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“I know.” No defense. No explanation. Just calm acknowledgement that somehow makes it worse .

“Did you really have to?” I wait until he faces me, searching his eyes for something—remorse, conflict, anything that proves he’s human. “Was there really no other option?”

He holds my gaze. “No.” Not even a hesitation.

“Had any survived, they’d have reported our location.

The Authority would have sent forces to investigate.

Stonehaven would have been discovered and eventually destroyed.

” His voice remains steady, almost gentle.

The same tone you'd use to explain something obvious to a child.

The logical part of me understands his reasoning. Six lives versus hundreds. A tactical decision. But understanding doesn't stop the memory of darkness flowing from his fingertips, doesn't erase the soft thuds of bodies hitting stone. Doesn’t quiet the screaming in my head.

“But you didn’t even hesitate.” Heat creeps up my neck. “There wasn’t a single moment where you thought about sparing them, was there? Not even a second of doubt?”

“Would hesitation have changed the outcome?” His eyes give away nothing of his thoughts. “Would prolonging the inevitable have made it easier for you to accept?”

“That’s not the point!” My fingers curl, nails biting into my palm. The pain grounds me. “The point is how easily you did it. Like it was nothing . Like taking six lives was just … routine!” The last work comes out shrill.

“In this world, at that particular moment, that’s exactly what it was.” His voice is steady, reasonable, which somehow makes everything worse. A stark contrast between his calm and the chaos whirling inside me. "My priority was protecting the stronghold and everyone in it. Including you."

"Don't!" I hold up one hand, shaking visibly now, disgust and fury and fear twisting into something toxic in my gut. "Please don't try to make it sound noble. I saw your face when you did it. There was nothing there. No regret. No doubt. No second-guessing. Just ..."

"Would pretending to regret it have made it better?" His head tilts slightly. "Would you prefer I killed with theatrical remorse? Perhaps I should have shed a tear, rather than keep the focus required to ensure none escaped?"

“That’s not fair.” My voice breaks on the last word. My eyes are burning, tears threatening to fall.

The worst part is that he’s right. Logically, I understand what he’s saying. It was a group of men, soldiers who recognized him. They would have reported his presence in the mountains. They would have returned with reinforcements. People would have died. Likely a lot more than six.

But understanding his reasoning doesn’t ease the horror of watching it happen in real time. It doesn’t stop me seeing the darkness pour from his skin as he moved between them with inhuman speed every time I blink.

“I need some time. Some space to think.”

"As you wish." He doesn't even try to argue with me, doesn't fight for understanding. His easy acceptance only widens the chasm between us. "You can use that room. I'll be out here if you wish to talk."

I retreat into the room he indicated, relieved to find it holds a proper bed. No cot, no makeshift pallet. Just a gorgeous carved wooden frame and mattress. I sit down slowly, letting my pack slide from my shoulder to the floor. It lands with a solid thump.

The past few days rush back all at once.

The sudden departure from Ravencross, the climb through the northern pass, the patrol.

The killing. And now, Stonehaven: a hidden mountain fortress filled with strangers who kneel at Sacha’s feet, while I remain the outsider, the stranger whose presence requires explanation.

I stretch out on the bed and stare at the ceiling.

Now I’ve stopped moving, all the aches from days of mountain travel rush to the fore.

My muscles protest every movement I make.

I feel the cold in my bones, the damp lingering in my clothes, the sting of scrapes I hadn’t registered until now.

But none of it quiets my mind, because I keep seeing them .

Not just the way they died, but the way they stood before it happened. Just men, just doing their job, not knowing that time had already run out.

Sleep comes quietly. There’s no moment of drifting, no line I feel myself cross. One thought blurs into another, and I’m no longer in Stonehaven.

I’m in Chicago again.

Snowflakes drift across empty sidewalks.

Christmas lights glint in storefronts, casting rainbow patterns across slush-slicked pavement.

I’m walking home with grocery bags in my hands, and for a moment, that’s all there is.

Cold air, salted concrete, exhaust fumes.

Ordinary concerns for an ordinary life I can barely believe I once lived.

Then something changes. The light dims, though the Christmas displays still glow.

A shadow falls across the street that doesn't match the surrounding buildings. It’s too big, too fluid, moving against the wind.

