Page 38

Chapter Seventeen

ELLIE

“When the body lies, the breath still betrays.”

Writings of the Flamevein Oracles

The voices in the main chamber are getting louder—deep and urgent, punctuated by what sounds like commands or questions.

I press my ear against the door, trying to decipher meaning from tones alone.

Frustration eats at me as the foreign words slip past my understanding, meaningless sounds that tell me nothing.

This language barrier isolates me more effectively than the desert ever could.

At least when it was just me and Sacha, I existed .

Here, I’m invisible, surrounded by people whose words, gestures, and expressions all carry meanings I can’t grasp.

I haven’t heard a single word that even sounds like anything from home.

My dependence on Sacha for translation keeps me tethered to him, an invisible chain I never asked for.

Taking a deep breath, I push the door open and step into the main chamber.

The scene before me freezes momentarily as several pairs of eyes turn in my direction.

The underground room has been transformed overnight into what looks like a command center.

Maps and documents cover the large wooden table, weighted down with small stones and daggers.

A dozen people surround it. Three of them are faces I recognize from yesterday, the rest are new.

They all study me with undisguised curiosity.

I’ve never been good at being the center of attention. I shift from one foot to the other, aware of what they must see. Whatever this group is, they’re comfortable with each other, they belong to each other. And I don’t … not really. Except maybe Sacha, in the way that cages belong to keys.

My palms itch with the urge to shrink in on myself, and vanish into the wall. Instead, I keep moving, slow and careful, pretending that the stare of a dozen strangers doesn’t make my skin crawl.

Sacha is standing at the head of the table, mid-gesture over a map. Everything about him looks different this morning. Gone is the man who walked the desert beside me.

The black tunic is sharper than the one he wore in the tower.

It’s stitched close to the shape of him, fastening in a line of fine silver hooks that catch the light from the lamps.

The fabric has weight, the kind that moves only when he does.

His pants match, dark and fitted, tucked into boots polished to a dull, near-mirror sheen.

Nothing soft. Nothing loose. The blade Varam gave him yesterday hangs in the scabbard at his hip, the belt wrapped around his waist.

But it’s not just the clothes.

He stands differently. Shoulders back, head high. He moves like someone used to being obeyed without question. I’m not sure if that’s more reassuring or terrifying .

When he touches the map, they pay attention. When he speaks, they hold their breath and listen.

He hasn’t said much about this place, or these people. But I can see how they look at him. Like he never left … and I’m the one who doesn’t belong.

“ Vashna tem, Ellie ,” Varam says, nodding in my direction. My name sounds strange coming from him. Their accents make my name sound exotic instead of plain. His face reveals nothing, but the slight incline of his head feels respectful.

I hazard a guess at the meaning of the words.

“Good morning?” I inch carefully around the edge of the room, and all eyes follow me.

Sacha says something to the assembled group before stepping away from the table and coming to stand in front of me.

“Did you sleep well?”

“Mostly.” The dream I had still hovers at the edges of my mind—Chicago snow, the tower, the raven with eyes that were far too intelligent to be a mere bird. It had moved like it knew me. “What’s going on?”

“Preparations.”

He glances back at the table when one of them calls out to him. Every word they trade is a locked door I can’t open. Every sentence Sacha has to translate is something he’s chosen to reveal … or keep.

“More will be arriving throughout the day. We’re assessing current Authority positions and our remaining resources.”

His use of ‘we’ and ‘our’ doesn’t escape my notice.

Mira appears at my side, carrying a wooden tray with bread, fruit, and something that reminds me of a teapot, with smoke curling out of its spout.

“ Neresh kavir solavin.” She gestures toward a small table away from the main gathering.

“Mira is offering you breakfast,” Sacha translates. “And will begin your language lessons, if you’re agreeable.”

The prospect of learning to communicate independently sends a wave of relief through me. A tiny rebellion—each word I learn is one less reason I have to rely on him for everything.

“Yes, please.”

She leads me to the small table, setting down the tray before pouring two drinks from the pot. She sits across from me, and places a cup and plate in front of me.

The bread is still warm. The fruit resembles apples, but tastes sharper, with hints of something like cinnamon. I eat and watch the activity around the main table.

