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Chapter Twenty-Eight

SACHA

“Submission is the first step toward peace. Peace is the first condition for loyalty.”

Authority Codex

We’ve been at Stonehaven for seven days.

Seven days of training, planning, and gathering intelligence.

Seven days of pretending that nothing has changed when everything has.

For almost three decades, I’ve been nothing more than a name whispered in dark corners, a story meant to inspire those who refused to bow down. A shadow of my former self, reduced to legend while I rotted away.

Twenty-seven years in a tower, presumed dead by everyone who knew me, and in that time the world has moved on without me. Children born who now stand as adults before me, searching my face for the hero from whispered tales told around hidden fires.

While the ones who were there back then, during the worst of it … they look at me like nothing has changed. Like I’m the same man I was before.

Shadowverin … The Shadowvein Lord. The Vareth’el .

So many titles. And each one of them holds expectation, duty, and debt.

Telvareth Sacha Torran. Returned to lead them to victory.

I let them believe it.

My fingers curl at my side, shadows coiling between them. I should feel something about that. Maybe I do. But right now I don’t have the time to dissect the emptiness where satisfaction should be.

Instead, I’ve spent the days reassembling the fractured remnants of my army, relearning the faces that were once familiar—lined now with age and hardship, while mine remains the same—and the ones that never expected to stand before me.

The Authority is stronger now than when I left, its reach deeper, its grip more absolute. But the Veinwardens haven’t crumbled. They’ve splintered. Adapted. Survived. Shifted into something else.

Something that has forgotten who I was, but not what .

That’s the part I don’t know what to do with.

The weight of their stares follow me through Stonehaven’s passageways. Hope and suspicion in equal measure. They fall into step when I command, and listen when I give direction, as if nothing has changed. As if leadership is something that fits without effort.

It doesn’t. It never did. The mantle sits heavier now, like armor that no longer fits, pressing raw against my skin.

But I take it anyway, because someone must.

And because I don’t know how to be anything else.

The Authority might have taken twenty-seven years from me, but it didn’t take that.

And then there’s Ellie .

My familiar stirs at the mere thought of her name. I’ve pushed her, guided her, done everything within my ability to train her, but she still struggles.

The magic resists her, or she resists it.

The silver light continues to answer to her emotions, but not her will. Her power flares in bursts when they run high, which is often, but recedes when she tries to summon it deliberately.

This morning, she managed to hold a sphere of light in her palm for nearly ten seconds before it dissipated. Progress, but not enough.

The training sessions drain her in ways I remember too well. Dark circles shadow her eyes, and her hands shake after each attempt, though she tries to hide it, curling her fingers into fists when she thinks I’m not looking. And I look far more than I should.

She pushes herself too hard, determined to master something in days that took others years to control. Determined to prove herself useful in a world that isn't hers.

And then there’s what happened between us.

I haven’t spoken of it. She hasn’t mentioned it. But the bond that formed that night hasn’t disappeared, not completely. My shadows still whisper of it when she is near, reaching toward her with a need that’s been woven into my blood.

A connection I did not ask for and cannot sever.

And the memory …

The heat of her palm on my jaw, the slight tremor in her fingers as they tangled in my hair.

The scent of her, entirely foreign to this world yet increasingly familiar to me.

The texture of her skin, warm and alive against mine, shocking my senses after so long without touch.

The absolute collapse of barriers I’ve spent a lifetime building.

The moment where nothing existed except the pull, stronger than reason, stronger than restraint.

The kiss was more than a kiss. It was something impossible. It shouldn’t have happened.

But it did.

Shadows curl around my fingers as my concentration slips, tracing the memory of her touch across my skin. I force them back with a silent command, jaw tight. Such lapses are dangerous. Worse than dangerous. They are a betrayal of the control that’s kept me alive.

I exhale slowly, drawing the scattered shadows back into stillness as I force my focus to the maps spread across the table.

The defenses of Ashenvale—the twenty-foot walls of white stone, the reinforced gates with their constant patrols, the Authority’s primary stronghold built atop what was once mine.

