Page 16 of Stormvein (The Veinbound Trilogy #2)

Chapter Eight

SACHA

The Authority does not punish action. It punishes deviation.

Authority Codes

The cage door slams shut, and the wagon lurches into motion, throwing me against the bars. My back, raw from the whip, hits the metal. Wounds reopen, blood dripping down my spine. The symbol burned into my cheek catches on a spike, sending fresh agony through my body.

Guards take position around the wagon, their faces shuttered. They keep their distance, watching with the wariness of men transporting a dangerous beast.

If only they knew how little threat I pose now. Broken, beaten, power suppressed by both the crystal’s damage and these strange restraints.

The convoy leaves Ashenvale, passing along the outer wall of the city.

People stop to watch. Their faces show curiosity, fear.

Braver ones spit and shout abuse, satisfied by the vision of a notorious criminal brought to justice.

They’re noticeably younger than the ones who stay silent.

Born after my initial capture, born under Authority rule.

As the wagon begins to move, each jostle, each bump, each stone beneath the wheels creates a symphony of suffering.

My weight shifts constantly, pressing wounds against metal, spikes against burns, bars against bruises.

The cage’s design is a perfect moving torture chamber, too small to find comfort, forcing weight onto injuries that beg for relief.

Every angle, every position forces contact with either the bars or the spikes.

They dig into the whip wounds on my back, each movement ripping them open again.

When I lie sideways, the bars press against broken ribs, making each breath feel like drowning.

The branded Authority symbols on my chest and cheek come into contact with metal warm from the sun, sending lightning bolts of pain through nerve endings already screaming.

My legs, forced to bend at unnatural angles in the small space, cramp and spasm.

There is nowhere to extend them fully, and the continuous muscle tension builds into agony that rivals the wounds themselves.

The sun beats down, turning the cage into an oven. Sweat mingles with blood, stinging wounds and adding thirst to the litany of torments. My tongue swells, my lips crack. The taste of copper fills my mouth from internal bleeding, from bitten tongue, from loosened teeth.

Time passes in a fever haze. The wound in my side festers, infection spreading through my blood. Heat burns through me that has nothing to do with the sun. The brands on my chest and cheek weep yellow pus.

Blackness edges my vision. Sweet oblivion beckons. Almost there …

Cold water shocks me back to consciousness. A guard stands over the cage, empty bucket in hand. His face shows no satisfaction or cruelty. He’s just a man, following orders.

He turns to his companion. “Two-hour shifts. Keep him awake.”

The other guard nods, taking position beside the wagon. They’ve been well-trained for this task.

Night falls. The convoy makes camp alongside the road. Torches are lit, forming a perimeter around the wagons. Guards set watches, and establish routines. I remain in the cage, exposed to the night air that grows increasingly colder as the sun sets.

No relief comes with darkness. The guards take shifts, ensuring I remain awake through the night. When my eye closes for too long, they prod broken ribs through the bars with wooden sticks, or shake the cage, or throw more water.

“Why do we have to keep him awake?” A younger guard is unable to hide his discomfort. “He’s not going anywhere.”

“Exhaustion. Sleep deprivation breaks the mind faster than pain breaks the body. High Commander’s orders,” the older one explains.

Neither of them sound comfortable with their orders.

But he’s right. As night wears on, the inability to sleep becomes its own special torture.

Reality blurs at the edges. Hallucinations creep in.

Shadows move where they shouldn’t. Voices whisper from empty air.

The cage seems to shrink further, the bars pressing closer.

My thoughts scatter, coherence slipping away.

I try to focus on hatred. For Sereven, for the Authority, for what they have done to me and countless others. Anger has always been a tether, a way to maintain focus when all else fails. But even that begins to slip, replaced by something more elemental.

Simple animal suffering, and the desperate need for respite.

Dawn breaks after an eternity of sleepless torment. The convoy stirs to life around me. Guards change shifts, new faces appear at my cage. One offers water. Not thrown this time, but held in a flask with a spout pushed between the bars.

“Drink.” Pity coats his voice.

I manage a few swallows, the liquid painful against my throat, but desperately needed. Yet even this small mercy serves a larger cruelty, ensuring I survive to face what awaits me at Blackvault.

