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Chapter Eighteen

SACHA

“Restraint is a form of power. Absence, a form of presence.”

Reflections on Captivity—Sacha Torran’s Journals

The shadowblade whispers through the chamber, slicing the still air in elegant arcs.

My grip is firm, but relaxed, the hilt settling into my palm as though it never left.

The weapon is formed from pure darkness, given edge and weight by my will.

Years of imprisonment dissolve in this moment.

Muscle memory awakening. Old rhythms resurface.

Yet the harmony between body and blade is not yet seamless.

I shift my stance, rolling onto the balls of my feet, and the sword flows with me, trailing darkness along its edge.

A step forward. Thrust. Pivot. Parry.

The blade sings as I carve through the silence, each strike weaving into the next, a lethal dance against unseen adversaries who took everything from me.

Shadows trail from the blade’s arc, not smoke or mist, but absence of light itself.

Where steel must work against resistance, my weapon cuts through the nothing between things.

The sword’s weight changes with my need. Light for swift combinations, heavy with voidcraft for cleaving strokes. This is not blade-work as soldiers know it. This is shadow given killing purpose.

Momentum builds. My body remembers, and adapts.

This sword demands different forms than steel.

When I thrust, the blade elongates subtly, reaching further than metal ever could.

Defensive sweeps trail curtains of darkness that linger, forming temporary barriers my opponent would need to penetrate before reaching me.

It’s not merely technique I’m relearning, but my shadows language of violence.

With each movement, the chamber darkens as the void responds to my practice.

My familiar stirs actively now, its awareness bleeding into the weapon until I can feel every vibration of air the blade disturbs, see the minute changes in light and temperature as the edge passes through space.

Sword and shadow artist becoming one entity.

I execute a final sequence—feint, step, upward cut that trails absolute darkness—and the blade phases briefly intangible before solidifying again at my thought. This is what they feared. Not just a man with a weapon, but a Shadowvein who can control the void, and make death itself take form.

Three short knocks sound against the door, disrupting my flow.

The door opens, and Varam enters, carrying a rolled bundle of maps and papers under one arm. His eyes follow the blade and the darkness that follows it like loyal hounds. A flicker of a smile touches his lips, before he nods once, as if to say there you are .

“Still quick with that blade.” He sets everything down onto the table. “I wouldn’t want to face you, even after all these years.”

“Muscle remembers what the mind forgets.” I slide the sword back into its sheath. Eventually, I’ll return it to shadow, but for now I want the solid weight of it at my hip. The mantle of leadership settles back onto my shoulders as I join him at the table. “What do you have?”

“Reports from our scouts.” He unrolls a map. “I’ve sent word to the outer knots. Only the ones I trust with the news of your return.”

I study the parchment he’s laid out. It’s a detailed rendering of landscapes once familiar, now marked with changes that speak of years of Authority expansion.

Red markings indicate checkpoints, patrols, and garrison strengths.

Territories I once moved through freely, have been carved up and are now controlled by the Authority.

All information gathered at considerable risk to the scouts.

“How many will come?” My fingers trace what used to be free passage, now blocked by Authority checkpoints.

“Eight. Perhaps ten. A couple are already here. Ferrin will arrive shortly with reports from the west.” He taps the map.

“Look here. They’ve doubled the garrison at Riverfork, and established a permanent checkpoint at Blackbridge Crossing.

These positions have been reinforced in the last couple of months. ”

He pulls another map from his collection, laying it on top of the first. This one shows supply lines—routes marked in varying colors indicating degrees of Authority control. The pattern is clear. A web of control, tightening around any existing pockets of freedom.

“The northern trade route was lost after the Earthvein purge.”

He points to a faded path that once connected mountain settlements where our strongest allies lived. Where children with earth magic once raised stone sculptures for play, not defense .

“They redirected everything through the central valley, where checkpoints can monitor all movement.”

I absorb the information, rage coiling beneath the still surface of my thoughts. Varam has become more than the commander I left behind. He has adapted, endured, learned to lead a cause forced into hiding. A Veinwarden who has preserved what could not be openly defended.

“What is our current strength?”

