Page 62

The ambient noise thickens as we approach the gathering hall. Laughter, the faint clatter of cups, the low murmur of conversation echo against the stone walls. Sacha stops just before the entrance and turns to me, his presence grounding against the anticipation coiling in the air.

“This matters to them.” His voice is low, but there’s a wealth of meaning beneath the words.

“I understand.” And I do. These people have been fighting a hopeless war for decades. Sacha’s return represents something they’d stopped believing in. Hope .

The doors swing open, revealing a vast chamber carved directly from the mountain’s heart.

Lightstones embedded into the walls cast a warm, living glow across the space.

There must be close to a hundred people gathered, and the conversations falter immediately as attention snaps toward the entrance where we stand.

Complete silence falls for several heartbeats.

Then a voice calls out from somewhere near the back. “Vareth’el et’Varin Sacha Torran!”

The name ripples through the gathering like wildfire, voices rising in a wave of sound that crashes against the walls.

Some press fists to hearts. Others bow deeply, curtsey, lower their heads.

Some simply stare, disbelief and awe warring on their faces before giving way to something fierce and bright.

Sacha’s stance shifts subtly beside me. His presence expands, filling the space without effort, without arrogance. His hand covers mine where it rests against his sleeve, a brief pressure that could be reassurance or warning.

“Stay close.” His voice is so low that only I can hear him.

I nod, and follow his lead as we step into the chamber. The crowd parts before us, creating a narrow path toward a raised platform at the far end, where Lisandra and several other leaders stand waiting.

The energy in the room is a living thing.

It thrums beneath my skin, a tangible pulse of relief, shock, and determination.

These aren’t just fighters, I realize, as my gaze moves over faces.

These are families. Children clinging to mothers’ skirts.

Elders leaning on intricately carved wooden staffs.

Survivors gathered from the shattered remnants of what the Authority tried to erase.

As we move through them, people reach out, brushing their fingertips against Sacha’s sleeve, the edge of his coat, the back of his hand. He acknowledges each silent touch with the smallest nod of his head, a gesture that somehow carries both acknowledgement and a promise.

When we reach the platform, he doesn’t release me. Instead, he guides me up the steps beside him, as though I belong at his side. The inclusion seems deliberate, and murmurs ripple through the crowd .

Lisandra steps forward, raising her hands. Silence falls instantly, not just the gradual quiet of attention being gathered, but a sudden, collective stillness that speaks to her authority among these people.

When she speaks, her voice carries through the chamber, low and firm, her cadence unmistakably formal.

Sacha leans close, his breath warm against my ear, sending an involuntary shiver down my spine.

“She’s telling them that this gathering is a turning point,” he murmurs, his voice pitched low enough that it threads beneath the current of Lisandra’s speech.

“That when the Authority captured me, they believed they had broken the Veinwardens’ spine.

But my return proves their greatest victory was nothing but an illusion.

” He pauses. “That hope remains, not as a distant dream, but as a weapon they have never surrendered.”

I barely breathe as I watch the faces in the crowd. Weariness gives way to fierce determination, resignation hardens into resolve. The shift is visible in every set jaw, every clenched hand, every breath drawn deeper than before.

I know that feeling.

That stubborn refusal to accept defeat, even when logic says you should. I’ve seen it in my own reflection.

Lisandra’s hand sweeps outward, her voice rising, punctuating her words. She gestures toward Sacha, and a shout rises from the crowd. Another shout answers it. Cheers ripple outward, fierce and wild.

When Lisandra finally falls silent, she turns toward Sacha. And the silence that follows it is expectant .

He steps forward, drawing me with him, his hand light on my elbow, and I find myself stepping into the charged silence with him.

“Narem kavir .” His voice carries through the chamber.

I stand at his side, understanding none of the words, but his voice sends emotion rippling through the crowd. Faces turn upward toward him, not in worship but fierce allegiance. Their expressions shift from solemn attention to a kind of breathless determination.

Whatever he’s telling them, it’s rekindling something that’s been lost or forgotten.

