Page 101 of Stormvein

I stop in the middle of the passageway, muttering an apology when someone knocks into me on their way past.

Unless he wants Varam’s genuine reaction. Unless he’s watching for something in that first unguarded moment.

Does he suspect Varam might already know? That he’s also a traitor?

I press my palm against the rough stone wall, steadying myself as theories cascade through my mind. The Veinwardens have been Varam’s entire life. His loyalty to Sacha borders on devotion. I’ve seen how he looks at him. Like a man who’s found his north star after years of wandering through darkness. Like a soldier who’s finally reunited with his rightful commander.

No … no, that can’t be it. Varam risked his life to rescue Sacha from that convoy. He fought at our side through mountains and ravines to keep him alive. The idea that he could be part of Lisandra’s betrayal makes my stomach twist.

But Sacha trusts no one. Not completely. Especially now, after everything he’s endured. After imprisonment, after torture, after betrayal upon betrayal, trust is as fragile as shattered glass.

And maybe that’s wisdom, not paranoia.

I push off from the wall and surge back into movement, decision made. I’ll do what he’s asked. Whatever plan he’s formed, I won’t risk undermining it. Not when the stakes are this high. Not when Sereven could have informants everywhere.Behind every face, beneath any oath of loyalty, could lie another traitor.

I eventually find Sacha’s second-in-command in the common hall. He stands surrounded by fighters clustered around a map table, their voices a low murmur as they discuss patrol routes. The fighters here move differently than when I first arrived—with sharper purpose, as if Sacha’s return has electrified the very air they breathe.

When Varam sees me, he breaks off mid-sentence. Something in my expression must betray me, because concern immediately covers his face.

“What is it? Is Lord Torran okay?”

“He asked me to come for you.” I keep my voice low, aware of the curious glances from the other fighters. Their eyes follow us, hungry for any news concerning their returned leader. “He wants you to return with me. He says it’s urgent.”

He nods without asking any questions, and falls into step beside me as I turn to leave. His immediate obedience is another reminder of his devotion, and another reason why Sacha’s potential suspicion feels so wrong.

We make our way back to Sacha’s quarters in silence, my mind racing with what we might find when we get there.

Will Lisandra still be alive? Or will we enter to find her body cooling on the floor?

Part of me—a part that grows stronger every day—hopes she’s already dead, and I’m shocked at the coldness of my own thoughts. But it would be cleaner. Simpler. The judgment carried out, the betrayal answered with finality, nothing left but the aftermath to manage. No messy complications. No risky plans. Just justice served swiftly, the way it happens in a world at war.

The other part—the part that still remembers being Ellie Bennet from Chicago, who once called 911 when she foundan injured bird, who volunteered at homeless shelters, who believed in second chances—thatpart recoils at the casual acceptance of execution. That Ellie seems more distant every day, fading like a half-remembered dream asStormveintakes her place.

What am I becoming?

As we get closer to Sacha’s quarters, my pulse quickens. The guard outside, one of the fighters from Glassfall Gap, nods solemnly when we arrive. His expression reveals nothing as he opens the door to allow us inside.

My eyes immediately dart around the room, looking for any hint of what might have happened while I was away, but there are no signs of a struggle. No overturned furniture. No bloodstains on the floor. There’s also no noise, and the stillness feels wrong.

“Where is he?” Varam’s voice is tight with tension.

“I left him in his bedchamber.”

I cross the room, Varam on my heels, and push open the door. What I see stops me in my tracks.

Lisandra is standing against the far wall, alive but pale. It’s impossible to miss the angry marks around her throat. More disturbing are the faint dark lines beneath her skin, following the path of her veins. The floor where Sacha was standing when I left is scorched in a perfect circle, and hairline cracks spider across the wall behind her.

His raven is perched on his shoulder. Its head tilts to assess us as we enter, eyes gleaming with unnatural intelligence.

Sacha stands before her, his stance deceptively relaxed, the fingers of one hand curled around the pommel of her sword, holding it loosely at his side. Yet somehow he appears more dangerous than if he’d been openly threatening.

Relief floods through me at the sight of her alive and breathing, followed immediately by confusion mixed witha strange, unsettling disappointment that I’m ashamed to acknowledge.

Why is she still alive? Why didn’t he kill her?

The Sacha who stood here when I left seemed ready to tear her apart. The evidence of how close he came is written in the damaged stone, in the shadows still visible around him. What stayed her execution?

“What is going on here?” Varam asks.