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Chapter Nineteen

ELLIE

“Every exile carries a piece of the home that cast them out.”

Ravencross Market Ballads

Language lessons have become my favorite part of the day. I sit at the small table in the corner of the room with Mira, while the fighters who are here daily come and go, speaking in hushed tones I still can’t follow.

“ Kavir neresh .” Mira points to a cup on the table.

“ Kavir neresh. ” The words come more easily now, shaped by repetition, but they still feel like placeholders. Forms I can pronounce without fully grasping their meaning.

She shakes her head, then emphasizes the middle syllable. “ Ka-VIR-ne-resh. ”

I try again, adjusting the inflection. This time she nods, her face softening into the hint of a smile. We’ve been at this for days now, building new vocabulary one painstaking word at a time. The progress feels glacial, each new term a minor victory that changes nothing about my ability to belong.

Across the chamber, Sacha is standing with Varam and two others, their heads bent over maps spread across the large wooden table.

I watch them from the corner of my eye as Mira continues drilling me.

They’re talking in low voices, and occasionally point at different locations on the maps, their expressions grave.

For four days we've been in this underground sanctuary. Four days of me stumbling over unfamiliar syllables while Sacha steps seamlessly into a world that remains sealed to me. Four days of being tolerated, but never invited.

He barely glances my way, barely speaks to me. All his waking hours are spent surrounded by these hard-faced men and women, who carry weapons that aren’t for show. And even when they finally leave, he stays with Varam until long after I’ve retreated to my bed.

“ Meresh kavir solavin.”

I echo the phrase without really paying attention. I don’t know whether I’m asking for directions or declaring war.

Mira must sense my frustration. She sets down the small slate she’s been using to draw simple pictures to match the words.

“ Vasnha meresh .” Her voice is gentle. These words I do know. She’s suggesting we take a break.

I nod, lifting my fingers to my temple. A dull pressure pulses just behind my eyes.

The headache has been building all morning, a steady thrum beneath the effort of constant translation.

The air feels thicker than before, dense and close.

I shift in my seat, and for half a breath, it’s like the walls are moving.

The movement stops when I blink, but it leaves me slightly nauseous.

The chamber feels smaller than it did yesterday. The low ceiling. The unmoving air. The way sound seems to press inward instead of drifting out .

I hate to admit it, even to myself, but I miss the desert, the open silence between dunes. I even miss the tower, the temperature inside that was just right.

This space is built for safety, but it feels like more of a prison than the tower did. Like I’m stuck somewhere that makes it too hard to breathe.

I don’t know if I make a noise, but Sacha’s head lifts. He turns toward me, gaze flicking across the room until it finds mine.

For a heartbeat, we just look at each other.

Then Varam touches his sleeve, and he turns back to the map without a word, without a change in expression, shutting me out … again.

He’s been continuously evolving since we arrived in Ravencross.

The man I met in the tower, careful with his words and movements, has been replaced by someone who radiates authority and power.

The people here defer to him without hesitation, their body language shifting the moment he speaks.

Some of the older ones look at him with something like admiration and anticipation.

The younger ones watch him with barely concealed awe.

How much of what he told me in the tower was true, and how much was calculated—crafted to earn my help, to win his freedom? The questions don’t let me rest. And more than that, are Sacha and these people fighting real oppression, or are they the threat the Authority claims?

Without the language, without the history, I'm blind to the truth of this place. For all I know, I've aligned myself with something I should fear. The weight of this uncertainty settles in my stomach like a stone. I thought I was helping someone escape injustice. But maybe I’ve made myself complicit in something I don’t understand.

The doubt won’t leave me, constantly circling under the surface. Am I surrounded by people who are oppressed or are they a danger to society?

Maybe they’re both.

The main door slams open, hitting the wall with a bang loud enough to make even Mira jump. A man bursts through, not even waiting for it to swing wide. He’s breathing hard, eyes sharp as they scan the room and lock onto Varam.

