Page 35

She directs the girls to pour the water into the tub, then sends them away and watches me for a beat.

Reaching out, she touches my head, then makes a brushing motion with her hand.

After a second’s hesitation, I nod. Keeping as much of myself submerged as I can, I shift so my hair falls over the tub’s edge.

Without a word, she moves behind me, and takes over the task.

Her fingers work quickly, untangling knots I’ve been struggling with. She hums softly while she works, a soothing melody that makes my eyes close, and my mind drift. The gentle rhythm of her hands is almost too much.

I’ve lost track of how many days I’ve been here now, but her gentle touch brings the stark realization that this is the first nurturing physical contact I’ve had since taking Sacha’s hand and stepping out of the tower.

That was different, driven by danger and purpose.

This is simply human kindness, asking nothing in return.

The simple act of someone taking time to care for me, even in this small way, brings a lump to my throat.

I sink deeper into the water, hoping Mira won’t notice the tears that escape down my cheeks to join the bathwater.

How strange that after everything—the desert, the magic, the danger—it’s this moment that nearly breaks me.

She says nothing, just finishes untangling my hair, and then pours warm water over it to rinse it clean.

“ Meresh .” She gives me a small smile.

“Thank you.” I hope my gratitude transcends the language barrier.

She nods, and gathers up my discarded clothing before disappearing again.

I finish washing, then step from the tub, and dry myself with the cloth provided.

Once I’m done, I investigate the clothing she left.

Soft pants that remind me of leggings, a loose tunic with small pockets, and a fitted vest—all in muted blues and grays that won’t draw attention.

There’s even underwear. They remind me of shorts and a sports bra in their design.

When I pull them on, everything fits surprisingly well, and is far more comfortable than I expected.

Clean, dressed, and more relaxed than I have been in days, I return to the main chamber. Sacha is standing near one of the tapestries. I’m not sure if he’s studying the design or simply lost in thought. He looks around when I enter.

“Feel better?”

“So much better.” I run my fingers through my damp hair, still marveling at being clean. “Thank you.”

He waves a hand. “It was all Mira’s doing. She believes in proper conduct, even in uncertain times.”

The table has been cleared while I was bathing.

The used plates are gone, and in their place sits a new spread.

A plate holds thick slices of bread, cured meat, and wedges of hard cheese.

Beside it, there’s a shallow clay bowl filled with roasted vegetables—carrots, onions, and something purple that smells faintly of smoke and spice.

A pitcher of water stands in the center, with a second smaller one beside it filled with something that smells like mint.

I glance at it, then at Sacha. “What is this?”

He moves to the table and pours two cups, then pushes one toward me. “It’s called kavrelin . It’s an herbal drink. Made with mountain mint and pressed flowers. It helps tired muscles, and aids sleep.”

I sit, tucking one foot beneath me, and pick up the cup. Steam swirls up from the liquid inside. The color resembles tea, but when I take a sip, it tastes nothing like it. While I drink, Sacha sits down, fills two plates and sets one in front of me.

“Eat.”

I don’t bother arguing with him, and fold meat and cheese inside the bread, cobbling something vaguely sandwich-shaped together, while he watches me, expression quizzical. He doesn’t comment though, just leans back on his seat and toys with the rim of his cup.

“What will happen tomorrow?” I ask around a mouthful of food.

“We will stay here. Varam is sending out notification to the nearest knots, and requesting they send a Veinwarden from each, so I can find out what’s been happening in my absence.”

I pause, halfway through a bite. “Knots?”

“Small groups, kept independent for safety. When one is compromised, the others remain intact.”

“And Veinwardens are …?”

“Their leaders.”

He says it like it’s obvious. Like the world hasn’t been turned inside out for me.

“And you expect them to come?”

“I expect some will.” He sips the kavrelin. “We’ll also begin searching for those who may have knowledge about translocation magic.”

“Do you really think that’s possible?”

“I think it’s not impossible .” His fingers turn the cup slowly in his hands. “The Authority’s purges eliminated most of the Veinbloods, but they hoarded what they destroyed. Artifacts. Records. Living memory, where it survived.”

Veinbloods.

“What’s a Veinblood?”

Sacha’s eyes flick toward mine. “We’ll come back to that.”

That’s all he offers. No explanation. No clarification. Just another piece of the puzzle he’s not ready to hand over. But his tone makes it clear that no amount of pushing from me will get an answer. I file it away for later.

“So, your plan is to stay here, and hope someone turns up with a solution to a problem we don’t understand?”

“That’s one version of the plan, yes.” He lifts his eyes to mine. “I’ve also asked Mira if she’ll teach you our language.”

“You think I’ll be here long enough to need it?”

“Better to be armed with knowledge, then without, don’t you think?” He stands, walks across the chamber and opens another door. “This will be your room while we stay here.”

I follow, cup in hand.

“And you? Where will you be sleeping?”

“Through there.” He points to another door on the opposite side. “Those were my private quarters … before.” He steps away.

I watch him for a second. When he’s almost back at the table, I speak.

“Sacha?” I wait for him to look at me. “What aren’t you telling me? About today, I mean. What they said to you?”

His expression doesn’t change. “There are things you wouldn’t yet understand if I told you,” he says at last. “Some of them matter. Some don’t. When I know which is which, I’ll tell you.”