“Ellie kavir meresh … ” His hand tightens slightly on my elbow as dozens of eyes shift in my direction.

For half a second, every instinct screams to step back, to hide. Instead, I lift my chin slightly, meeting their gazes head-on. I have no idea what he’s saying, but I hold onto the tiny scrap of composure I have.

“I told them you helped me escape,” he breaks off to tell me. “That your arrival has importance beyond what we yet understand.”

He addresses the crowd again, his voice rising, gathering strength. The people break into what sounds like a chant, fists slamming against their chests. The energy in the chamber intensifies, as though the very air crackles with the force of their collective will.

Lisandra steps forward, adding some more words, and another wave of sound rolls through the cavern. People appear with trays, weaving through the crowd, offering small cups that catch the light. When everyone holds one, Lisandra lifts hers high and her voice rings out over the gathering.

“Shadowverin narem kavir! ”

The crowd responds as one. “ Narem kavir!”

Cups are drained in a single, sweeping motion. A ritual, complete.

The formal atmosphere dissolves like a string cut loose.

Music surges from the far side of the room, conversations resume at a higher, livelier volume, and people approach the platform. Some eager to speak, others simply to see, to touch, to confirm Sacha’s presence among them.

Sacha turns to me. “The formalities are complete. Now comes the more challenging part.”

“Oh? What’s that?”

“Navigating the personal. Every person here has questions, hopes, expectations. Most of them involve me, but many may extend to you as well.”

“Why? What did you tell them?”

“That your presence is linked to mine. That will be enough.”

“Enough to make them curious?”

“Curiosity was inevitable, regardless of what I told them.” He scans the gathering. “Follow my lead. If you’re uncomfortable at any point, let me know, and we’ll withdraw.”

“Can we do that? Just leave, I mean.”

He gives a soft, almost amused huff. “I am the Vareth’el . The Shadowvein. I can do whatever I please.” The words are delivered with such arrogance that I just stare at him.

“You need to explain to me what that actually means. Obviously, you’re important to these people …”

He guides me down from the platform as I speak, into the heart of the celebration, where people immediately surround us. Many speak to him, often all at once, words flowing too rapidly for me to catch, but their meaning seems clear from their expressions—gratitude, relief, renewed determination.

Some turn their attention to me. A few of the bolder ones address me directly, although my limited vocabulary leaves me struggling to respond. Sacha translates whenever necessary, smoothing every awkward moment without ever making me feel foolish.

The music grows louder, and the center of the chamber clears.

A line of dancers step forward, men and women, and the rhythm shifts into something more formal.

The movements combine combat stances with more fluid elements.

The display is both beautiful and slightly unnerving, celebration and preparation for war intertwined.

“They dance to remember,” Sacha murmurs beside me, his attention fixed on the dancers. “So that when battle comes, their bodies already know the shape of survival. Rhythm and movement practiced until instinct.”

I watch, captivated. The beauty of it is undeniable, but beneath that beauty lies steel.

An older man approaches while I watch, a gentle smile on his face. He speaks directly to me, then bows to Sacha.

“He says your eyes hold something special. That he sees power in them.”

The words make me blush. I duck my head slightly, unsure how to respond. The old man studies me for a moment longer, before he melts back into the celebration.

“What did he mean?”

“He sees something in you.” Sacha’s gaze remains on the place where the old man disappeared. “The older generation are more attuned to such things. They had contact with those who possessed natural abilities before the purges. They are the ones who remember.”

“He thinks I have these abilities?”

“He saw something that resonates with his memories.” His voice is even, but there’s a tension beneath it. “You have to understand that many will seek to find meaning in your presence. It’s human nature to search for patterns, especially when the world has broken down around them.”

“Like the prophecies you mentioned.”

“Like those, yes.” His attention shifts to something beyond my shoulder. “Lisandra is signaling. There are people she wishes me to speak with.”

“I’ll be fine here. Go … do your leader thing.”

His lips quirk faintly at my wording, but he doesn’t move right away. “Stay within sight. If you need me?—”

“I know. I’ll signal.” I make a shooing motion with my hands. “Seriously, go. I can manage to stand at a party by myself. Believe me, I’ve been to more rowdy ones than this and survived.”

