify yourself.” The command carries the weight of habit, of exhaustion layered over authority, and of the expectation of being obeyed .

I reach for my hood and lower it slowly, letting the light touch my face.

The effect is immediate. The air in the room pulls tight. Varam doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. His body doesn’t react, but his mind does. It’s there in the dilation of his pupils, the way his breath stills.

His lips part. A word forms, then dies.

The woman’s cup drops to the table, the liquid spreading in a dark pool. Someone’s breath cuts off mid-draw. But I only watch Varam.

“ Sacha? ” He says it like it’s a word he never thought he’d say again.

My given name, not my title. The voice of my closest friend, not my second-in-command. In that single word lies years of grief, of orders issued without my counsel, of battlefields crossed alone.

“Varam.” I haven’t uttered his name in the entirety of my captivity. Saying it feels like laying down a weapon I forgot I carried.

He grips the edge of the table with both hands. His knuckles whiten. The wood creaks under his grip. He sways, his legs betraying him for just a moment.

“Impossible.” The word is hoarse. “What witchcraft is this?”

“No witchcraft.”