Page 177 of Stormvein

“No,” I admit. “It isn’t complete the mission and move on.”

Her expression softens a little.

“But we do have to focus on survival first,” I continue, unable to fully abandon the practicality that’s kept me alive this long. “Anything else is a luxury for when the immediate danger has passed. Feeling comes after fighting, after surviving. That’s always been the way.”

I’ve spent years learning to compartmentalize. Pain locked in one box, purpose in another, rage in a third. All contained until it could be weaponized. It’s how I survived years in a tower, how I kept sane when others would have broken.

But the look she gives me says she doesn’t want boxes. She wants the whole truth, messy and dangerous as it might be.

“I watched you dying. I can’t do that again. I won’t.”

“Then we ensure itdoesn’thappen, Mel’shira.” I cup her cheek. “We stay together. We protect each other. We use everything wehavelearned to counter whatever Sereven attempts.”

She leans into the contact, eyes closing for a second. When they open again, determination has replaced uncertainty.

“Promise me you won’t sacrifice yourself.” She covers my hand with hers, keeping it pressed against her face. “Even if it seems like the only way. Even if you think it’s necessary. Promise me you won’t choose your death over your life.”

I don’t answer immediately, caught between truth and training, between what I’ve always believed and what I’m beginning to feel.

In war, in resistance, sacrifice sometimes becomes a necessity rather than a choice. This has always been the foundation of my existence. It’s my training, my purpose, my burden to carry. It’s not a romantic idea woven of noble speeches and dramatic vows. It’s practical. Cold. Someone is always the cost. People break, people bleed, people die so that others might live.

And I’ve never been the exception.

She doesn’t understand why I can’t make her that promise. She doesn’t understand why the words stick in my throat.

I do. And I wish I didn’t.

As the High Prince, as the Shadowvein Lord, as the Vareth’el, I am the weapon, the shield, the sacrifice when required. That was the truth I accepted a long time ago.

But for the first time, I’m not sure it’s about necessity anymore. I’ve said it so many times—the people before myself, giving my life for the cause—it feels like instinct, like fact carved into the bedrock of who I am. The mantra that kept me sane through isolation and torture. The truth that gave meaning to loss.

But it isn’t instinct that has my throat tight. It isn’t duty that holds the words back. It isn’t even the weight of leadership or the burden of prophecy.

It’sher.

Ellie. Stormvein. My Mel’shira. The woman from another world who shattered my prison and then proceeded to dismantle every wall I’ve built around myself. The woman who healed me when Sereven’s torture had left me broken beyond repair. The woman who sees me not as a weapon or a symbol, but as something worthy of protection.

If the choice came down to one of us, if it was her life or mine hanging in the balance, I already know what I’d do. What I would choose without hesitation or regret.

And it wouldn’t be for my people.

It wouldn’t be for the Veinwardens who have waited faithfully for my return.

It wouldn’t be for anything I was raised to serve.

It would be for her. Only her.

And I don’t know what to do with that revelation. It threatens the foundations of everything I’ve built my existence upon. Because my life was never supposed to matter more than theoutcome. My survival was never the priority, only what I could achieve, what I could represent, what I couldsacrifice.That clarity, that ruthless simplicity, was the only thing that ever made the weight bearable.

Now it’s not simple anymore. Now there’s something I value more than victory.

SomeoneI value more.

“I promise to prioritize survival. For both of us.”

It’s the closest to the truth I can give her. It isn’t the absolute vow she wants, but it’s more than I’ve ever given to anyone.

She isn’t happy with my answer. I can see it in the slight furrowing of her brow, the tightening of her lips. But she doesn’t say anything, and I don’t fill the silence.