Page 60 of Stormvein

Sacha studies it with his one good eye, assessing what lies ahead. I can almost see the tactical part of his mind working, calculating risks against necessity, measuring his own endurance against the journey’s demands.

More clothing is sacrificed, torn into strips to create a harness system. I watch them work with growing dread. No amount of planning is going to make this journey anything but torture for Sacha.

“Let’s get him moved before dark. I want to cover some ground tonight,” Varam says once everything is ready.

My heart hammers against my ribs, and anxiety crawls up my spine as four fighters position themselves around Sacha. I move back, giving them space, while staying close to … to do what? Intervene? Stop them from hurting him? Be a shield he doesn’t need? I don’t know. I just know I can’t step away.

“On my count,” Varam instructs. “Careful with his left side.”

I watch Sacha’s face as they prepare to lift him. His expression is fixed into blankness, but I know there’s more beneath it. A fear he won’t acknowledge. Not of pain, which he’s endured beyond imagination, but of failing, of dying before completing the purpose that drives him.

“One … two … three.”

They lift him smoothly. Despite their care, his entire body goes rigid, jaw clenching tight. No sound escapes him, but the cost of that silence is written in the sudden sheen of sweat on his forehead, in the way his hand clutches at the rough blanket covering him. The tendons in his neck stand out like a cord pulled too tight.

Getting Sacha out of the cave is worse than it was getting him in. At least the first time he was unconscious. By the time we have him outside, he’s white, shaking, with sweat beading his brow.

His body stays locked, every muscle braced like he’s holding the world together by force of will as they transfer him to the stretcher. My fingers curl, nails biting into my palms, the pain a small echo of what he must be feeling.

When they set him down, his eye closes, face drained of color. For one terrible moment, I think we’ve killed him with this small movement.

Then his chest rises, falls, rises again. Breathing, yes, but each inhale is shallow and controlled.

“Now for the bindings,” Varam says softly.

They secure Sacha to the stretcher with careful hands, creating a system that will keep him stable without aggravating the still-healing injuries. Every touch brings a flicker of tension to his face, quickly suppressed. A muscle ticks in his jaw, his fingers curl into the blankets. I watch him retreat further into himself, drawing on reserves that should have been emptied days ago.

“Are you ready?” Mira asks as she secures the final strap.

“Yes.” The word is clipped, forced out from between clenched teeth.

No one calls him out on this obvious lie. What would be the point? There’s no comfortable way to transport a half-dead man, no position that won’t aggravate wounds meant to kill him. No preparation is adequate for what lies ahead.

“Get ready to leave. Final checks on weapons and supplies.”

While everyone else disperses to complete their tasks, I kneel beside Sacha. “This is going to be hell.”

His eye opens, finding mine with effort. Resignation passes over his face.

“Talk to me. During journey.”

“About what?”

“Anything. Distraction.”

It takes a second for the request to register, and when it does, the vulnerability beneath the words catches me off guard. This is the man who has endured torture without breaking. The man who spent twenty-seven years isolated in a tower without losing his mind. Now he’s asking for distraction from pain he can’tescape. He’s allowing me to see his need, something I suspect he’s shown to very few people.

“I can do that.” My hand finds his before I can think better of it.

His skin is too cool again. It worries me that moving him has disrupted the healing process that began when the restraints shattered. But his fingers squeeze mine lightly, while his eye drifts closed again.

Night has fallen by the time we’re finally ready to leave. Four fighters take positions around the stretcher—Varam and three others taking the first session. The rest form a protective circle around us, weapons ready, eyes scanning the darkness for threats.

The stretcher rises as the carriers lift it in unison. Even this careful movement draws a sharp inhale from Sacha.

“South.” Varam points to a narrow trail. “The rest of you go single file where necessary. Stay quiet.”

Our journey begins with frustrating slowness. The fighters carrying the stretcher move with impressive coordination, adjusting their grip and pace to keep Sacha as stable as possible.