Page 72 of Stormvein

Once I have my stomach under control, we return to the group. Everyone stares at Sacha with that same awe, but now it’s mixed with something else. I’m not sure if it’s fear or anticipation. Some of them have seen what his shadows can do before, the rest have only heard about it.

“All dead?” Varam’s voice reveals nothing of his thoughts.

Sacha nods. “Yes. We continue south.”

No one argues. No one even speaks as we resume our journey. The display of power has silenced whatever doubts anyone might have had about his health.

This isn’t their Shadowvein Lord returned. This is their Vareth’el. And he is terrible and beautiful to behold.

We walk in tense silence, the fighters giving Sacha a wider berth than before. I catch them exchanging glances when they think no one is watching—relief mixed with unease. They wanted their leader back, their symbol of resistance, but now they’re confronted with the reality of what that means. A weapon no one can control.

I find myself watching him too, stealing sidelong glances that feel like trespassing. The way he moves, the way the shadows ripple around him. How his eyes scan our surroundings constantly, missing nothing.

Does he see threats? Or is he simply relearning the world again?

My stomach still churns with the memory of what I witnessed. Twenty men. Dead in moments. Is this what the Authority feared when they imprisoned him? Is this why they trapped him in the tower? Not to contain a rebel, but to cage something beyond their understanding?

And what does that make me? The one who broke those bindings. The one who placed his ring on his finger. The one who somehow turned him into this.

The storm shall rise from the ashes of shadow. The line from the prophecy whispers through my mind. Too literal. Too present.

When Sacha glances back to check on the group, his eyes meet mine, then move away. Whatever connection we shared feels distant now, like something I imagined.

Did he ever truly need me? Or was I simply a tool in his resurrection, a vessel to be used and discarded? Was I fooling myself into believing what we shared at Ashenvale meant something?

The sun is setting by the time we reach the high ground overlooking a hidden valley. Sacha raises his hand, signaling ahalt as we approach the edge. When I reach his side, I see what has caught his attention.

Below us stretches a natural bowl nestled between the mountain peaks. At its center stands what looks like it might have been a castle at some point. The stone structures blend almost seamlessly with the surrounding rock formations, reminding me of Stonehaven, but even from this distance, I can see the signs of abandonment. Sections of walls have crumbled, and vegetation grows unchecked across what might have been pathways.

“Southernrock,” Sacha tells me. “One of the original Veinblood strongholds.”

I search his face for any indication of what this place meant to him, if anything, but find only that same inscrutable mask. Does anything reach him now? Does anything matter to him beyond his single-minded purpose?

We descend into the valley as darkness falls. Up close, the destruction is more evident. Scorch marks on stone walls, arrow shafts still embedded in wooden beams, the unmistakable signs of a battle fought long ago. Sacha leads us to a central building where he locates a hidden trapdoor covered in debris. Beneath lies a network of chambers carved into the mountain itself.

The underground space offers shelter, but little else. Everything of value must have been taken or destroyed years ago.

This is the place we had planned to bring Sacha, and now I wonder if this would have been where he’d have died if … whatever happened hadn’t happened. Would we have laid his body on the floor here? Would I have watched his final breaths?

The alternative reality feels both distant and too close, like a nightmare I’ve only partially awakened from.

Chapter Seventeen

SACHA

The Vein will not carry the unwilling. It will drown them.

The Nature of Veinblood Rebirth

“I’ll take the first watch.”

Varam pauses in his walk around the chamber we’re gathered in. “One of us?—”

“You have all done enough. It’s my turn to watch over you.” My tone ends the argument before it even begins. These people have pushed themselves to the breaking point for me. For what I represent.

I exit the underground chamber before anyone else can speak, climbing stone steps worn smooth by generations of feet. Moonlight bathes the abandoned stronghold in a silvery light that reminds me of Ellie. The comparison catches me off guard. How quickly her presence has become a reference point for me, a measure against which other things are compared.

I walk through what used to be hallways, remembering how Southernrock stood proud when I was last here. The ghosts of torches flicker against stone walls. If I close my eyes, I can hearthe background noise of training, planning,living. Before the Authority reduced it to this burnt-out skeleton.