Page 67 of Stormvein

I reach out and take one hand in mine, then press a finger beneath her chin to tip her head up, forcing her to meet my gaze.

“But Ellie,” I say, my voice soft, meant for her alone despite our audience. “Mel’shira. You dideverything. And what you have given me cannot ever be repaid.”

For a moment, we stand connected—her hand in mine, my finger beneath her chin, our gazes locked—while the camp bustles around us. Her eyes hold questions, fear, and concern, but we don’t have time to address any of it right now. I let my hand drop and turn away, moving between the fighters as they hurry to clear up the camp.

I can feel the weight of their expectations. Their hope, their fear. They no longer see me as just their leader, their Vareth’el rescued from death. They see me as living proof that their beliefs were justified, that their continued fight has purpose, that their sacrifice has meaning.

With me fully healed and no longer needing to be carried by stretcher, we should be able to reach Southernrock before nightfall, moving at a pace that would have been impossible yesterday. Once there, the real work will begin, and decisions will need to be made.

My body may no longer bear the scars of what he did to me, but my mind holds every single moment of suffering in perfect detail. The physical wounds may be erased, but the covenant I made with hatred remains unbroken. It has become something refined now, tempered like steel, no longer the raw molten rage of torture but cooler, sharper, and far more dangerous.

I remember every face that watched the torture sessions. Guards, torturers, and officials come to witness the breaking of the Shadowvein Lord. I’ve memorized the way they moved, the sound of their breathing, how each one averted their eyes when the pain became too much to witness.

I remember each voice that counted the lashes that tore my back apart—clinical, detached, as though they were counting inventory rather than destroying flesh. Each has its own sound,as unique as a fingerprint. Each is now preserved in perfect detail in my memory.

I remember each pair of hands that held me down while they pressed the Authority symbol into my flesh. How they shook with fear just from touching me. Fear that will pale compared to what they’ll feel when I return.

And above all, I remember Sereven’s eyes as he watched it all. The emptiness there. The detachment. The cruelty of a man who once fought for the same cause, but now serves only his own advancement.

I will find them all. I will dismantle the entire corrupt system they serve. I will expose the Authority’s hypocrisy. Their secret use of magic. Their lies built on blood and suffering.

I will reclaim what was stolen. Not only from me, but from every Veinblood they’ve hunted and destroyed.

They wanted to break me.

Instead, they’ve created their destruction. This new body, unmarked by their cruelty but infused with its memory, will become the instrument of their downfall. The silver-shadow power that courses through me now carries a purpose they could never have anticipated.

They will learn what it means to awaken something they have no control over. Not in grand battles or spectacular confrontations, but in the darkness. In empty hallways. In locked bedchambers. In moments when they believe themselves most secure. One death at a time, until the Authority’s foundations collapse beneath the weight of their fear.

And when I stand over Sereven’s body, when his eyes finally register the full magnitude of his betrayal, I’ll whisper the words he said to me when he drove that blade into my back at Thornreave Pass.

“Your power dies with you.”

Because shadow never forgives, and memory never dies.

Chapter Sixteen

ELLIE

Shadow does not fear the light. It fears being named.

Writings of the Flamevein Oracles

I can’t stop staringat him.

What I’m seeing can’t be real. I pinch the inside of my arm, digging my nails in until the pain makes my eyes water.

Nothing changes. It doesn’t change what I’m seeing.

Sacha moves around the camp, talking to fighters, and checking supplies. He moves with a fluid grace that makes yesterday’s broken body seem like a fever dream I conjured. No trace remains of the man who lay dying on the stretcher. The whip marks, the brands, the broken bones. It’s all gone like they were never there.

The small group of fighters respond to him with a reverence that borders on religious. They bow their heads when he passes, avert their eyes when he speaks directly to them, fists pressing against their chests. This isn’t just respect for their leader anymore. This is more. They went to sleep with him at death’s door, a fading symbol of their failing cause, and woke up to him not only healed, but reborn.

“It’s not possible,” I whisper to myself, even though the evidence stands right in front of me, mocking my understanding of how the world should work.

But isn’t it? What about what happened in the cave? The way the restraints snapped. How he started to heal when I lay beside him. Who’s to say that if I had stayed there, he wouldn’t have healed more …

Oh god, did we put him through the agony of being moved for no reason? Should we have stayed in the cave?