Page 16 of Stormvein

ELLIE

The storm does not announce itself. It is the silence before that teaches fear.

Sayings of the Earthvein Sages

I slamthe door to Sacha’s quarters, my hands shaking with anger and frustration, the council meeting on constant repeat in my mind. Their certainty that Sacha is dead, their dismissal of my insistence that he might still be alive. None of them will even consider the possibility. Not Lisandra. Not the other Veinwardens. Not even Varam and Mira.

The light that seems to be a permanent part of me now fills the space around me, and I watch as it flickers across my skin.

A low sound escapes my throat. Grief and rage tangling together into something I barely recognize. My legs wobble, then give way, and I slide down the door until I’m sitting on the cold floor, the chill seeping through my clothes like the emptiness settling into my chest.

A knock at the door interrupts my spiraling thoughts, the vibration traveling through my back.

“Go away.” My voice is rough with exhaustion.

The door pushes against me anyway, and I’m forced to move or be shoved across the floor. Mira stands on the threshold, a small bundle tucked under her arm. Her expression is neutral, but there is tension in her jaw, and I can’t miss the careful way she looks at me without meeting my eyes.

“You need to wash,” she says, stepping inside.

I open my mouth to argue, to tell her I need to be left alone, but she’s already moving past me. Four men follow behind her, carrying a copper tub and buckets of steaming water. They avoid looking in my direction, but I catch their sideways glances at the visible light running through my veins.

“I don’t need?—”

“Yes, you do.” She doesn’t even look up from directing the men, her tone allowing no argument. “You smell, Ellie. You’ve been in those clothes for days. You haven’t eaten anything other than journey bread and dried meat. You won’t be of any use to yourself or anyone else if you push yourself until you break.”

I have no words to deny her argument. It’s been days of running, hiding, and grief. Days of blood, dirt, and tears.

The men continue their work in silence, filling the tub with water. Steam rises in the cool air, softening the edges of the room. When they finish, they leave without a word. Mira stands beside the tub, arms crossed.

“Do you need help?”

“No.” I push myself to my feet, muscles screaming in protest after days of abuse.

She turns away, giving me privacy while I strip out of my clothes. The fabric sticks to my skin in places, grime and sweat making it stiff and smelly. When I lower myself into the water, the heat makes me gasp.

It’s too hot and not hot enough all at once. My skin stings where scratches and bruises haven’t had time to fade. I sinklower, until only my face remains above the surface, and close my eyes.

I can hear Mira moving around the room. There’s a clink as she sets something on the table, and then the scent of food reaches me. Neither of us speaks. The silence isn’t comfortable, but it isn’t hostile either. It’s the quiet of two people who have lost something precious and don’t know what words could bridge that gap.

Forcing myself to sit up, I scrub away days of travel and terror, and when I finally step out, my skin is pink from heat and friction.

Mira hands me a cloth to dry, and I wrap it around myself. She’s seen me at my weakest already—when I collapsed after the storm, broken by grief—but this feels different somehow.

“You should eat.” She gestures to the food, soup, and bread laid out on the table.

I nod, still not trusting my voice, and go into my room to find clean clothes. Once I’m dressed, I return to the main chamber and sit at the table. I haven’t felt hungry in days, but my body knows what it needs. Even so, I still have to force myself to take that first bite. The second it fills my mouth, hunger wakes up, and I reach for more.

Mira sits across from me, her back straight, eyes on the maps spread across the table between us. Her fingers brush one edge, tracing a route I can’t see from where I am.

“You learned a version of him that was forced into being by the tower.” She breaks the silence, lifting her head to meet my gaze. “Always three steps ahead, weighing every word like it might be a weapon or a shield. But that wasn’t the Vareth’elweknew before Thornreave.”

“It wasn’t?”

She shakes her head, a small smile touching her lips. For a moment, she looks younger, caught in memory. “You wouldn’teven guess it from your interactions, but he used to be impossible to keep still. Full of restless energy. Always quick to laugh. Even quicker to act. If he thought a move would work, he made it. Without warning or discussion. The rest of us just tried to keep up. There were so many arguments over strategy and plans.” Her fingers form patterns on the wooden table, almost like she’s drawing maps of old battles.

I try to imagine the version of Sacha she’s describing—impulsive, someone who laughed, who showed emotion openly. He sounds so different from the man I met. The man I know considers every word before speaking, and only reveals himself in measured doses. He’s a man whose rare smiles I had worked to earn.

“What was he like? Before the tower?” I lean forward, hungry for this knowledge, for pieces of him I never got to see.