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Chapter Twenty-Six

SACHA

“Not all rebirth begins with fire. Some begin with listening.”

The Nature of Veinblood Rebirth

Everywhere I turn, people watch me. Some press their fists to hearts; others simply stare with a reverence that is more uncomfortable than flattering.

I became a myth made flesh to these people before I was finally captured at Thornreave Pass.

And now I’m a legend returning from the dead.

A ghost given weight and substance after years of existing only in whispers and faded memories.

The truth lies somewhere between legend and man. Between weapon and leader. Between what they need me to be and what I am.

I scan the hall, my gaze drawn to Ellie more than once across the crowd.

The midnight blue dress suits her. Silver stars scattered across the fabric catch and hold the torchlight, creating the illusion she carries a piece of the night sky.

She’s watching the dancers with veiled curiosity, her shoulders straight, chin lifted.

Lisandra chose her dress well. It marks her as significant without revealing why she matters.

A layer of protection I didn’t anticipate needing.

My attention moves from her to the gathered Veinwardens and their families, and beyond them to the people who are here out of need and safety.

The celebration serves purposes beyond the obvious lifting of morale.

It allows me to reestablish my presence, flesh instead of memory, while evaluating what remains.

Who survived, who adapted, who might yet prove useful.

I catalog promising individuals. A sharp-eyed woman positioned to watch every entrance, hand never straying far from a concealed blade.

A man who blends into the background without effort, mirroring those around him like water taking the shape of its vessel.

A messenger whose bearing betrays former Authority discipline.

Each one is a potential piece on the board I must reconstruct.

Across the hall, Ellie accepts a drink from a young fighter.

Despite the conversations she cannot follow and the histories she does not share, she carries herself with a calm born more of instinct than ease.

Her adaptability continues to impress me.

She navigates this world better than many born to it.

Her eyes find mine, and hold. She doesn’t flinch, or look away.

In a room full of people who revere me as a legend but can’t bear to look directly into my eyes for more than a fleeting moment, she does so without hesitation.

This small defiance, if that’s what it is, creates an unexpected intimacy that I should discourage, but instead find myself savoring.

And then it happens … a subtle shift in the air.

The lightstones flicker, responding to a burst of energy I feel as much as sense. Ellie breaks our connection first, setting down the cup with a wild-eyed glance, and retreating a step from the table.

I murmur an excuse to those nearest to me, and cross the room. People part instinctively, leaving my path clear. When I reach her, the silver flecks in her eyes are unmistakably brighter. A new occurrence since our arrival at Stonehaven.

“Is everything all right?” I keep my voice low, but concern seeps through despite my efforts not to allow it. This involuntary slip in my usual detachment is becoming an alarming pattern where she's concerned.

“The cup. It started heating up.” She glances around, checking to see if anyone is watching. “I think … I think it was me.”

“I felt the change in energy across the room. You’re becoming more attuned to it. More sensitive.” Whatever power is flowing through her, it’s growing stronger not weaker.

“I don’t know how to stop it.” Fear edges her words, but beneath it lies something else—frustration, determination, a refusal to be overwhelmed. It mirrors something I recognize in myself.

“Not yet. But you will.” I allow certainty to color my tone, a calculated reassurance. “We can leave, if you wish.” The offer is genuine. An unusual concession to her comfort rather than strategic necessity.

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

Her request surprises me. Not just the words, but the vulnerability behind them.

“As you wish.” The words emerge more gently than intended.

The music changes, strings and percussion blending into a traditional Veinwarden melody that once accompanied fighters into battle. Recognition stirs dormant memories of blood and shadow, and fierce determination borne through silence and loss.

The dancers at the heart of the room move through forms that blend combat and celebration, their bodies telling a story of defiance, of knowledge preserved through years of forbidden practice.

“What are they doing?”