He doesn’t pause before launching into a stream of words delivered so quickly that I can’t even pick out the ones I do know.

Whatever he says makes Varam snap upright.

He says something to Sacha, and the three of them move to the far side of the room.

Their conversation is quick, low, while everyone at the table watches and waits.

After a few minutes, they break apart, and return to the table. Varam looks over in our direction.

“Mira.”

She nods, then pours a cup of the herbal drink they favor here. In my head I call it tea. She places it in front of me, pats my hand, then rises and crosses to the others.

The instruction is clear.

Stay here. Stay quiet.

I take a sip, and watch as Sacha traces a line across one of the maps.

Whatever he says makes Varam frown, his head shaking once.

The tension between them is obvious, even from across the room.

Something has changed, and it’s serious enough that even I can feel it.

And once again, I’m on the outside, watching the pieces move without being told what they mean.

Frustration spikes, hotter than before. I’m tired of being the outsider, the silent one in the corner, the one who's sheltered, but never informed. I know the language gap makes things harder, but Sacha could explain if he wanted to. And that’s the problem.

He chooses not to. He chooses to leave me in the dark.

And when he does speak to me, I know he’s editing.

Choosing which truths I’m allowed to hear, and which ones stay locked in a language I can’t reach.

I set down my cup harder than I mean to. Liquid sloshes over the rim, spattering across the table. The sound echoes in the quiet, right as the messenger turns to leave. Others follow, filing out behind him with grim expressions that make my stomach tighten.

Sacha stays where he is, alone at the table now, shoulders hunched, back rigid. The way his fingers press into the parchment speaks louder than any of the words I can’t translate. Whatever just happened, it’s serious.

And I’m still being treated like a child.

Four days of quiet smiles and obedient nods.

Four days of pretending I don’t notice that I’m being managed.

It reminds me of the group home I was raised in.

The way staff used to talk around us, not to us.

Decisions made in low voices. Always expecting us to wait quietly, to be grateful for scraps of inclusion.

I learned early how to fade into the walls of a room. How to take silence as instruction.

Heat rises to my face, a slow-burning anger that's been building for days. The taste of it is metallic on my tongue, a counterpoint to the bitter herbs of the tea.

Enough.

My skin is too hot, my hands cold. My pulse thrums beneath the tightness in my jaw. This might be my only chance to speak to him alone. I rise and cross the chamber.

Sacha doesn’t look up, but I know he hears me coming.

He always hears me.

“What’s happening?” I stop at the opposite end of the table.

“Preparations.” He doesn’t look up.

“For what?”

His sigh is quiet, but irritable. “Securing our position. Reestablishing networks. The Veinwardens have operated in fragments for years.”

The answer tells me nothing I couldn’t have already guessed. My patience, worn thin after days of isolation, finally snaps.

“Stop treating me like I’m an idiot. I might not speak your language or understand this world, but I’m not stupid. Something has changed. Everyone has been on edge all morning. I deserve to know what’s going on.”

Now he does look up. “Why?”

The question catches me off guard. “What do you mean why ?”

“Why do you deserve to know what we are doing? You’re not part of it. You’ve made it clear that your only interest is returning to your world.”

“Because I’m stuck here! Whatever happens is going to affect me too! Because I’m the only one who broke your binding and got you out of that tower. You said you’d help me. You promised !”

“And I will.” His voice is maddeningly calm compared to mine. “But the Veinwardens share operations on a need-to-know basis. Your immediate need is to learn the language, not insert yourself in things you don’t understand, and won’t care about once you’re back in your world.”

My fingers curl into my palms. “So that’s it? I just sit in the corner with Mira while you plot and plan? For how long? Days? Weeks ? Until you decide I’m useful again? While you choose what scraps of information I’m allowed to have?”

“You misunderstand the situation.”

“Do I?” My voice is flat. “From where I’m standing, it looks like you’re perfectly happy to keep me in the dark. You needed me to escape the tower, but now I’m just another problem you’re trying to manage. Why is that? What are you hiding?”

“That’s not?—”