“Three hundred active throughout all regions. Perhaps five hundred sympathizers who provide intelligence, supplies, occasional shelter.”

The numbers are far below what I once commanded.

“We had to prioritize survival over direct confrontation since Thornreave.”

Before I can respond, there’s another knock. A tall man enters, pausing just inside the doorway. For a moment, his expression falters, eyes widening as they meet mine.

He recovers quickly, but not completely. His spine straightens. His eyes don’t.

“Lord Torran.” His voice remains steady, despite the shock on his face.

I study him, searching for familiarity in features changed by years and hardship. “Ferrin.”

Varam nods. “Ferrin oversees everyone in the western settlements. His knot monitors Authority movements across Blackhollow, Fireground Deep, and Silverkeep.”

He approaches the table, and deposits additional maps beside those Varam has arranged, then waits, not stiff, but clearly uncertain if he should speak.

He doesn’t speak until I incline my head.

“Western patrol reports,” he begins. His voice holds steady now, but he avoids my eyes. “Authority movement along the trade routes increased yesterday. They’ve added checkpoints at three major crossings.”

“Is there a pattern?”

“All are concentrated along routes leading from the Sunfire Dunes.” His gaze flicks up, just long enough to catch mine, before veering off again. “They’re searching for something …” He pauses. “Or someone.”

“Any signs that they’ve found anything of note?”

“Nothing confirmed. But their communications are more frequent. Messengers are riding harder. They’re reacting to something, but no one appears to know what.”

It suggests the Authority has not yet confirmed my escape, but something has disturbed them.

The shift is palpable—messengers pushed harder, orders issued without explanation.

Either the collapse of the tower has been noted without context, or whispers have begun to rise through their command.

Their reaction is defensive. Cautious. Not yet coordinated.

Until certainty rises to their highest circles, they will wait. Which gives us time, if not safety.

Another knock at the door interrupts our discussion. Varam crosses to open it, admitting an older man, whose face blanches with shock upon seeing me .

“Vareth’el et’Varin …” he breathes. He stumbles to a halt inside the doorway, and his hand lifts to his chest as though someone has struck him. “By the stars … it’s true.”

“Galern. I’m glad to see you survived.”

He takes a step forward, then another. Each one seems to cost him, as though his body can’t quite reconcile what his eyes see.

“Lord Torran.” The title breaks in his throat. “Everyone believed … we were told?—”

“All lies. Here I stand.”

His spine straightens as if a cord inside him has been pulled taut. Emotion fractures his face—grief, disbelief, the painful restoration of something long buried.

“All these years … we thought our greatest weapon was lost. That they’d broken you.”

“Imprisoned, but not lost. And now we have work to do.”

He nods, then presses one fist over his heart.

“ Vareth’el. I’ll serve however I’m needed.”

More arrivals follow in quick succession. Veinwardens entering singularly or in pairs. Each one hesitates in the doorway. Some falter mid-step. One woman covers her mouth with both hands. Another sinks into a crouch, trembling.

Their reactions are not uniform. Some blink hard, as though staring at a ghost. Others freeze mid-bow, caught between reverence and doubt.

A few drop their gaze the moment I look back, but I see the same thing in all their eyes.

Hope and fear braided so tightly together they can no longer be separated .

Their responses mirror the world that shaped them. Some knew the man I was. Others have only ever known the myth.

Varam steps forward, and begins introductions.

Isara, who commands the eastern knots, her eyes assessing me like a weapon she’s not sure will fire properly. She sees the legend. She wants the truth.

Damen, young and fiery eyed, born after my capture, looks at me with the unquestioning devotion of someone who has only heard stories. I see the man he believes I am reflected in his gaze. A myth wearing my face.

Rera, a healer whose knowledge preserved techniques the Authority sought to eliminate, her hands bearing the scars of those who have healed too many wounds with too few salves. She touches her heart and lowers her eyes, unwilling or unable, to meet mine.

The room fills with noise as maps are unfurled, reports pass hands, voices rise.

But beneath the movement lies tension. These people have operated under constant threat of exposure and death for years.

They speak in half-sentences, using coded phrases, habits carved by fear and necessity.

Their resistance has teeth, but it also has bruises. And I must learn the shape of both.