Page 47 of Stormvein (The Veinbound Trilogy #2)
Chapter Twenty-One
SACHA
The exile learns the shape of home by its absence.
Ravencross Market Ballads
The taste of her still lingers on my tongue—heat and hunger, defiance and grief.
My lips tingle with the memory of her, the soft hitch of her breath, the way her fingers twisted in my shirt.
Each detail is vivid in my head. The slight tremor in her hands, the warmth of her breath against my face, the hesitation before she leaned in.
And then that moment when hesitation became certainty, when her body pressed against mine.
I didn’t mean to kiss her. Not like that. Not with such abandon and need. I meant to offer control. Instead, I lost mine. All thought of holding back crumbled the moment her lips touched mine.
And now the air feels different. Charged . Her light still clings to the edges of my senses, tangled with my shadows in ways I don’t have the strength to untangle. It’s not just attraction, it’s not just magic. It’s something more powerful than that.
I stare at the wall, counting the cracks in the stone, and try to order my thoughts.
Try to regain the focus that’s kept me alive through a lifetime of warfare and imprisonment.
The kiss should be the last thing on my mind.
With everything at stake, with enemies all around us, potentially wearing the face of allies, I should be focusing on strategy and not the way her lips felt against mine.
Strange how a single moment can rewrite priorities.
My shadows respond to my agitation, shifting restlessly inside me. The connection between emotion and power, something I mastered as a child, frays at the edges. I force them to stillness through sheer will, drawing slow breaths until they settle.
Control. I need control .
The Shadowvein Lord doesn’t have the luxury of distraction.
Doesn’t have the freedom to be consumed by a single kiss.
The burden of the Vareth’el demands clarity, especially now when our very existence hangs by a thread.
One misstep, one moment of weakness, and everything we’re fighting for could collapse.
And yet.
I should be focused on my performance. Getting into the bed, pulling shadow and Voidcraft around me, crafting the perfect illusion of a dying man.
But I’m still thinking about the way she kissed me back.
Fiercely . Without reverence or fear. Like she wanted to break down everything that stood between us.
Like she recognized something in me that I barely recognize in myself anymore.
Like she saw past the Vareth’el to the man beneath.
To Sacha.
Not Lord Torran. Not the Vareth’el. Not the symbol the Veinwardens need me to be.
She shouldn’t have done that. She should never have been able to cross that line.
The woman from another world. The woman I’m increasingly sure that prophecy brought to me.
She shouldn’t have awakened this hunger in me.
This need that threatens to overwhelm strategy and purpose.
These feelings that make me want to choose to be the man over the symbol.
For twenty-seven years, locked away in a tower, I never once lost sight of my purpose. Now, in the span of weeks, she’s making me question everything.
But I shouldn’t have let her. Shouldn’t have allowed that moment of weakness.
Shouldn’t have given in to the pull between us that’s been growing since she appeared in my tower.
Since she broke my binding and set me free.
Since she became the catalyst for everything that followed.
Because now I’m off balance, and I can’t afford to be.
My entire life has been built on duty. The rise of the Authority taught me the cost of every action. Imprisonment showed me the weight of every word.
Distractions can cost lives, and every decision needs clear focus. The Veinwardens are looking to me for leadership after decades without. They need the Vareth’el, not a man distracted by silver light and soft lips and a connection with a woman who shouldn’t be here.
And Ellie … Ellie deserves better than half-measures and divided attention. Whatever this is between us, it demands more than I can safely give while Sereven still draws breath and the Authority still stands.
I force the memory of the kiss away, and lock it behind doors in my mind to be examined later …
when there’s time. When it’s safe. When the Authority lies in ashes and Sereven has paid for his crimes.
When I no longer have to be only the Vareth’el, the Shadowvein Lord.
When I can be just Sacha . If that man even exists beneath the duty and the darkness.
When vengeance is complete and the future can begin.
The irony doesn’t escape me. For twenty-seven years, I had nothing but time to think, to plan, and to remember. Now that the binds that tied me to the tower are broken … Now that I have her … time is the one luxury I can’t afford and freedom still feels like a dream I can’t hold onto.
