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Chapter Twenty-One

ELLIE

“It is not the magic that burns us, but the meaning behind it.”

Writings of the Flamevein Oracles

I didn’t mean to throw myself at him. Not really. It just … happened.

One second, the path was gone. The next, I was moving. Rain in my eyes. Wind in my ears. And him … still standing there like the only solid thing left in the world. So I ran. I didn’t think. I didn’t care what it meant.

And when I reached him, I didn’t let go.

He didn’t either.

Not at first.

His body was solid and cold, but his arm stayed around me. Just for a second. Long enough for my fingers to knot in his tunic. Long enough to feel the warmth of his breath. Then lightning split the sky, and he pulled away like the moment had never happened.

Now the space between us is filled with tension and rain.

It lashes at my face as we emerge from the northern pass, each droplet a freezing needle against my skin. The icy water drives horizontal, a wall of wet fury determined to push us back the way we came.

Not that returning is an option. The rockslide, the impossible wall of stone Sacha somehow held back with magic, made sure of that.

The memory makes my stomach churn. The crack of stone, the roar as it collapsed, the heat of his body against mine. The way the mountain gave up the moment he let go.

How long could he have held it, really? Another minute? Ten seconds? Was it power that kept the rocks at bay, or something closer to desperation? And if he can hold back a mountain, what else can he do?

That question should terrify me. It shouldn’t fascinate me. But it does.

The wind grabs at my cloak as we follow Tisera down a narrow switchback trail, the forest rising to meet us on the other side.

Pine needles slick with rain crunch beneath my boots.

The scent of wet stone and crushed greenery clings to the air.

Somewhere ahead, water runs down rock faces, the sound muffled by the storm but still audible.

Sacha doesn’t speak. He hasn’t looked at me since the pass’s collapse.

But I can still feel the imprint of that moment. His arm around my waist. The steadiness of his voice even as the mountain strained beneath us. The way I pressed against him like he was the only thing keeping me alive.

I should let it go. File it away as adrenaline and survival .

Except I can’t. Not yet.

Not when every part of me still remembers the warmth of his breath against my neck, and the security of his arm around my waist.

I blink against the stinging drops, squinting to see through the storm’s fury.

The world beyond the pass reveals itself in bursts.

Flashes of silver and shadow between lightning strikes.

A broad valley stretches out beneath us, forest cloaking its lower reaches, battered now by the storm’s intensity.

The path ahead follows a ridgeline that looks just as treacherous as the one we left.

“Stay close,” Sacha shouts over the howling wind. “The shelter is ahead.”

I see no shelter. Just more rock. More rain.

But I follow Tisera, matching her steps, because what else can I do?

My clothes are stuck to my skin, water finding every seam.

My fingers and nose have gone numb, and my hair is plastered against my face and neck, sending rivulets of ice-cold water down my spine.

I’m used to Chicago winters and how cold it can get. But not this bone-deep ache that seeps past skin and muscle and into something harder to name. It’s not just physical. It’s like this world is trying to peel me back to whatever I’m made of underneath.

Lightning strikes again, closer this time. The crack of thunder follows immediately, a sound that hits with the weight of a blow. It rattles through my chest, vibrating bone and breath alike.

In that instant of blinding light, I turn, and catch Sacha’s face—unnaturally focused, eyes bleeding black at the edges, his features transformed into something otherworldly. Power incarnate. Something that shouldn’t be beautiful, but is.

The sight sends an unexpected shiver through me that has nothing to do with the cold.

I saw what he did back in the pass. The way he somehow held back an entire rockslide with nothing but an outstretched hand and what I can only describe as darkness flowing from his palm.

Magic. Actual magic . It’s impossible to pretend I didn’t see. It moved like a living thing. And it listened to him.

That wall of stone should have crushed us. It didn’t. Because of him. Because of whatever he is .

And now I can’t stop thinking about the way he stood there. Shoulders squared, eyes black, shadows wrapped around his hands like they belonged there. Like he was built for them.

The raven makes more sense now. It’s not just a shape he built. It’s something real that responds to his will. An extension of himself that allows him to perceive and manipulate things in ways I have no way of understanding.

