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Chapter Thirty-Six

SACHA

“Even silence has a memory. Even silence wants to be heard.”

Reflections on Captivity—Sacha Torran’s Journals

They emerge from positions that shadows don’t reach. Not the opportunistic patrol I initially assumed, but an ambush designed specifically for me. Each soldier placed to funnel movement toward a killing zone.

“Varam.” I keep my voice low, while I count enemies.

Twenty-three.

No.

Twenty-four.

“When I create an opportunity, run northeast. Don’t argue.”

His spine stiffens, jaw setting into a familiar stubborn line I’ve seen countless times across battlefields and council tables. Years of commanding alone hasn’t dulled his loyalty to me, his instinct to remain at my side, regardless of odds. “I won’t leave?—”

“Yes, you will .” Darkness pools around my feet, tendrils of shadow moving outward across the forest floor like living things. “One of us must reach the others.”

My unspoken message is clear. Someone needs to get back to Ellie. Someone must ensure her safety when I cannot. His eyes narrow, understanding warring with friendship and loyalty.

“Why is she so important to you?”

“Because she sees me when others don’t.” A blunt truth. Stripped down. The reality is deeper. She awakens something in me I thought long dead. She sees beyond the masks I've worn for so long.

I don’t say anything more because, across the clearing, a figure emerges from the assembled soldiers.

Unlike the others, he wears traditional crimson robes with gold threading at the cuffs. His silver-streaked black hair catches what little sunlight remains. Even after all this time, I recognize him immediately.

Sereven .

The last twenty-seven years disappear in an instant. His was the last face I saw before the tower sealed me inside.

“Sacha.” His voice carries that same cultured tone I remember, untouched by time or circumstance.

Age has marked his face with deeper lines, but the coldness in his eyes remains the same—filled with the certainty I’ve only seen in men convinced of their own righteousness.

“How disappointing to find that the rumors of your return weren’t merely the superstitious ramblings of peasants.”

My shadows stir in response to him, drawn toward the place where hate has lived longest. Images flash through my mind.

Sereven orchestrating my capture at Thornreave Pass. The moment I understood what he’d done. His impassive face as they dragged me to my knees. The cold silence as they read out names. Veinwardens executed for loyalty. One by one. Forcing me to repeat them back. Until I knew them all by memory.

Every moment of my imprisonment can be traced to this man, and the doctrine of control he chose to serve.

“You seem troubled by my survival.” My voice is deceptively calm while darkness gathers. But inside, the old fire returns. A burn I haven’t felt in years. One that will consume my judgement if I’m not careful. “Particularly given how thoroughly you have been celebrating my death.”

His mouth curves into what could almost be called a smile, if not for the complete absence of warmth.

“A necessary performance to ensure order.” He adjusts the golden cuffs at his wrists.

“Although I must admit, I do enjoy the symbolism of it all.” His gaze moves over the soldiers surrounding us.

“Your execution provided such a unifying moment for our cause. People still mark its anniversary. Today, in fact. I would say it’s a lovely coincidence, but we both know it isn’t. ”

While he speaks, soldiers continue to move into position, tightening their circle around us.

They move quietly—no shouted orders, no wasted motion.

Four of them carry swords etched with pale lines that glow faintly blue whenever my shadows draw near.

The light pushes back against my reach, forming pockets where my influence falters. Not dispelled or broken, but thinned.

Overhead, storm clouds gather. My power responds to the brewing tempest, drawn to the weight in the air .

Sereven’s eyes hold mine, filled with triumph, the satisfaction of a hunter whose trap has closed around its prey.

“Were you truly arrogant enough to believe we wouldn’t be watching for you?

” His voice is still conversational. Instructive.

“That we wouldn’t be prepared? Did you really believe you could come back and everyone would celebrate your return?

” He pauses, tilting his head, and this time when he speaks, his voice carries genuine curiosity beneath the mockery.

“You never did understand the true purpose of order.”

My familiar stirs, restless. A second presence behind my ribs, recognizing the danger I’m in. It wants freedom to manifest. To rise. To strike. To hunt. I hold it back. For now.

Every heartbeat brings the circle tighter.

I meet Varam’s eyes, and make my decision.

“Varam,” I whisper. “Now.”