For now, there must be only focus. Only strategy.
Throwing back the sheets, I strip out of the tunic but leave on my pants, and climb into bed.
Lying down, I focus on shadows and Voidcraft, weaving illusion around me, turning myself back into the frail, tortured mess that was carried through the fortress earlier.
The sunken cheeks. The destroyed eye. The gray pallor of skin ravaged by infection and blood loss.
The hint of fever sweat on my brow. Each detail crafted with exquisite attention to the reality I so recently lived.
Once I’m certain everything is in place, I focus on the voices in the other room. I let a tendril of awareness slip into the shadows beneath the door. Not enough to see what is happening, that would require more concentration than I can spare while maintaining this illusion, but enough to hear.
“I need to see him.” Lisandra’s voice is immediately recognizable.
The Veinwarden leader of Stonehaven has a distinctive tone—low and firm, carrying a note of command that’s been earned through years of keeping people alive against impossible odds.
But there’s something else beneath it now.
An urgency that doesn’t fit her usual composure.
A ragged edge I’ve never heard from her, not even in the worst days of our campaign against the Authority.
Warnings sound in my head. Urgency means desperation. Desperation means unpredictability. And unpredictability can be dangerous.
“He’s resting.” Ellie sounds firm. No hint of the kiss we shared in her tone. No indication of what the knock on the door might have disturbed. Just steady determination and a protective edge that is oddly touching. “He isn’t well enough for visitors.”
It should bother me that I can picture her in the doorway, silver-streaked brown eyes challenging, chin lifted slightly in that way she has when she’s about to argue with me.
“He’s not only our Vareth’el, Ellie. I fought with him for years.
” Lisandra’s appeal to our shared history carries weight.
She did fight alongside me before my capture.
One of many who believed in the cause, who risked everything to resist the Authority’s growing power. “I have the right to say goodbye.”
“I can give you an update. His fever is rising. The infection is spreading. He needs rest.” Ellie’s lie flows smoothly.
No hesitation, no tell in her voice. She’s adapting quickly to this world of half-truths and necessary deceptions.
To the reality that survival often depends on what others believe rather than what is true.
“I’m not asking. I need to speak with him.
” An edge enters Lisandra’s voice. Urgency giving way to something harder.
Something demanding … Something that raises my guard.
There’s a note I recognize from battlefield commands.
A tone that overrides objections, that expects immediate compliance …
only Ellie has never served under her command.
She hasn’t learned to follow Veinwarden orders. “It can’t wait until morning.”
“And I’m telling you that isn’t possible.” Ellie stands firm. “He’s too weak for visitors.”
“You haven’t left his side since you returned.” Lisandra changes direction, and turns to concern for Ellie’s welfare. Understandable after so much time spent together. “You need someone to take over for you, so you can rest. You’re exhausted. Anyone can see that.”
“I’m fine.” Ellie’s voice holds that stubborn note I’ve come to recognize. The same determination that kept her searching for a door in the tower, that kept her moving through the desert. That refused to believe I was dead when everyone else had given up.
“At least let me sit with him while you get something to eat. Just for an hour.”
“As you can see, there is food here.” There’s a rustle of movement. “Everyone has made sure I have everything I need. Telren sent stew and bread. Tisera brought tea and healing herbs.” Her voice softens slightly. “I appreciate your concern, but I promised I wouldn’t leave him.”
The loyalty in her voice stirs something in me. Something I haven’t felt in decades. Not since I learned the cost of trust.
The tension builds with each exchange, the pretense of courtesy wearing thinner with every response.
Something is driving Lisandra—something urgent enough to make her press beyond normal boundaries.
To challenge Ellie’s role as my companion.
To insist on seeing me despite being told repeatedly that I’m too weak for visitors.
“I hate to do this, Ellie, but I need you to step aside.” There’s a pause, and the unmistakable sound of a sword being drawn reaches me. Metal sliding against leather, a sound every fighter knows intimately. A sound that has no place in these chambers, in this sanctuary.
“What are you doing?” Ellie’s voice registers genuine shock, and I have to force myself to hold still, to stay where I am.