“This way.” Tisera calls from ahead, pointing at what looks like nothing more than a darker shadow against the face of a cliff.

The storm escalates, each raindrop a needle against my skin. Breathing is difficult, because every inhale brings a lungful of water with it.

We scramble down a steep embankment, slipping and sliding while the ground beneath our feet threatens to give way with every step. Mud clings to my boots, and my hands are frozen and raw from grabbing at rocks and roots to stop my downward slide.

A dark shape ahead resolves into a natural overhang in the cliff face when we draw closer.

Not a true cave, but a deep recess in the stone extending maybe fifteen feet inward, sheltered from wind and rain by solid rock above.

There’s evidence that other people have used it for shelter—a stone-ringed fire pit in the center, stacked firewood placed against the rear wall to keep it dry.

We stumble inside with collective relief, the abrupt drop in noise like surfacing from underwater. The change from chaos to relative calm almost disorienting. The storm’s roar is muted here, though it’s still powerful enough to remind me of what waits outside.

Water streams from our clothing, forming small puddles on the smooth stone floor.

“We can stay here until the storm passes.” Sacha moves along the edges of the shelter, scanning the area like something half-wild and too alert.

While Tisera retrieves wood from a stack kept near the back of the shelter and arranges it inside the stone circle, I shrug off my sodden outer layer, hanging the cloak on a natural projection of rock where it might have some chance of drying.

The chill sets in immediately. Bone-deep cold that makes my teeth chatter.

The mountain air, already cool before the storm, now carries a bitter edge that cuts through whatever warmth my body is desperately trying to generate.

The small fire Tisera builds catches quickly, flames licking upward as she feeds it more wood. Light and warmth spread throughout the small refuge, pushing back the worst of the chill. I move closer, extending my hands toward the heat .

“Is it safe here?” I look at Sacha, who is still prowling around, like a wild animal trapped in a cage.

“Safe enough.” He joins me near the fire, lowering himself onto the ground. “The storm will keep Authority patrols confined to their outposts. Few will risk these paths in good weather, so I doubt anything will drive them out in this.”

Tisera says something. Sacha turns to me.

“She wants to know if you’re hurt at all. The northern pass can be unforgiving.”

“I don’t think so.” I’m so cold, it’s hard to say. I run my hands over my body. Other than muscle aches and some scrapes to visible skin, I find nothing. “Just scrapes and bruises.”

Tisera nods when Sacha translates, then reaches into her pack and takes out some small packets wrapped in cloth. She offers one to me.

“Salve for your hands. It’s made from mountain herbs that help promote healing,” Sacha explains.

It takes me a couple of attempts to unwrap it because my fingers are so cold, but eventually I do to find a greenish paste that smells of pine. The scrapes on my palms sting when I apply it, but the sensation quickly changes to a soothing warmth that seems to penetrate beneath my skin.

“ Narem .”

She acknowledges my thanks with a slight nod before turning her attention to sharing out small portions of journey bread from her seemingly inexhaustible supply.

We eat without speaking, the fire crackling beneath the storm’s muffled wrath.

Outside, the world howls. I can’t stop shivering, and my mind won’t stop replaying the moment, the instant the mountain gave way behind us.

The way Sacha stood between collapse and survival with nothing but his will and the shadows in his hands.

“How did you do that? Back in the pass. With the rockslide?”

He lifts his head. Firelight curls around his face, but his eyes absorb it rather than reflect it. It’s like even flames refuse to touch what’s inside him.

“I manipulated the shadows between the rocks to hold it together.”

“You held back an entire rockslide.”

“Temporarily. Just long enough for us to pass safely.”

“Could you have stopped it from happening completely?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, head tipping slightly. “Perhaps … under different circumstances. The storm complicated matters. Natural forces working against magical intervention.”

I consider his explanation, trying to reconcile the man seated opposite me with what I witnessed.

He looks tired. Not in a normal over-exerted kind of way.

It’s something beneath the surface. A fine tension drawn tight through his shoulders, a tightness around his eyes.

A quiet unraveling that doesn’t show unless you know what to look for.

And I’ve spent enough time watching this man, trying to understand the contradictions that make him, to see it now.

“What else can you do?” The question is free before I can reconsider it.