It’s not quite an answer, but I also think it’s the most honest he’s been with me since we left the tower. I don’t push for more, and walk into the bedchamber, closing the door behind me.

The room is small, but cozy. A bed takes up most of the space, covered in colorful pillows and blankets.

There’s a small table to one side, with a basin of water on top.

At the end of the bed is a beautifully carved wooden chest. On top is another pair of pants and top, lighter and softer than the ones I’m wearing—pajamas, maybe …

or what passes for them here. On the floor is a pair of boots.

I push one foot inside. They’re a little big, but better than the wraps I wore, and definitely a step up from the winter boots I left in the desert.

I splash water on my face from the basin.

I would give anything to brush my teeth, and make a note to ask Sacha if there’s anything I can use in the morning.

My hair is dry, falling in waves around my shoulders.

For the first time since arriving in this world, I feel closer to normal again. Not quite there, but something near it.

Extinguishing all but one lamp, I climb into the bed.

The mattress is softer than I thought it would be—too soft, almost, after hard ground and caravan bedrolls.

Still, I sink into it with a contented sigh.

Tiredness crashes over me in waves, pulling me toward sleep despite the strangeness of my surroundings.

The last thing I see before closing my eyes is the flickering of the lamp, casting shadows that dance like living things against the ceiling.

Sleep comes swiftly, and with it, dreams.

I’m walking through the Chicago streets, the familiar buildings of the city surrounding me.

Snow falls in thick, lazy flakes, transforming the urban landscape into something softer, quieter.

Christmas lights reflect against the wet windows, blurring into jewel-toned halos.

The air carries the scent of pine, roasting chestnuts, and the particular metallic cold that belongs to winter in the city.

I’m heading home, arms full of packages and thinking about what I need to do before Christmas Day arrives. The sky above is heavy with snow clouds, and it’s darker than normal for late afternoon.

As I wait to cross Michigan Avenue, movement catches my eye. There’s a raven perched on top of the stoplight, larger than any bird I’ve ever seen in the city. It watches me, eyes filled with disarming intelligence, as its head tips side to side.

Thunder rumbles in the distance, and the raven’s head turns. It spreads its wings and launches upward, casting a shadow that seems to reach toward me across the snowy street.

The light changes. I step forward … and the world shifts.

Blinding light sears my vision. Heat replaces cold, burning against my skin. The ground gives way beneath my feet, soft snow becoming sand. When my vision clears, I'm standing in the desert, the tower rising before me like a silver needle against the blue sky.

The raven circles high above, its wings now spanning the width of the horizon. Thunder rolls, yet there isn’t a cloud in the sky. The bird dives, plummeting toward the tower, and dissolves into darkness before it hits the roof.

The dream changes.

I’m inside the tower, facing Sacha. But he’s different somehow.

Shadows move beneath his skin in intricate patterns, flowing like blood through veins.

His eyes are bottomless pools of darkness.

Behind him, the raven reassembles itself, wings spreading to engulf the chamber, its feathers merging with the darkness emanating from Sacha’s body.

In the distance, thunder continues to build—not the gentle rumble of a summer storm but the earth-shaking roar of something primordial awakening. The air around us crackles with electricity that raises the hair on my arms.

“You opened the door.” Sacha’s voice is layered with countless whispers, as though a multitude speaks through him. “The binding responds to you, Ellie. Only you.”

Lightning flashes behind him, blinding in its intensity, and in that split second of brilliance, his silhouette changes.

It isn’t Sacha anymore but something larger, ancient, wings extending from a human form, reaching toward me.

The raven screams, in warning and recognition.

Its cry merges with thunder as silver light begins to glow under my skin in response.

“Where shadow leads,” Sacha whispers, his voice intimate and close. “Storm will follow.”

I wake with a gasp, heart pounding against my ribs. The lamp has burned out, leaving the room in darkness save for the faint glow of coals in the brazier. For a moment, I’m disoriented, caught between dream and reality … between Chicago and this strange underground room.

The thunder from my dream is still in my head, a distinct rumbling that vibrates through the walls … but then it evolves, changes, and I realize it’s not thunder at all, but voices coming from the main chamber.

Throwing back the covers, I stand on unsteady legs, my heart still racing from the dream.

I walk to the door and open it just enough to peer through the crack.

The room beyond has changed overnight. Maps and documents cover the table, illuminated by several lamps.

Varam stands with Sacha, their heads bent over the papers, discussing something in tense, hushed tones.

Several other people move around them, speaking in clipped phrases I can’t understand.

Where yesterday Sacha seemed to be rediscovering his place, now he commands it completely. He points to something on the map, and the others lean in, hanging on his every word.

Closing the door softly, I rest my forehead against it, the cool wood grounding me in reality.

I dress quickly, preparing to face whatever this new day will bring, yet the dream clings to me.

The raven, the thunder, the strange shadow patterns beneath Sacha’s skin, and that final whispered line that seemed so important.

Just a dream, I tell myself, shaped by everything that’s happened to me.

But as I splash water on my face, trying to wash away the lingering images, a distinct rumble reaches me through the stone walls of our underground sanctuary. Not voices this time, but actual thunder. A storm gathering somewhere above Ravencross.

My hands still, water dripping between my fingers as the words from my dream echo in my head.

Where shadow leads, storm will follow.