"Training disguised as dance." I watch recognition dawn on her face. "When the Authority outlawed combat practice outside of their soldiers, our people adapted. Each movement contains a strike, a parry, a killing blow, disguised beneath grace and tradition."

“Clever.” There's genuine admiration in her voice. “Hiding resistance in plain sight.”

She shifts beside me, lifting a hand to cover a yawn that she fails to suppress. The silver light flickers briefly beneath her skin, almost imperceptible, but my senses are attuned to her now in ways I hadn't intended.

“Why don't we say our goodbyes?”

Relief crosses her face before she nods. We weave through the room, in a dance of our own as we stop to acknowledge murmurs of respect, bows, and hands pressed to hearts. The weight of their expectations follows us all the way to the door.

“Thank you.” She breaks the silence as we make our way through the torch-lit passages to my quarters. “For staying with me, I mean. When that thing happened with the cup …” Her voice trails off, embarrassment coloring her words.

“Your abilities are getting stronger.” I focus on facts rather than the unusual protectiveness I felt. “Each manifestation follows a pattern I'm beginning to recognize. Emotional intensity triggers the power.”

“Is that good or bad?” Worry threads through her question.

“That depends on whether you can learn to control it.” And whether that control serves my objectives or complicates them more.

We reach my quarters, and I halt at the threshold, muscles locking. My lungs constrict as the doorway narrows in my vision, twenty-seven years of imprisonment collapsing around me in an instant.

What if I step through and can’t leave again?

What if this freedom is merely another illusion, a crueler prison disguised as sanctuary?

Sweat breaks cold on my spine. I force my breathing to remain even, counting heartbeats until the panic recedes.

This isn’t the first time it’s happened since leaving the tower, but it’s definitely the strongest. I mask the moment by stepping back, and gesturing for her to enter first, a courtesy that hides necessity.

Lightstones embedded in the walls cast a warm amber glow across the main room, softening the severity of the mountain fortress architecture. I follow her inside, and anchor myself in the reality that this door, unlike the tower’s, remains completely within my control.

Ellie remains oblivious, crossing the room that leads to her chamber, then turns to face me. The silver stars on her dress shimmer with the movement.

"You never really answered my question earlier. About what you told them about me." Her directness is both refreshing and inconvenient .

“I told them what they needed to know.” The partial truth serves its purpose, giving me flexibility while I settle back into my position, but her habit of asking direct questions makes concealment increasingly difficult.

“That you helped free me, your world differs from ours, and you possess unusual abilities.”

“But not everything you suspect.” Her perception cuts through pretense with unsettling accuracy.

“No. Not everything.” I concede this point easily enough.

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t know everything.” Better to admit limited knowledge than create false expectations that might later undermine trust I may need. “Theories without evidence will cause more problems than they will solve. Especially now, when hope and fear balance on a knife's edge.”

“Like prophecies.” She catches the implication immediately.

I was waiting for that.

“Yes, like prophecies, and half-formed ideas about your abilities that might limit what is truly possible.” I choose my words with care. “The Veinwardens have waited decades for salvation. I won't encourage them to place that burden on your shoulders without certainty.”

She falls silent, eyes tracking me as I move across the room to the carved stone shelf where a decanter waits. The familiar ritual of pouring a drink grounds me in the present, in the physical world of cause and effect that I understand.

“Would you like one?” I hold up the bottle of Mountain Spirit.

She shakes her head. “No, thank you. I …” Her tongue licks across her lips. “Will you show me?”

I pause, glass halfway to my lips, a momentary stillness that betrays my surprise. “Show you what?”

“Your power. The shadow.” Her eyes meet mine. “I’ve seen some. The raven, the way you created a shelter in the desert, the way you …” She licks her lips. “What you did in the mountains. But I want to understand what it is. Not just what it can do, but what it means to you.”

The request catches me off-guard. Most fear what flows through my veins, even those who fight by my side. Yet she asks to witness it, as though understanding my nature is essential to understanding me.