He hesitates for a second longer, then inclines his head and moves away. He’s immediately engulfed by people eager for his attention. I watch him as he moves. The way the crowd parts for him without him needing to ask, the way people listen when he speaks.

Left alone, I step closer to the wall, and take the opportunity to watch the celebration.

Despite the circumstances, there’s a genuine joy in how these people interact with each other.

They laugh, they dance, they share drinks and conversations with the easy companionship of those who have faced untold hardships together.

It reminds me, unexpectedly, of Christmas parties back home. Not the decorations or traditions, but the feeling—the suspension of everyday worries, the chance to breathe, to remember you’re alive when everything else wants you to despair. The comparison brings a sudden, sharp pang of homesickness.

Chicago feels impossibly far away. Not just in distance, but in possibility.

Will I ever see it again?

“ Vashna tem ,” a voice interrupts my thoughts. I blink and refocus to find a young man offering a cup of something that gleams amber in the light. “ Kavir naresh? ”

Would I like a drink ? I recognize enough to understand his question.

“ Narem .” I accept the cup with a smile.

He bows slightly before moving away, duty fulfilled. I sip cautiously, expecting something bracing or bitter. Instead, the drink is surprisingly pleasant. It’s sweeter than I expected it to be, with hints of something similar to cinnamon.

Warmth spreads through my chest, chasing away the chill that homesickness left behind.

I catch Sacha watching me from across the room, his attention fixed on me despite the circle of people demanding his focus.

When our gazes meet, he doesn’t look away or pretend he wasn’t watching.

Instead, he holds the connection with an intensity that seems to collapse the distance between us, the noise of the celebration falling away until there’s only him, and me .

Then something shifts in the air around me. A subtle change in pressure that makes my ears pop and the lightstones above my head flicker. The cup in my hand warms, the liquid inside beginning to bubble without any external heat source.

My eyes widen in horror as I realize what’s happening—my power responding not to danger but emotion. To him . I set it down hastily on a nearby table, heart hammering against my ribs.

Not again. Not here. Not now. Not surrounded by all these people who already stare at me with undisguised curiosity.

I squeeze my eyes shut, fighting to steady my breathing, and try to suppress whatever this power is that keeps manifesting without my consent.

A hand touches my arm, and my eyes snap open to find Sacha beside me.

“Is everything all right?”

“The cup.” I struggle to keep my voice steady. “It started heating up. I think … I think it was me.”

His eyes flick to the abandoned drink, then back to me. “I felt the change in energy across the room. You’re becoming more attuned to it. More sensitive.”

“I don’t know how to stop it.”

“Not yet. But you will. In time.” The confidence in his voice eases some of the panic clawing at my ribs. “We can leave, if you wish.”

The offer surprises me. It sounds like genuine consideration for my comfort instead of a strategic decision. I glance around, taking in the smiles, the laughter, the way people are clinging to this moment. How their faces light up when they look in Sacha’s direction .

“No.” I shake my head. “I’ll stay. But … would you stay closer? Just in case it happens again.”

His expression changes, eyes softening in a way I’ve never seen before. “As you wish.”

For the rest of the evening, he remains within arm’s reach, our bodies developing an unconscious choreography as we move through the crowd.

He integrates me into conversations where he can, translating when needed.

His presence creates a shield, a buffer against the press of expectation and strangeness.

Protector. Interpreter. A tether to something that feels safer than it should.

Every now and then I catch him watching me with that same inscrutable intensity. And every time, something flutters in my chest, and I have to remind myself of all the reasons to guard myself against becoming attached to anything here.

Yet Chicago feels increasingly distant tonight, a photograph fading around the edges. The determination that has driven me since arriving in Meridian—to find a way home, to return to my life—still burns, but beside it grows something new.

Something dangerous.

A small, traitorous voice whispering that maybe going home isn’t the only thing that matters anymore. That maybe … maybe there are things in this world worth staying for.