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Something flickers across his face. It could be firelight, but it looks more like caution, carefully placed behind a mask he seems only half interested in maintaining right now.

“Many things.” His voice is even, almost detached. “My magic has applications beyond what most understand. I can see things from great distances, if there are enough shadows. I can move objects. As you witnessed, I can manipulate environmental conditions, when necessary.”

“And is that why they imprisoned you? Because you could do these things?”

“Partly.” He feeds another small branch into the fire, watching it catch. “My imprisonment was due to what I represented more than what I can do. A direct challenge to Authority control, and their doctrine that magic is a corrupting force.”

The fire crackles, sending sparks upward into the cave’s low ceiling.

For a time, neither of us speaks. Tisera stands, murmuring something in a low voice to Sacha, who nods, and she moves closer to the entrance of the shelter, looking out at the storm.

Her silhouette is just visible in the dim light.

“What happened before we left ... the fire …” My voice catches. “Was that magic too?”

Sacha's gaze sharpens. His full attention shifts to me, and I feel every inch of the stare. He’s not just looking at me, but into me. It’s like stepping beneath a spotlight, except his eyes don’t glow. They don’t reflect. They pin me in place and hold me there.

“Yes.”

“But not yours.” I don’t ask. I know .

“No. Not mine.” His tone is different now. Softer, but not gentle. Almost as though he’s waiting for something.

My heart hammers against my ribs, each beat pulsing in my ears. The question hangs between us, unspoken but heavy in the air, dense with implication, impossible to ignore. I don't want to voice it, to make it real by speaking it aloud, but I can't escape the truth vibrating through my bones.

The fire appeared when my anger peaked. When frustration at being kept in the dark finally boiled over into open confrontation.

And the flames answered me.

“That's not possible.” I sound far less certain than I'd like, my voice betraying me with a slight tremor. “I don't have magic. I can't.”

“The evidence suggests otherwise.” He leans forward, firelight dancing across the planes of his face, but not his eyes.

Never his eyes. “The binding responded to your presence in the tower. The door opened to your touch ... twice . Ice formed when you broke the spell. Fire manifested during our argument.”

He counts each incident on his long fingers, each one a nail in the coffin of my normal existence.

“Those aren't coincidences, Ellie.”

“But I'm not from this world.” I hold onto that fact like an anchor in shifting sands, my last tether to rationality and the life I knew. “How can I have magic that belongs in your reality? I'm just ... I was just a regular person in Chicago. Nothing special.”

The words taste false. Familiar, but wrong.

“That’s what we need to understand. ”

For the first time, uncertainty shows in his expression. It doesn’t make him seem less formidable, just more real.

“Your ability to affect magic in this realm shouldn’t be possible for someone without a native connection. Yet you’ve demonstrated the capability repeatedly .”

I pull my gaze from his, and focus on the fire. The flames dance and curl around the split wood like they’re listening. “But what does it mean?” My voice is low. “Am I somehow … changing? Becoming part of this world?”

“I don’t know.” His answer is simple. Honest .

Thunder crashes overhead, loud enough that it seems to shake the stone beneath us.

The sound echoes through the shelter like a physical force, vibrating in my bones.

It feels as though the storm is perched directly above us, unleashing its full fury across the mountain.

Rain falls in sheets beyond the overhang, turning the world outside into a curtain of shifting gray.

“The storm isn’t going to pass quickly. We’ll stay here overnight. Hopefully it will have moved on by morning, and we can continue to Stonehaven.”

The thought doesn’t bother me as much as it might have days ago. After sleeping in the desert, and underground chambers, a dry space with a fire seems almost civilized.

And that unsettles me more than I want to admit. That I’m starting to feel at home in a place that shouldn’t be mine.

Tisera comes back to the fire, crouches beside it, and pulls a bedroll out of her pack. She spreads it out, lays down on top of it, using her pack as a pillow. Within seconds, her eyes are already closed .

I stay where I am, knees drawn up, watching Sacha as he takes her place at the mouth of the shelter. His silhouette against the storm-darkened sky seems unnaturally still. I wonder what he’s holding behind it.

“You should rest while you can,” he says without turning. “Tomorrow will bring new challenges.”