I look up to see a giant raven circling overhead, wings spanning the width of the entire street, blotting out the stars.

Its eyes find mine, eyes that shine with silver light, and recognition flashes between us like an electric current.

Where shadow leads, storm will follow.

The words come from nowhere.

The street vanishes.

I’m in the tower.

Sacha is standing on the opposite side of the circular room, but this isn’t the man I know. Shadows coil beneath his skin like living runes, pulsing in intricate patterns. Darkness gathers around him like a living cloak.

The raven is behind him now, wings spread wide until they fill the entire space.

“You opened the door,” he says, his voice layered with echoes. “The binding responds to you.”

The raven screams.

Thunder answers.

A flash of lightning cracks through the tower, and for a heartbeat I see his silhouette—larger than human, darker than shadow, wings unfurling from a form caught between man and something far older.

Shadowverin , the raven cries. The word vibrates inside my bones.

Vashna et kevir.

I wake with a gasp, heart pounding against my ribs. The room is dark save for the faint amber glow of a single lightstone. I have no idea how long I’ve slept, though my body feels like I’ve been unconscious for hours rather than minutes.

The dream clings to me, its imagery refusing to fade. The raven. The shadow silhouette. The words seemed to carry meaning beyond their sound.

A soft knock at the door pulls me from my thoughts.

“Yes?” My voice sounds strange, hoarse, higher than it should be.

The door opens slowly. A young woman stands there, maybe a few years younger than me, carrying a tray with food and drink. She smiles—small, uncertain, but genuine.

“ Vashna .” The greeting is familiar from Mira’s lessons. “ Neresh kavir.”

Food , I translate in my head. The second word means food or eat.

“ Vashna ,” I echo, sitting up and swinging my legs off the edge of the bed. “Meravak?” I gesture toward the cup, asking if it’s water.

Her smile brightens.

“Mavrin! ” Yes, she confirms. “ Meravak et neresh .”

Water and food.

She sets the tray on a small table near the bed, then gestures at my travel-stained clothes with a questioning look.

“ Navirak kavir selurin? ” She mimes washing.

I hope my understanding is correct. “Yes, please. That would be wonderful.”

She leaves and returns a few minutes later with a bundle of clean clothes and a basin of steaming water. She places them carefully on a chest at the foot of the bed, then withdraws, offering one last shy smile before she closes the door .

The simple kindness nearly undoes me.

After days of cold, of hunger, of violence and fear, the sight of clean water and fresh clothing feels like a luxury I barely remember knowing how to want.

I eat first. The stew is thick and rich, the bread warm enough to steam in the chill air. The water is crisp and pure. I guess it’s drawn from mountain springs hidden somewhere beneath all this stone.

Only when my stomach is full do I turn to the basin.

The water remains wonderfully hot as I scrub away days of travel dirt, paying special attention to the scrapes and bruises accumulated during our journey.

The clothing left for me fits well—soft close-fitting pants, a loose tunic, and a vest similar to what I’ve seen other women in the stronghold wearing.

When I’m finished, I feel almost human again, so I gather my courage and step back into the main chamber.

Sacha is standing at the central table, his back to me, studying maps spread wide across the wood.

He’s changed too. His bloodstained clothes are gone, replaced with something plain and dark, similar to what he wore in the tower.

His hair is damp, the single braid now threaded with three new beads that remind me of the shadowstones he showed me.

The last traces of blood are gone from his skin.

He looks up as I approach.

The shadows that covered him are gone. His eyes are clear again, dark but human, and for the moment he looks like the man I first met in the tower .

“You look rested.”

“I feel better.” I nod toward the tray. “Someone brought food. And clean clothes.”

“Lisandra would have arranged it.”

He adjusts the edge of one of the maps. “The Veinwardens will be gathering soon. They’ll want to know about our journey, and I need to know more about the Authority’s current movements.”

He speaks as if nothing has changed between us. As if the blood on his hands, the distance I demanded, no longer matters. I don’t know if that should comfort me, or make me feel even more alone.

I swallow the lump rising in my throat. I can’t afford to fall apart here. Not in front of them. Not in front of him . Whatever this gathering is, whatever they see when they look at Sacha, I need to survive it. I need to understand enough to keep up.

“What should I do? I can barely understand what’s happening.”