Page 113 of Stormvein

His reaction, when it comes, is unexpected. He lets out a low, breathless laugh, part disbelief, part relief, then steps forward.

“You shouldn’t be standing.”

“And yet I am.”

Rolan presses his fist over his heart, eyes bright. “The others need to know.”

“They will. One at a time.”

I watch from my corner, trying not to attract attention, but I can feel the shift in the air. The way the room bends around Sacha’s presence. The way even someone like Rolan—skeptical, steady Rolan—looks at him now, like something sacred just took shape in front of him.

And that’s only the beginning.

Throughout the morning, other Veinwarden leaders arrive one by one, each summoned privately. I recognize them all. Some have been kind to me, others kept their distance and were formal. All of them accepted me as part of Stonehaven. Each enters with the same solemn demeanor, stealing themselves for what they believe is a deathwatch. Instead, they find Sacha on his feet, waiting for them.

Their reactions unfold like a study in human disbelief. Some freeze in the doorway as Rolan did, bodies locked in resistance against what their eyes are reporting to their brains. Others blink rapidly, as though trying to clear a vision they can’t possibly be seeing. Others approach cautiously, hands half-raised as though they’re expecting it to pass through an illusion. More than one looks at me, searching my face for confirmation or explanation, their gazes lingering on the silver in my hair and eyes before darting away.

The progression of emotions play across their faces in waves. Initial shock gives way to disbelief, then turns into joy. A fierce, barely constrained joy that often becomes laughter that sounds close to crying. None of them flinch in ways that suggest guilt. There are no downcast eyes. No evasive words. If Lisandra had help, none of them are betraying their involvement with their behavior.

But thereissomething else beneath those reactions. Something that makes me just as uneasy as potential betrayal. Fear. Or awe. Sometimes both tangled together. It’s the look of people witnessing something that shatters their understanding of what’s possible, and in that fracturing, something new awakens. Something that resembles worship.

More than once, I hear lines of the prophecy whispered, and each time, Sacha’s jaw tightens. I need to ask him about it. There’s more to it than the lines I’ve heard. There has to be.

Telren is the first to do more than show shock followed by happiness and awe. He steps forward slowly, and I can almost see his mind working as his gaze scans Sacha’s face, his hands, his skin.

“This level of tissue regeneration at such speed,” he murmurs, circling Sacha like a scholar with a puzzle. “It defies every known principle. There should be scarring. Weakness.Something.”

“The process was … unconventional.” Sacha doesn’t even look in my direction.

Others don’t ask any questions at all.

A grizzled fighter with burn scars along his jaw lowers his head, lips moving in silent thanks. An older woman crosses her hands over her heart, and whispers his name like it’s a sacred prayer.

Another, gray-haired and shaking, drops to one knee and begins whispering in a language I don’t recognize. Sacha moves before she can finish, crossing the space between them and taking her hands in his.

“I’m not a god or a prophet.” His voice is firm as he draws her to her feet. “I’m a fighter. Like you. Like all of us. Save your worship for someone who deserves it. I need your strength and courage, not your devotion.”

The woman nods, visibly shaken, but steadied by his response. And Sacha … he watches her, a look in his eyes that suggests he’s bracing himself for how often this might happen. As if this moment, the moment someone still sees the man and not the myth, matters more than anything else.

He never once mentions me. Not when they ask how it happened. Not when Telren presses for details. Not when another whispers something about the Veinblood prophecy. Every single time, he deflects, answering with just enough to satisfy. Even though it’s clear to me that he hates the attention, he still kept the focus off me and the part I played in his healing.

And I’m grateful, because whatever I’m becoming in their eyes, I’m not ready to face it … not yet.

I watch the procession from my corner, noting how their eyes follow Sachas’ movements with a new intensity. The man they respected before has become a legend made flesh, a prophecy fulfilled. And with each Veinwarden elder who leaves shaken, I sense a shift in Stonehaven’s very foundations. Stories will spread despite sworn secrecy. They will go back to their husbands and wives, and share what they’ve seen. They will tell their children, who will tell others. Whispers will become rumors, rumors will become belief.

“No signs of additional betrayal.” The satisfaction in his voice is quiet but real. Controlled like everything else about him.

“They all seemed genuinely shocked. Though I’m not sure how I feel about the ones who kept trying to worship you.”

“It’s a natural response.” His tone is surprisingly gentle. “To what they perceive as a miracle.”

“Because no one should have survived what you did.”

He doesn’t deny it. “People need something to believe in during war. Something beyond daily survival.”

“But you shut it down pretty quickly with that woman.”

“Worship creates distance. And that’s the last thing we need right now between fighters who have to trust each other with their lives.”