“I’m not tired.” The lie breaks free, despite the bone-deep weariness that makes my limbs feel heavy. “Tell me about this mountain stronghold.”

He turns slightly, profile illuminated by firelight. “One of the Veinwarden sanctuaries never discovered during the purges. Natural caves expanded into living quarters, training areas, storage. Protected by geography and … other measures.”

“Magic?”

“Yes. Concealment wards were established by Earthveins. The Authority may have eliminated the Veinbloods themselves, but their work remains effective.”

“And we’ll be safe there?”

“Safer than anywhere else currently available to us.” The careful wording of his answer doesn't escape me.

“The stronghold has existed for generations. It was originally home to the Earthvein bloodline. When the Authority began to rise, it became a refuge for those with natural abilities, and eventually a sanctuary for anyone the Authority targeted.”

I tuck my chin against my knees, trying to imagine what that kind of place might look like. A home for the hunted.

“How many people will be there? ”

“I don’t know. At minimum, twenty or thirty Veinwardens used to be there at all times. I don’t know how much has changed over the years.”

“Will they know you?” My voice is quiet.

“Some will. Others will have heard stories.” A hint of something that might be discomfort crosses his face. “My return will likely generate complicated reactions.”

“Like Varam and the others in Ravencross?”

“Similar, although I spent more time at Ravencross, so those who knew me there are less inclined to have … high expectations. Those at Stonehaven might be a little more intense.”

I stare at the fire, watching its movement ripple against the stone. “You were gone for twenty-seven years,” I say quietly. “And you haven’t aged.”

He doesn’t answer right away.

I imagine returning home and finding everyone I knew changed. Time reshaped. People buried. Streets renamed. Would I even recognize my world anymore? Or would it recognize me?

What if I’m already changing? Not just on the surface, but underneath. What if magic is remaking me into something that doesn’t fit anywhere. Not here, and not back home?

And yet, Sacha carries his exile like armor. Quiet. Composed. As though he never doubted he’d survive long enough to return.

“You pay more attention than it appears.”

“I don’t need to understand the language to see the way they look at you.” I meet his eyes. “Like they’ve been waiting for you.”

“Folklore persists even under Authority suppression. Stories change in telling and retelling, getting reshaped to suit whatever hope people need, particularly during times of hardship.”

“That’s still not a real answer. What stories? What beliefs?”

The fire pops loudly, sending a shower of sparks upwards. Outside, the storm continues unabated, lightning flashing at irregular intervals, illuminating the sheets of driving rain.

My chest tightens. I know I’m not going to like whatever answer he gives me.

“There have been prophecies,” he says finally, voice so low I have to strain to hear him over the storm's assault. His reluctance is palpable, as though sharing this crosses some personal boundary. “Predictions about the return of shadow.”

“And your people are linking them to you?” I press, remembering the reverent way the people in Ravencross looked at him.

“And you.” His eyes meet mine, holding my gaze with unexpected intensity. “The timing of your arrival, the way you freed me when no one else could. They align with certain predictions made after my capture. Prophecies that persevered despite Authority attempts to eradicate such knowledge.”

“Is that why they look at me that way? They think I’m part of what? Some magical destiny?”

“I’m not claiming there’s any truth to it, or that you must believe in them. I’m simply explaining why others may attach significance to your presence.”

“Do you believe them? These prophecies?”

His lips quirk up. “I believe in verifiable evidence and direct observation. The rest requires careful consideration before acceptance.”

“That isn’t a yes or a no.”

“Very few things of importance can be reduced to simple affirmation or denial.”

He has a gift for sounding philosophical when he’s just avoiding my question.

“I just want to go home.” I sigh, returning to the simple truth at the heart of all this complexity. “I don’t want to be part of prophecies or wars or magical destinies. I want to go back to Chicago, to my apartment, to my life.”

“I understand.” His voice softens slightly. “And that will remain one of our objectives. But I cannot ignore the responsibilities that came with my return, or what my presence means to my people.”

The fire has begun to die down. I feed it another small branch from the stack, watching as flames lick upward to embrace the new fuel.

“Try to sleep.” Sacha turns back to the storm-dark entrance. “We’ll move as soon as the storm passes.”

This time I don’t argue. I arrange my pack as a pillow the way Tisera did, and position myself where the fire’s warmth will still reach me.