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Chapter Fifteen

ELLIE

“Love walks behind trust, not ahead of it.”

Love Songs of the Mountain Provinces

The concealed door at the back of the chamber opens onto a narrow staircase spiraling down into darkness. It reminds me of the spiral staircase in the tower.

The man who greeted Sacha with that intense embrace—something between a soldier’s loyalty and a brother’s relief—takes a lamp from the wall. Its flame casts long shadows across the stone, but they seem to gather closest to Sacha. The air cools as we descend, the temperature dropping with each step.

At the bottom, another door opens into a space that catches me off guard. I expected a bunker, a cell. Something rough and temporary. Anything but what greets me.

The room stretches out under arched stone beams, carved directly into the rock.

Despite being underground, it feels more like a room in a house.

Faded tapestries hang on the walls, their colors muted by years of dust, but still beautiful.

Intricate designs of mountains and forests woven in deep blues and greens.

Several doorways lead off to what I assume are other rooms or passages .

The man moves through the space lighting wall sconces. As the flickering light grows, so do the details. Shelves crammed with scrolls and worn books. Rugs layered across the floor. A fireplace built into one wall.

I watch Sacha’s face. His expression doesn’t change much, but something shifts in the set of his shoulders. His hand trails across the edge of the table like he’s brushing against memory.

“ Meshalin kavir solavin .” The man speaks again, his voice quiet. There’s reverence in it.

“These were my quarters.” Sacha’s voice is softer than I’ve ever heard. “I spent many hours here.”

That’s all he offers before the other man gestures toward one of the side rooms. Sacha follows him without hesitation. I stay where I am, hovering just inside the door.

Whatever this place is, it belongs to him. So do the people. The ones who looked at him like he wasn’t just a man returning from exile, but something more. Something they’d lost and never thought to see again. They share history, purpose, language .

In the tower, he needed me. I was the only one who could free him. But here? Here he’s surrounded by people who speak his language, move when he moves, and know things I don’t.

Not for the first time since stepping into this world, I feel completely out of place.

Footsteps behind me draw my attention. The woman, the one who stood with the others upstairs, descends the stairs carrying a tray of food and drink. She nods to Sacha as she places it on the table, sending up a small puff of dust, then says something low to the man beside her.

“ Teloshin kavir meresh.” He points toward the tray.

“Varam is telling you to help yourself to food and drink,” Sacha explains.

The man, Varam, hesitates, then steps forward reaching out to clasp Sacha’s forearm.

The gesture seems formal, yet strangely personal at the same time.

He speaks again, his voice rough. Sacha nods.

He turns, and ascends the stairs. The woman stands there for a moment longer, her eyes on Sacha, before giving a small nod and following Varam.

When the door closes behind them, silence settles over the room, interrupted only by the soft crackling of flame from the wall sconces.

Sacha is still, eyes fixed on some distant point only he can see. There’s something different in the way he’s standing. It takes me a minute to figure out what it is, and then it comes to me.

The man who kept distance between us, and the people we met in the desert is gone. So is the man who ducked his head and hid beneath his hood while we walked through Ravencross.

Now, his shoulders are thrown back, spine straight as steel, and his head is held high. And seeing him like this, I’m no longer sure he needs me at all.

“What were they saying to you?” I break the silence. “Upstairs, I mean.”

He blinks, and his head turns, eyes refocusing on me. “Much has changed in the years I’ve been gone. The Authority’s control has spread. Even the old sanctuaries, places that once offered safety, have been turned into their outposts.”

I pull out a chair and lower myself into it, reaching for a fruit that looks vaguely like an apple. “I could see how shocked they were to see you.”

“The Authority staged an execution.” There’s a bite to his voice.

“They used a body made to resemble mine—hair, markings, even the ring I wore.” The fingers on his left hand curl into a fist. “They paraded it through Ashenvale. Burned it publicly. It was meant to break what remained of the Veinwardens.”

He moves toward the shelves and runs his finger along the line of books. The gesture is familiar. I saw him do the same in the tower.

“But you weren’t dead. You were in that tower.”

