Page 29 of Stormvein (The Veinbound Trilogy #2)

Chapter Fourteen

ELLIE

Order requires isolation. Intimacy breeds resistance.

Authority Codes

“How are we going to move him?”

I look down at Sacha. His breathing is steadier than it was before, though still labored.

The infection that nearly killed him has cleared, but the wounds covering his body are still horrific.

Deep gashes cross his torso, his skin mottled with bruises in various stages of healing, purple fading to sickly yellow-green.

The brand on his face is still raw and angry, but the skin around it is no longer black and dying.

He slipped back into unconsciousness a while ago, but it seems more like a healing sleep now, rather than the gradual slip toward death I’ve been watching for days.

“He can’t walk.”

“We’ll do what we did to get him here. We’ll carry him.” Varam’s voice is low, a finality in his tone that doesn’t allow for argument.

“Through mountains ?” I gesture to Sacha’s body, the reality of what’s being suggested hitting me anew. Every bump, every jolt will reopen wounds barely beginning to heal.

“We don’t have a choice, Ellie. If the Authority finds us here, all our efforts to rescue him were for nothing. We would have needed to move soon, even if he hadn’t woken. We have no food. What we’re finding isn’t enough to keep us alive.”

Sacha lies still. His eye is closed, but the tension in his jaw makes me suspect he’s conscious and listening. Is he calculating what this choice will cost him? Or is he fighting to on? I wonder if he regrets giving the order to leave here.

“We still have the stretcher,” Kiran says.

Varam nods. “It’s our only option. Four carriers rotating every couple of hours.”

“What about the horses?” Mira asks.

“We have to release them. Send them running east. They’ll draw attention away from our actual route.”

They separate to gather up their belongings.

Kiran heads outside to find where we left the stretcher, while Mira examines what clothing and supplies can be sacrificed to help make Sacha more comfortable.

I remain where I am, beside him, watching his face for signs I’m right about him being awake.

At least that’s what I tell myself, instead of it being because I’m afraid that if I look away, he might vanish between heartbeats.

His eye opens, focusing on me with visible effort. The pain he won’t acknowledge is written into every line of his face, in the way he holds himself perfectly still.

“Water.” The word is barely audible.

I reach for the waterskin and help him drink, supporting his head. His skin is too cold. His hair clings damply to my fingers, matted with sweat and blood. He takes several swallows before turning away, even that small movement exhausting him, a tremor running through his frame.

His weakness scares me more than I want to admit.

Before Ashenvale, he was strength personified—shadow and power and unbreakable will.

Now he’s a ghost of that man, barely clinging to life.

His cheekbones, once high and defined, are hollowed out, casting shadows on his cheeks that weren’t there before.

His remaining eye is sunken and dull where it once burned with intensity.

And I keep thinking …

If this connection between us matters, why can’t I stop this? Why can’t I do more than watch him fade?

Every labored breath feels like an accusation against my uselessness. The light inside me pulses with my frustration, but offers no answers, no help, just a silent reminder that I’m still an outsider here, still learning rules to a game where the stakes are his life.

Outside of our little corner, preparations are moving forward with quiet urgency.

Kiran returns with the stretcher, the wood damaged from being outside.

Mira sorts through our meager supplies, setting aside anything that might serve as padding.

Varam oversees the stretcher’s reconstruction, testing each component.

“We’ll need to secure you to it,” Varam tells Sacha when they bring it over. “For the steeper sections of the journey.”

Sacha doesn’t argue, which frightens me more than any protest would have. The Sacha I met in the tower would have bristled at any suggestion of limitation. This version nods once, conceding something he doesn’t have the strength to fight.

When everything is ready, Varam crouches beside him. “Are you ready?”

Sacha studies it with his one good eye, assessing what lies ahead. I can almost see the tactical part of his mind working, calculating risks against necessity, measuring his own endurance against the journey’s demands.

More clothing is sacrificed, torn into strips to create a harness system. I watch them work with growing dread. No amount of planning is going to make this journey anything but torture for Sacha.

“Let’s get him moved before dark. I want to cover some ground tonight,” Varam says once everything is ready.

