Page 35 of Stormvein (The Veinbound Trilogy #2)

I think back to Stonehaven, and to Ravencross before that. The way he held himself apart from others. The way he participated in meetings, offering guidance, but never fully engaging in any personal way. Always watching. Always measuring. Always keeping his distance.

“And now?”

“Now he’s embraced it.” Varam’s voice holds a mixture of satisfaction and uncertainty. “This is what we’ve needed … the Veinwardens, I mean. Sacha was always fully committed to the cause, to our safety, but he never truly wanted it. It was duty, not desire. But now?—”

He doesn’t finish his thought. He doesn’t need to. The ‘but’ hangs between us.

The man who moves ahead of us carries himself differently, and speaks with a slightly different inflection. There’s been a subtle shift inside him, beyond the visible physical healing that we can see.

The silver swirls in response to my unease, turning brighter when I look at Sacha, dimmer when I look away. Whatever connection deepened between us during the night hasn’t weakened.

We travel through the day with rare breaks, Sacha pushing us forward at a pace that would have been unimaginable yesterday.

The ravine gradually widens as we move south, the steep walls giving way to gentler slopes.

Sparse scrubs yield to hearty pines that scatter the sunlight into dappled patterns on the ground.

The shadows beneath Sacha’s skin have been growing more visible throughout the day, something else that’s new.

I’ve seen him bring them out, seen the way his features change when he releases his grip on them.

But this is different. They’re not subtle movements, they’re actively swirling, sometimes extending beyond his fingertips when he gestures.

Several times, I catch him testing them, flexing his hand until darkness pools on his palm before dissolving back beneath the surface.

I’m not the only one who notices. The fighters around us see it too, their eyes widening whenever the shadows manifest. Their Shadowvein Lord hasn’t just returned. He’s come back stronger.

By late afternoon, everyone is flagging.

The hard push yesterday, followed by the excitement of this morning, is catching up with everyone.

Sacha calls a stop beside a small lake. While the fighters collapse gratefully onto the ground, massaging aching muscles and passing water skins, Sacha remains standing.

He doesn’t rest, he prowls along the edge of the lake.

When I move, shifting position on the hard ground, trying to get comfortable, his head swings around.

His eyes lock onto mine across the distance, black as the void, and hold.

I want to look away, try to look away, but I can’t. It’s like something is holding me in place as he comes toward me. He stops a couple of feet away.

“Something is bothering you.” It’s not a question, it’s an observation.

I consider deflecting, but decide against it. This new version of Sacha sees too clearly. Lying would be pointless.

“Everything about this situation should bother anyone with a functioning brain.” My response may be a little snippier than it should be.

The corner of his mouth quirks up. “That’s a fair assessment.”

He settles onto the ground opposite me. The mismatched clothes he’s wearing should reduce the presence he has, but they don’t. Those eyes continue to assess me.

“Ask.”

“Ask what?”

He doesn’t reply, just sits there … waiting.

When the silence becomes unbearable, I let the words free. “You remember everything, don’t you? The torture. The cage. Being carried on that stretcher.”

His expression doesn’t change. “Every single moment.”

“And it doesn’t … bother you?”

“On the contrary. It defined me.” His voice is soft, but there’s an undercurrent to it that raises the hair on my arms. “What they did—what Sereven ordered—it clarified my purpose.”

“What purpose?”

“Destroying the Authority.” He says it simply, like he’s discussing the weather rather than the systematic destruction of the dominant power structure. “It’s no longer enough just to defend my people. I will not rest until they’re completely eliminated.”

The absolute certainty in his voice chills me more than any rage would have. This isn’t an emotional response to the trauma inflicted on him. This is a calmly calculated decision. A plan rather than a reaction.

“You’ve changed.” I say it again, because it needs acknowledgement.

“We both have, Mel’shira. What happened between us at Ashenvale, then at River Crossing, changed you just as much as what happened last night changed me.”

Before I can respond to that, a scout slides down from a rocky outcropping, breathless from running.

“There’s an Authority patrol, Lord,” he reports. “Twenty soldiers, coming up the western ridge. They’ll cut across our path in minutes.”

