Page 85 of Stormvein

“Lord Torran,” one whispers, voice thick with emotion when they see me on the stretcher.

The deception is working. Eyes widen at my condition, shock and dismay written across faces. Some look away, unable to bear the sight of what the Authority did to their Vareth’el. Others stare with the haunted expressions of those who have seen too much death to believe in miracles. I note each reaction, sorting them into categories of suspicion.

“We didn’t believe it when the scouts reported …” An older woman steps forward, voice fading as she takes in the extent of my injuries. “The Vareth’el returns.” Her words carry both reverence and grief.

“Get Lisandra,” Varam orders once we’ve passed through the entrance and into the passageway.

Word spreads ahead of us as we move deeper into the mountain stronghold. Veinwardens and families line the passageways, expressions shifting from hope to horror as they see what seems to be my broken form. Some make warding gestures, others bow their heads, already mourning my upcoming death.

I catch snippets of muttered conversations as we pass.

“...worse than we heard …”

“... how did he survive the journey …”

“... doubt he’ll last the night …”

Each reaction confirms the deception is working. I focus on keeping every reaction honest, pained breaths, wincing every time the stretcher shifts, an unfocused gaze that passes over concerned faces without any hint of recognition.

The passageway opens up into the main cavern, lightstones casting long shadows across the floor. Activity stops when weenter, conversations dying mid-sentence. The stretcher moves through the now-silent space.

I focus on holding the illusion. One eye remains closed, returned to the swollen state it had been in before healing through Voidcraft. The other I keep half-lidded, unfocused, as if I’m struggling to stay conscious.

Ellie’s presence beside me adds credibility to the lie. Her genuine concern during the days when I really was dying has put fine lines into her face that she can’t fake, shadows beneath her eyes from sleepless nights, and tension in her shoulders from constant vigilance. Even though there is no longer any concern for my health, her body remembers how it felt to be walking beside death.

Movement at the far side of the cavern draws everyone’s attention away from me briefly. Lisandra comes out of the passageway, parting the crowd as she strides toward us. Behind her, the other Veinwarden leaders follow, trailed by healers carrying supplies, prepared for what they believe will be a desperate fight against my potential death.

I watch through half-lidded eyes as she approaches, letting my awareness dip into the shadows beneath the floor, between feet, under tables, where I can catch details that physical sight might miss.

Whispers reach me through the darkness.

“The prophecy said …”

“If Sereven did this …”

Each reaction tells its own story. Shock, horror, concern on most faces, calculation on some, relief carefully hidden on at least one. I understand the relief. My initial return meant that the time for hidden survival was over, and war was coming. Now, my condition might mean a return to the status quo of staying hidden away. For some, that’s preferable over fighting for more.

Lisandra reaches us first, eyes widening as she takes in my condition. The other Veinwardens stop behind her, their expressions just as horrified when they get a close-up view of the torture I’ve suffered. Telren’s gaze focuses on my chest where the Authority brand appears infected, Mira’s hand moves to the knife at her belt.

“Sacha.” Lisandra’s voice is shocked, formal address forgotten in the face of what she’s seeing. “What have they done to you?”

She turns immediately to the healers. “Get him to his quarters. Now. I want guards posted. No one enters without my direct permission.”

As we move forward, I allow a pained sound to escape, my hand reaching weakly for Ellie. She grasps it immediately, falling into her assigned role without hesitation.

“Don’t leave,” I whisper.

“Never.” The emotion in that single word is completely real.

We continue through the tunnels toward my quarters, the stretcher now surrounded by guards and healers. Lisandra walks ahead, issuing orders with the confidence of someone accustomed to crisis situations. Her reactions seem completely genuine—concern for the Vareth’el returned from torture, determination to save what might be unsalvageable.

I continue watching those around us during the journey, noting who positions themselves closest to the stretcher, who keeps their distance, who talks to whom in low voices. The traitor will be planning now, adjusting to my unexpected return, planning their next move. Their behavior may reveal nothing immediately, but I’m confident a pattern will show itself over time.

When we reach my quarters, the space is already prepared. Lisandra must have sent orders in advance, when she first realized someone was hurt. Fresh bedding, healing supplies, andwarm water all wait inside my bedchamber. The fighters who traveled with me transfer me from stretcher to bed, careful to behave as though any jostling might push me beyond recovery.

“Everyone out,” I rasp weakly as one of the healers moves forward. “Except Ellie and Varam.”

Lisandra frowns. “You need healers?—”