Page 180 of Stormvein

“There’s an old servant’s entrance.” He points to a section of wall partly obscured by overgrown vines. “Single guard, looking bored. He’s leaning against the wall, not paying attention to anything around him.”

I strain my eyes trying to see in that direction, but can make out little more than shadows and stone from our position.

Jaret moves to Sacha’s side. “Orders?” His voice is barely audible.

“When the guard change begins, take out the sentries at the western corner.”

Jaret nods, and signals to Mira. She slips into place beside him without a word, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword. They exchange one glance, then melt into the shadows like they’ve done this a hundred times before.

The sun breaks the horizon, casting the first rays of light against the keep’s walls. Movement stirs near the main door—fresh guards replacing the ones who’ve been on duty all night.

This is it. It’s time.

Jaret and Mira glide from shadow to shadow toward their targets. I hold my breath until my lungs burn, heart thudding in my ears as they close the distance. One second, the Authority sentries stand upright. The next, they crumple like puppets with their strings cut, throats opened.

No screams. No struggle. Just alive, then dead.

I should feel relieved. There are two fewer enemies between us and Sereven. Instead, there’s a cold weight settling into my stomach. These men might have had families, friends, lives beyond their uniforms.

Iknewwhat would happen when we left Stonehaven. But watching someone die that quickly, that quietly, makes it real in a way nothing else has. I wonder if this is how Sacha feels all the time. This strange detachment, this necessary cruelty. If this is what being at war truly means.

They drag the bodies into the underbrush. Gone, just like that. As though those men were never there at all.

“Now.” Sacha rises. “Stay close.”

He moves first, breaking from cover without a sound. I follow, heart hammering harder now that we’re moving. Crossing open ground makes every instinct I have scream in warning. I want to run, go back to the safety of the trees, but I don’t. I stay close behind him, eyes on his back, and force myself to put one foot in front of the other.

The old servant’s entrance is half-sealed, the stonework uneven where someone tried to close it but abandoned it partway through. Sacha ducks into the gap without hesitation. The opening is barely wide enough to squeeze through sideways,the rough edge scraping against my shoulder, and catching on the fabric of my tunic as I press inside.

The air shifts the moment I’m through. It turns cooler, stale, heavy with dust and disuse. My nose fills with the musty scent of abandonment, dried grain, and damp stone. Crates line the walls, stacked haphazardly or split open and half-empty. I run my fingers along one crate, leaving trails in the dust. Nothing in this space has moved in years.

Sacha turns to face me. “If Sereven is using this place as a base, he’ll be in the main hall.”

He moves down the hallway without waiting for a response. I follow close behind him, the light fading the deeper we go. At the first turn, Sacha slows. I shift closer, and peer over his shoulder.

Two guards are standing outside a closed door, weapons at their sides, hands resting near the hilts.

He lifts a finger to his lips, while shadows unfurl at his feet and spill forward. They move like liquid, silent and fast, pooling across the stone floor.

The first guard glances down, eyes narrowing. He sees them, but not quickly enough to register what it means.

“Tharen var,” Sacha whispers. The word rolls off his tongue like a prayer … or a curse. It seems to awaken something inside him. His appearance shifts, becomes more predatory, more alien.

The shadows strike before either man understands what’s happening.

The one on the left jerks back like he’s been yanked by an invisible hook. A thick band of shadow coils around his throat, pulling tight until I hear cartilage give way. Another wraps his arm and wrenches it up and back. There’s a sharp, wet snap as the joint tears loose from the socket. His mouth opens in a silent scream, eyes bulging with terror. A third tendril spears into his stomach, punching straight through fabric and flesh with asound like wet cloth tearing. I see it bulge out the other side of his tunic, slick and glistening with blood and other things I don’t want to think about, before it pulls back with a twist that drags part of him with it.

I want to look away, but can’t. This is notmySacha. This is the Vareth’el. This is the terrifying Shadowvein Lord, the leader of the Veinwardens, the Veinblood High Prince of Meridian. And this is what he does.

The shadows lower him to the ground with unnatural care, like he’s fragile glass instead of a broken, bleeding thing. He lands without a sound, twitching once before going still.

“Varakesh.” The second incantation comes softer, almost gentle, which somehow makes it more terrifying.

The second guard manages to draw his sword, but only halfway. A shadow catches his wrist and slams it against the wall hard enough that the bone cracks. He drops the blade. Another coils around his mouth and jaw, crushing down until I hear the crunch of teeth inside his skull. He tries to scream, but it comes out as a thick, strangled gurgle. A final tendril drives up under his breastplate and twists. He arches, then folds forward. Blood pours from his nose, his ears, from the shadow-ripped wound blooming red beneath his ribs. The only sound is the wet patter of it hitting stone.

I stand frozen, too afraid to blink, my mind whispering to me that movement might draw those shadows toward me next. The smell of hot iron and bile is sharp enough to sting the back of my throat, to coat my tongue. My stomach protests violently, acid rising until I have to press my hand to my mouth. Cold sweat breaks out along my spine, and my legs feel unsteady, like they might buckle if I try to move. My power tries to break free, responding to my distress in a way I have to fight to control.

One of the guards tries to move, fingers dragging weakly across the floor like he doesn’t realize he’s already dying. His chest lifts once, then stills.