Shadow explodes outward from where I stand—a sudden eruption of absolute darkness that engulfs the clearing. Not merely an absence of light, but something active. Hungry .

The soldiers cry out in surprise, vision stripped away as night itself swallows the world. Their training hasn’t prepared them for complete sensory deprivation. But I see them. In the dark I’ve created, each body glows bright—heat and movement revealed in perfect detail, while they stumble blind.

Varam hesitates. Just for a second. Loyalty clashing with command.

“Go, Nul’shar.” My softly spoken word pushes him into movement.

He breaks into motion, sprinting toward the gap I’ve created in the northeastern perimeter where fewer soldiers are positioned. His steps are silent against the forest floor, years of training coming to his rescue.

I launch myself in the opposite direction, drawing attention, creating chaos, ensuring his escape route remains viable. Every shout I provoke, every burst of movement I trigger draws attention away from Varam.

One life preserved. One message that will reach Ellie.

Two soldiers recover faster than the others. They intercept me, weapons raised. My shadowblade materializes in my hand, a blade of condensed intent. An extension of will shaped into lethal form. The familiar sensation grounds me amid the chaos.

The first soldier strikes, his blade humming with a disturbingly familiar blue energy that flickers against my shadows.

The contact sends a jolt through me, not merely physical pain, but something deeper, slowing my response as power recoils unexpectedly.

I parry clumsily, and my counterattack comes from muscle memory and desperation, rather than skill.

My blade passes through his defenses before he registers the movement, darkness flowing into the wound rather than blood flowing out. His mouth opens in a silent scream as shadow consumes him from within, his eyes turning black before he collapses.

The second attacks more cautiously, weapon held in a defensive stance, aware now of what he faces.

Behind him, others are regaining their bearings, reorganizing to close the distance I’ve created.

I engage the soldier directly, blade to blade, tendrils of shadows extending outward to feint and confuse, while part of my awareness tracks Varam .

He’s almost clear.

Three soldiers angle to cut him off, but he’s too fast. A few seconds more, and he’ll vanish into the treeline, beyond their reach. Toward the river. Toward her.

Ellie .

Her name surfaces without command. Silver-flecked eyes watching me with that mixture of wariness and wonder.

Hands tracing patterns across my skin, hesitant at first, then growing bolder.

The unexpected warmth that filled me when she smiled.

The way she sees me—not the Vareth’el, not the Shadowvein Lord. Me .

The memory of her body pressed against mine surges forward. Her light meeting my darkness.

Something prophecy hints at, but can’t fully capture.

Something I will guard with my last breath.

The distraction costs me.

A soldier breaks through my guard, his blade grazing my shoulder. Pain rises, sharp and immediate. The wound burns with unnatural intensity. Where the blade struck, my shadows pull away, leaving me exposed. A sickly blue glow spreads through the injury, searing into muscle and bone.

“Capture him!” Sereven’s voice cuts through the chaos, a composed command. “Now! Use the nets!”

Thunder crashes overhead, the storm intensifying, as if responding to the violence playing out beneath it.

Something launches toward me from my right flank. Not a weapon, but a net woven with glittering blue threads, each strand pulsing with wrongness. I twist aside, shadow rising to shield, but the moment it makes contact, the weave unravels my power. The shield disintegrates.

My body goes cold. The disruption creeps inward like a limb gone numb. For a breath, I am back in the tower, the final seal falling into place, my connection to the Vein severed. Sereven’s voice reciting my sentence. My own silent fury, caged and helpless.

No. Not again. Never again.

I reach deeper, past the ordered layers I usually access, into the core I was taught to bind. Power answers, untamed and ancient. It surges through me, resisting the suppression, lending strength to limbs that had begun to falter.

Three soldiers rush me together, coordinating their attack to limit my options. My blade rises to meet theirs, formed from focus sharpened to a killing edge.

“ Tharen var.” The words leave my mouth low and steady. Bind and collapse.

The first soldier drops, his limbs folding inward in an unnatural contortion, bones snapping beneath his armor.

The second falters at the sight, and I drive the blade cleanly through his shoulder as he pivots, severing what balance he had left.

The third hesitates, just long enough for my blade to find his throat.

Their expressions remain grim even as they fall. Men prepared to die, and still fighting.