Varam stands close beside Sacha, pointing at different locations on the map as others listen intently.

The dynamic has shifted dramatically since yesterday.

Though Varam commands respect from the others, every gaze gravitates toward the tall, black-clad figure beside him.

Despite his long absence, his authority seems to have reasserted itself without any apparent effort.

More people arrive, each one approaching Sacha with a nod and a brief touch of fist to chest—a gesture that speaks of loyalty, maybe reverence.

Some look shocked when they see him, others appear awestruck.

One woman actually steps back in surprise before composing herself, listening avidly when Sacha speaks to her .

Every movement around that table reinforces what I’ve already been feeling. He knows the language, the layout, the people. And the more they look at him, the further I feel from anything solid. Like he’s anchoring to this place, while I'm still trying to find my footing.

“ Neresh valan selurin ,” Mira says, drawing my attention back to her. She taps her chest. “ Mira .” Then she points at me. “ Ellie. ”

Basic introductions, I think. “Yes, I’m Ellie.”

She smiles. “ Vashna .” She touches her fingers to her lips, then repeats the word.

“ Vashna .” I have no idea what she means.

She points to the fruit. “ Namash .”

“ Namash .”

“ Meravak .” She taps the cup.

“ Meravak .” I lift the cup, and sniff the liquid. It smells nothing like tea or coffee.

She continues listing objects, pausing while I repeat them.

The table is selva , the cup is savrik, the chamber mereshvar . She’s patient, correcting my pronunciation until I get each word right. Each syllable catches awkwardly in my throat. Shaped for a mouth that isn’t mine.

Mira doesn't laugh. She just says them again, slower, as if time is something she has more than enough to give. Every smile from her feels like a small victory, a tiny piece of independence reclaimed.

Across the room, voices rise and fall. Hands gesture emphatically over maps. One man pounds his fist on the table, making me look up in time to see him silenced by a single look from Sacha.

Whoever they are, they follow him. And every bowed head makes it harder to reconcile the man I shared water with in the dunes, the one who walked beside me in the sand, with this one.

Mira follows my gaze, but doesn’t comment. Instead, she keeps the lesson moving, drawing simple symbols on a scrap of parchment to illustrate words harder to act out.

While Sacha seems to be taking command of a room I can’t enter, Mira keeps handing me rope. Word by word, I’m learning how not to drown.

The focus helps. It gives me something to hold onto. A way to be useful. Something that’s mine.

It distracts me from the meeting just feet away, and from the man who seems to turn into someone new every time I look at him.

A young woman enters the room, and approaches Sacha. She bows, and he breaks off what he’s doing to listen. Their exchange is brief, and though I can’t understand a single word, I can see how the tension spikes in the room. Several people gather up the scrolls spread across the table.

Mira rises to her feet. “ Ravencross meresh? ”

I shake my head, not understanding. Sacha’s voice cuts through the low murmur of voices.

“She’s offering to show you around Ravencross.”

He’s behind me again, quiet as ever, always just there when I stop looking.

“It would be good for you to look around. And perhaps safer than remaining here while we discuss … technical matters.”

His phrasing doesn’t fool me. This isn’t about sightseeing.

It’s a polite way to say he doesn’t want me here.

Part of me bristles at being sent away like a child.

But another part, the part that’s been counting cracks in the stone and pretending to understand the language flung around me, welcomes the move.

To breathe. To be anywhere but trapped in this room.

“That would be nice.”

He turns to Mira, speaking rapidly. She nods and bows. He turns back to me.

“Stay close to Mira at all times.” His tone has changed again.

“Ravencross is still relatively safe, but Authority patrols move through the main thoroughfares. Your appearance should not draw undue attention dressed as you are, but your inability to speak the language will immediately mark you as foreign.”

“I understand.”

“It will give Mira the opportunity to teach you words harder to explain here. She’s a former scout. Observant, careful, and knows every path in Ravencross. You’re safe with her, as long as you do as she says.”

The concern in his voice seems genuine, though I can’t help wondering how much of it is about me, my safety, and how much is about the problems I might cause him if I drew attention from the wrong people. I don’t know which would matter more.