“Yes.” His tone flattens again. “And no one came. Because they never knew I was there to find.”

“But now you’re back. What does that mean?”

He turns to face me, and the shadows in the room seem to deepen.

“It means the Authority has made a critical mistake.” His voice drops, becoming velvet-wrapped steel.

“They believe their greatest threat has been neutered, trapped forever in a prison of their making.” The smile that lifts his lips sends a shiver up my spine.

It’s predatory, belonging to someone who’s waited decades for vengeance.

“And now, they will understand what it means to fear the dark again.”

My breath catches. I think, for the first time, I’m beginning to understand what I set free.

I haven’t just released a prisoner of war, I’ve unleashed something the Authority has good reason to fear .

“Where do I fit into all of this?” I voice the question that’s been growing since we arrived in Ravencross. “I helped you escape the tower, but now what? I don’t belong here.”

He considers me for a long moment. “You still wish to return to your world.” It’s not a question.

“Of course I do!” Frustration makes me snap.

“My life is there. My job. My apartment. Someone must have noticed I’m missing by now.

There has to be people looking for me.” But even as I say it, I question myself.

How many people would notice? It’s Christmas.

My friends will be with their families. We had no plans to meet up before New Year.

Sacha’s expression softens slightly. “Your way home and my objectives may be more aligned than you think.” He returns to the table and takes a seat across from me. “Understanding more about the Authority and how much control they have now, will help me determine a path forward for you.”

Before I can reply, footsteps sound outside and the door opens. The woman reappears, accompanied by four younger girls, each carrying two buckets of steaming water. She speaks to Sacha, who nods.

“Mira thought you might wish to bathe,” he tells me. “She also has fresh clothing for you.”

The thought of washing away days of travel grime sends a wave of longing through me so intense it’s almost painful.

I stand up immediately and follow the woman, Mira , through one of the doors set into the wall.

Inside, there’s a deep tub. I watch as she lights a small brazier set nearby, then gestures to the girls.

They pour their buckets into the tub, steam rising, then depart with respectful nods.

Mira sets down a pile of folded clothing on a nearby chest, then places what I think is a cake of soap, a cloth, and a small bottle beside the tub.

“ Kavir neresh .” She taps the bottle, and then points at my hair.

“For your hair,” Sacha translates from the doorway. The light hits his face, but his eyes don’t catch it. They never do. Even here, surrounded by warmth and flickering flame, there’s something in his eyes the light refuses to touch.

Mira says something else to him, her tone brisk despite the clear deference in her bearing.

“She says the girls are on their way back with more hot water, and then you can bathe.” His voice remains neutral, but I catch the hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “Mira thinks I’ve been remiss in not ensuring your comfort sooner.”

The girls return with more buckets, their eyes darting curiously toward me before they leave. Mira follows them. Sacha stays a moment longer, his hand on the doorframe.

“There is no rush. Take your time.” He pulls the door shut, giving me privacy.

For a moment, I just stand there. The heat from the tub fogs the air. Steam curls toward the ceiling, and the silence feels thick, almost sacred. My throat tightens without warning.

It’s just hot water. Soap. Clean clothes.

But after the desert wind and mountain cold, after days of being a stranger among strangers, this small offering hits harder than anything else.

Stripping out of the mountain clothes the woman from the caravan gave me, I wince as fabric pulls away from scrapes and blisters I hadn’t even noticed.

My skin is marked with dirt, scratches, and bruises—physical evidence of the journey from the tower to Ravencross.

I step into the tub, and the hot water sends shocks of both pain and pleasure through my battered body.

I sink low. Let it take the weight of my body. Let it hold me. And for several minutes, I just lie there, eyes closed and head tipped back, soaking up the heat, letting it soothe sore muscles. Then I reach for the soap, lather it up and scrub every inch of skin until it glows.

My hair is another story. The oil helps, but some knots are too tight, too stubborn, and I’m too tired to fight them.

A knock at the door announces Mira’s return with more hot water. I sink deeper into the tub, attempting to cover my body with the water, and call out for her to come in, hoping that she’ll understand my tone.