My heart hammers against my ribs, and anxiety crawls up my spine as four fighters position themselves around Sacha. I move back, giving them space, while staying close to … to do what? Intervene? Stop them from hurting him? Be a shield he doesn’t need? I don’t know. I just know I can’t step away.

“On my count,” Varam instructs. “Careful with his left side.”

I watch Sacha’s face as they prepare to lift him. His expression is fixed into blankness, but I know there’s more beneath it. A fear he won’t acknowledge. Not of pain, which he’s endured beyond imagination, but of failing, of dying before completing the purpose that drives him.

“One … two … three.”

They lift him smoothly. Despite their care, his entire body goes rigid, jaw clenching tight.

No sound escapes him, but the cost of that silence is written in the sudden sheen of sweat on his forehead, in the way his hand clutches at the rough blanket covering him.

The tendons in his neck stand out like a cord pulled too tight.

Getting Sacha out of the cave is worse than it was getting him in. At least the first time he was unconscious. By the time we have him outside, he’s white, shaking, with sweat beading his brow.

His body stays locked, every muscle braced like he’s holding the world together by force of will as they transfer him to the stretcher. My fingers curl, nails biting into my palms, the pain a small echo of what he must be feeling.

When they set him down, his eye closes, face drained of color. For one terrible moment, I think we’ve killed him with this small movement.

Then his chest rises, falls, rises again. Breathing, yes, but each inhale is shallow and controlled.

“Now for the bindings,” Varam says softly.

They secure Sacha to the stretcher with careful hands, creating a system that will keep him stable without aggravating the still-healing injuries.

Every touch brings a flicker of tension to his face, quickly suppressed.

A muscle ticks in his jaw, his fingers curl into the blankets.

I watch him retreat further into himself, drawing on reserves that should have been emptied days ago.

“Are you ready?” Mira asks as she secures the final strap.

“Yes.” The word is clipped, forced out from between clenched teeth.

No one calls him out on this obvious lie. What would be the point? There’s no comfortable way to transport a half-dead man, no position that won’t aggravate wounds meant to kill him. No preparation is adequate for what lies ahead.

“Get ready to leave. Final checks on weapons and supplies.”

While everyone else disperses to complete their tasks, I kneel beside Sacha. “This is going to be hell.”

His eye opens, finding mine with effort. Resignation passes over his face.

“Talk to me. During journey.”

“About what?”

“Anything. Distraction.”

It takes a second for the request to register, and when it does, the vulnerability beneath the words catches me off guard.

This is the man who has endured torture without breaking.

The man who spent twenty-seven years isolated in a tower without losing his mind.

Now he’s asking for distraction from pain he can’t escape.

He’s allowing me to see his need, something I suspect he’s shown to very few people.

“I can do that.” My hand finds his before I can think better of it.

His skin is too cool again. It worries me that moving him has disrupted the healing process that began when the restraints shattered. But his fingers squeeze mine lightly, while his eye drifts closed again.

Night has fallen by the time we’re finally ready to leave. Four fighters take positions around the stretcher—Varam and three others taking the first session. The rest form a protective circle around us, weapons ready, eyes scanning the darkness for threats.

The stretcher rises as the carriers lift it in unison. Even this careful movement draws a sharp inhale from Sacha.

“South.” Varam points to a narrow trail. “The rest of you go single file where necessary. Stay quiet.”

Our journey begins with frustrating slowness. The fighters carrying the stretcher move with impressive coordination, adjusting their grip and pace to keep Sacha as stable as possible.

I walk beside them, close enough to touch the edge of the stretcher, my attention divided between watching for dangers in the dark, and monitoring Sacha.

His face remains set in rigid lines, eye closed, jaw tight.

In the dim light, shadows play across his features, accentuating the angles of a face already too thin.

“I promised you a distraction,” I say softly, leaning close so only he can hear me. “What should I talk about?”

His eye half-opens. “Anything.”

So I talk in a slow whisper. About Chicago at night, the way skyscrapers light up against the dark sky. About electric lights that come on with the flip of a switch. About televisions, and movies, and neon signs, and streetlamps. About things that must sound like magic to someone from this world.