The journey resumes. Mountains loom larger around us, the road growing steeper, rougher. Each jolt finds a new nerve. Pain moves with the wagon, redistributing itself across broken bones and open wounds, a reminder that I’m still alive when death would be mercy.

We approach the first settlement by high sun. Thornbend is a farming village clustered around a stone bridge crossing a narrow stream. Word of the convoy’s approach has been sent ahead of us, and villagers line the road, directed there by Authority soldiers.

Younger faces show curiosity, uncertainty.

They’ve no doubt heard stories of the terrible Shadowvein Lord, the enemy of order.

But the older villagers, those who lived through the early days of the purges, their expressions are blank masks.

Occasionally, I see recognition flicker across faces before being hastily suppressed.

They remember. They remember when I rode through this village twenty-eight years ago, warning them of Authority patrols. When my shadows helped hide their food stores from seizure. When Veinbloods and ordinary folk worked side by side to defend what mattered.

An elderly woman’s hand flies to her mouth, then drops quickly when a guard glances her way. An old farmer removes his hat in a gesture of respect for the dead. Their faces are stone, but their eyes tell a different story.

Horror. Grief. Carefully hidden rage.

“Look upon the fate of those who defy the Authority,” one of the guards announces to the crowd, his voice carrying across everyone watching.

But I see the truth in the older faces. They’re not looking at an enemy brought to justice. They’re watching the destruction of someone who once stood between them and the Authority’s hatred.

A young mother pulls her child closer, whispering urgently in his ear, probably warnings to stay quiet, to show no reaction. The boy’s eyes are wide with confusion, too young to understand the performance required for survival.

The convoy captain signals for faster movement, sensing the dangerous undercurrent in this crowd’s silence. These people remember too much. Feel too much. Their compliance is surface-deep, kept under control only by fear.

The second settlement is larger. Millhaven, built around a cluster of grain mills powered by a rushing river. Here, the Authority has clearly prepared for our arrival. Officials have gathered the expected crowd, coaching them in the proper responses.

“Death to the enemies of order!” They chant the words, but they sound forced. Most of the voices belong to younger people. Those who have only known Authority rule, who have been raised on stories of Veinblood terror.

But behind the orchestrated display, I see the real audience.

Faces in upper windows, quickly withdrawn when guards look up.

An old miller who stops his work to stare, his expression neutral, but his grip tight on his tools.

A grandmother who pulls her grandson away from the front of the crowd, shielding him from seeing what they’ve done.

A few stones are thrown, but they fall short. The guards don’t seem to notice that most come from the same handful of vocal supporters, thrown again and again to keep the illusion of anger.

“Justice is served!” one of the Authority officials shouts, but his voice breaks slightly on the words. Even some of the guards look uncomfortable, their eyes avoiding the cage as they march through the village.

I catch parts of whispered conversations as we pass.

“ —that really him? He looks half-dead ? —”

“—remember when he helped us during the river flooding ? —”

“—hush, don’t let them hear you ? —”

The performance continues, but underneath it runs a current of suppressed grief and remembered loyalty that the Authority cannot fully erase.

“Move along,” the convoy captain barks at anyone who lingers too long. “There’s nothing else to see.”

But there is . The true face of Authority justice. And not everyone approves of what they’re witnessing.

In one village, children run alongside the wagon, trying to catch a glimpse of the notorious prisoner.

The guards shoo them away, but not before they see me—bloodied, broken, barely recognizable as human.

Their expressions change from excitement to horror.

One girl begins to cry, and her face stays with me long after we’ve left the village behind.

My fever climbs higher. The infection spreads visibly. Red lines tracking up from the sword wound, and across my abdomen. Blood poisoning. My tongue swells from thirst. My lips crack and bleed. The taste in my mouth is foul, full of copper, rot, and sickness.

When the wagon stops, the guards stand around eating and drinking, discussing me the same way one might discuss a problematic shipment.

“He’s burning up. Won’t last to Blackvault at this rate.”

A different face appears. The convoy’s healer, examining me with clinical detachment. His hands touch my forehead through the bars, testing the heat radiating from my skin.