Sacha rises to his feet. Instead of tension or concern, a cold, unsettling smile curves his lips up. “Good.”

“ Good ?” I echo, the words swallowed by the sudden pounding of my heart.

He turns to Varam. “Keep everyone here. Stay close. Do not follow. Wait for my return.” He begins to stride away, then turns, eyes finding mine. “Except for you. You come with me.”

Without waiting for my response, he moves swiftly along the path the scout came from. I hesitate, standing up and searching out Varam. He gives me a nod, telling me to go with Sacha. Mira catches my eye, and offers me a small smile.

I watch Sacha’s retreating form for a second longer before I follow, confusion mingling with dread. The anticipation radiating from him isn’t tension or concern, it’s hunger .

When we reach the rocky overlook, the scene below steals the breath from my lungs. The Authority patrol moves as a crimson mass against the landscape, their bold uniforms glaring against the muted greens and grays of the mountain. They march with the arrogance of those certain of their power.

“What are you going to do?” I don’t know why I ask, I think I already know the answer.

He doesn’t look at me, eyes locked on the men below. “Watch.”

Shadows explode outward from Sacha’s form. Not delicate strands, but huge torrents of darkness pouring out from his chest, his fingertips. They rush downward, twisting and writhing like living nightmares, forming into monstrous shapes, with blade-like wings and countless glowing, malevolent eyes.

A soldier drops to his knees, clutching uselessly at his throat, blood fountaining between his fingers before he can even scream.

My heart stalls.

Two more collapse, shadow-beasts shredding through armor and flesh as if they were paper.

Panic erupts too late. Soldiers scatter, cries ringing out, sharp with terror and disbelief.

Their training means nothing against this.

Their weapons are useless. Their red uniforms, once symbols of the Authority’s power, now simply mark them as targets.

Bodies fall, one after the other, some butchered in horrific silence, others dying with screams that will echo in my nightmares. Limbs are torn from torsos. Throats open in red smiles. Entrails spill onto stone.

Swords and daggers slash wildly, helplessly passing through attackers that solidify only to kill.

One soldier fires a desperate crossbolt toward us.

The shaft vanishes mid-flight, consumed by darkness that surges back along its path, following the trajectory in reverse before plunging mercilessly into the archer’s chest. His eyes widen in shock as he falls, looking more surprised than afraid.

This isn’t a fight. This isn’t even combat. This is an execution.

I stagger back, horror clawing up my throat as acid burns on my tongue. The world tilts beneath me, and my fingers dig into stone, desperate for something solid to hold onto.

Just weeks ago, when I watched him being destroyed at River Crossing, I swore the Authority would pay. I’d have torn them apart with my bare hands if I could have. I wanted this. I wanted them to suffer as he suffered.

But this … this slaughter … there’s no emotion in it. No rage. No grief. No justice. Just death, delivered with a terrifying detachment.

The massacre is over in moments. Twenty soldiers lie grotesquely sprawled across the earth, uniforms darkening with blood, limbs twisted at unnatural angles, faces frozen in their final terror. The metallic tang of blood hangs heavy in the air, so thick I can taste it on my tongue.

Shadows retreat, returning to their master, wrapping around his legs, his chest, sinking back beneath his skin. Nothing remains of the nightmare creatures that tore through the soldiers seconds ago. They vanish as though they never existed, leaving only their aftermath as proof.

Sacha’s face remains impassive, untouched by effort or regret, an emotionless mask of chilling detachment. He surveys his handiwork without any sign of guilt or satisfaction.

I try to look away but I can’t. My eyes are locked on the sprawled bodies below, on hands that will never again hold weapons, on wide, unseeing eyes staring endlessly at a sky they’ll never see change.

Some of them look barely older than I am.

They were boys playing at soldiers, men following orders, people with families who will never know how they died or where their bodies lie.

My stomach heaves without warning. I spin away, dropping to my knees as bile burns up my throat. All I bring up is the water I drank earlier, splashing stone as my body convulses with revulsion.

Or is it recognition? The boundary between horror and understanding blurs with each painful retch.

When the spasms finally subside, I remain on my knees, shaking.

“You killed them all,” I whisper. The words are weak, pathetic in the face of what I just witnessed.