And beneath the Lirien Spire, in the vaults, my ring awaits—the final piece of my power calling to me.

But not for much longer. Because no matter what else has changed—the world, the people, myself—my duty hasn’t. And I can’t afford to forget that.

A knock at the door interrupts my thoughts.

Three sharp raps—Varam’s signature. Relief cuts through the tension in my chest before I can suppress it.

I look up as he enters, with Mira close behind him.

They both wear the grime of travel, dust from the mountain paths still clinging to their clothing.

Their faces bear the tightness that comes from days of vigilance, the watchful look of prey who have learned to move through predator territory .

They must have come here instead of pausing to rest. Of course they did. Varam would know better than anyone what little patience I have left for waiting … and how little need I have for ceremony.

I push the maps aside, and straighten as he approaches.

“Report.”

“The passes are clear for travel,” Varam says, setting a bundle down on the table. “But Authority patrols have expanded their routes and doubled identity checks.”

“They’ve also started with preparations for the yearly Day of Order,” Mira adds.

She drops into a chair without waiting for permission, a small reminder of how things have changed in my absence.

“Reports are that the main thoroughfares in Ashenvale are being decorated already. Red and white banners. Authority symbols everywhere.”

I don’t need to ask what that means. I’ve already been informed how they celebrate my supposed death.

Every year, the Authority marks the day with fire and ritual.

A wooden effigy, shaped in the vague image of a man people barely remember, is dragged through the streets before being burned in the central plaza.

They will watch the flames rise, calling it a symbol of their supposed triumph, and a warning to any who might think of resisting them.

And Sereven—the man who orchestrated my execution, the one who made certain the world believed I was dead—he’ll be there to oversee it.

His face swims in my memory. The coldness in his eyes as he stripped my power, piece by piece. The satisfaction as he led me to the tower, and watched as I was sealed inside. And those final words … the last voice I heard until Ellie shattered my prison.

“May you live forever in the knowledge that everything you stand for will crumble to dust without you.”

My familiar stirs at the memory, the raven’s form solidifying briefly beside me, its wings unfurling in a display of shared rage before dissolving back into wisps of darkness when I clench my fist.

Control. Always control. Rage is a luxury I can’t afford. The tower may be gone, but its lessons remain.

I shove the memories back into their cage and force myself back to the present. The celebration makes the timing of my plan all the more important. While they gather to celebrate their victory, drinking to my destruction, I will walk into the Spire, and reclaim what is mine.

“The uniforms are ready. It took longer than we thought, which is why we were late arriving.” Varam unwraps the bundle he brought.

The fabric is worn but intact. Authority service garments, the standard attire of lower-level personnel.

Unremarkable. Designed to be invisible. The dark gray material bears the Authority sigil at the collar.

The same symbol they branded into the skin of those they executed for the crime of having power.

“Fresh enough to be believable, worn enough not to look new. They’ll get us through the checkpoints without close scrutiny.”

I run my fingers over the fabric, checking the insignias, the stitch patterns, the weight. Solid work. Trustworthy.

Like Varam himself .

"The timing must be exact." I trace our intended route on the map between us. "We enter during the first ceremonial address, when all attention is drawn to the plaza. The vault should be minimally guarded while senior officers attend the celebration."

Mira nods. “You’re certain your ring is there? After all this time? They could have destroyed it.”

“If Sereven has risen to the ranks of High Commander, he will have ensured its survival.” My voice remains steady, though the shadows in the room darken slightly. “The Authority preserves trophies from their victories. Particularly those that they feel have symbolic value.”

What I do not add is that I can feel it. Distant. Muted. But still there. It waits in the darkness, part of my power preserved in physical form. Calling to me.

“What about the girl? Do you still intend to bring her?” Varam’s tone is carefully neutral, but the tension in his shoulders betrays his concern.

“Yes.”

“Does she know?” Mira asks.

“Not yet. I’ll speak to her when she returns from language lessons with Tisera.”

Mira and Varam exchange a glance, the kind of silent communication that comes from years of survival together. They have built new rhythms, patterns that no longer include me.