Page 7 of Stormvein

“Is she conscious?” Mira crouches beside me, her fingers gently brushing soaked hair from my face.

“Yes.” I force the word out.

Relief crosses her face, quickly replaced by concern. “The power … is it still hurting you?”

“Yes.” I push myself up into a sitting position, arms shaking with the effort, sweat beading my forehead despite the chill. “But it’s different now. Not as explosive.”

It seems to have shifted from an external force fighting for release into something more insidious. It’s still burning through pathways I can almost visualize, but it’s moving slower than it was.

“What’s happening to me?” The question I’ve been asking since I first arrived in this world carries a new meaning now.

Varam kneels beside me, examining me with eyes that don’t quite hide his concern. “Without a Veinblood master to guide you, I can only tell you what I’ve witnessed. Your body is attempting to adapt to the power that’s woken up. I witnessed similar reactions when my sister … when Veinblood children came of age and their gifts manifested ... but never this violent.”

“I’m not from this world, though.” My words slur together as another wave of power crests, leaving me dizzy. “This shouldn’t even be possible.”

No one answers. What could they possibly say? Nothing about my presence here makes sense. Nothing about what’s happening to me follows their rules.

The mist stalker moves to the cave entrance, its form blocking the narrow opening. It turns three times in a tight circle, reminding me of a cat, then settles down with its head facing me, eyes open, head tilting occasionally as though it’s hearing things I can’t.

I stare back at it, still struggling to understand how it got here.

“Did I make that?” The question is directed more at myself than anyone else.

Mira looks at the creature. “When your power erupted on the hill … when the raven merged with you … I’ve never seen anything happen like it before.”

“The prophecy—” Rasha begins, but Varam shakes his head.

“Not now.”

I’m too drained to demand answers. My body feels wrong,unfamiliar. The power continues its chaotic dance through me.

“Try to rest.” Mira arranges her pack beneath my head. Her fingers briefly touch my temple, comforting amid the chaos. “We’ll leave here when darkness provides better cover.”

I close my eyes, and try to focus on my breathing the way Sacha once showed me.

Was it only days ago he’d sat across from me, watching with those dark eyes I once found disturbing while I struggled to control the first flickers of power?

The memory tears through me, grief so acute it physically hurts. I’d barely begun to understand him, to trust him. And now ...

No.I can’t follow that path. Not when Authority patrols could find us at any moment. I can’t fall apart when we’re all still in danger.

Instead, I focus on the competing energies. Following Sacha’s last lessons, I stop fighting the power and try to recognize its patterns. The burning sensation eases slightly when I stop resisting its pull.

Two distinct currents are moving within me. One silver-bright and electric, flowing like water seeking the path of least resistance; the other midnight-dark and mercurial, coiling like smoke, unpredictable and elusive.

Hours pass while I’m in this half-meditative state. Outside the catastrophic storm I somehow conjured has settled into ordinary rain. But I can feel it still, a tether connecting me to each droplet, a resonance I’ve never experienced before.

When exhaustion finally claims me, dreams arrive immediately. Vivid, disorienting visions that feel more real than the waking world.

I’m walking through Chicago, snow crunching beneath my boots on familiar streets. But everything wavers and distorts. Buildings ripple like reflections in disturbed water. The sky cycles between violent storm clouds and blinding silver brilliance. People pass me without seeing, their faces smeared like paintings left in the rain.

“You’re not really here.” The voice behind me is low, resonant.

I spin around, my heart leaping with desperate hope. It’s not Sacha standing there, though. The creature from the cave stands before me, its form more defined in this dreamscape, shadows and silver light intertwined in its fur.

“Where am I, then?” My voice echoes strangely.

“Between worlds. Between selves.” Its mouth doesn’t move, yet I hear the words clearly. “Neither fully who you were nor who you will become. A vessel in transformation.”