Page 57 of Stormvein (The Veinbound Trilogy #2)

He laughs softly, and turns his head to press his lips to my skin. “Exactly, Mel’shira. Do you wish to stay while I meet with the Veinwardens?”

“You mean watch while they lose their minds over your miraculous recovery?”

The fact that he laughs again feels like another boundary broken between us.

“Make sure you eat.” He waves a hand toward a table set against the wall, where bread, cheese, meat, and fruit are on wooden plates. There are also two pitchers, one with steam rising from it, and cups placed around them.

A knock at the door signals Varam’s return with the first Veinwarden leader.

Sacha steps back, his demeanor visibly shifting to that of the Shadowvein Lord that others expect to see.

His fingers caress the back of my hand as he turns away.

It’s strange how that single touch reassures me more than his words.

The door opens. Varam steps through, with Rolan behind him.

He’s one of the more seasoned leaders—sharp, skeptical, never prone to exaggeration.

His features are stern, grim even, and I have no doubt he’s come here expecting to see Sacha at the edge of death.

He was one who agreed with Lisandra about the futility of searching for Sacha, believing he was dead.

He takes two steps into the room … then stops.

His breath stills, eyes locking on Sacha. For a second, I think he might speak. His mouth moves, but no words come out.

His gaze rakes over Sacha’s frame, looking for weaknesses, signs of pain, anything to anchor what he’s seeing in reality. But there’s nothing to see. No scars, no infection. Not even signs of fatigue around his eyes.

“You were dying,” he says at last. “I saw them bring you in. You could barely breathe.”

Sacha doesn’t speak. The silence stretches between them, and I find myself holding my breath, waiting to see what Rolan does.

His reaction, when it comes, is unexpected. He lets out a low, breathless laugh, part disbelief, part relief, then steps forward.

“You shouldn’t be standing.”

“And yet I am.”

Rolan presses his fist over his heart, eyes bright. “The others need to know.”

“They will. One at a time.”

I watch from my corner, trying not to attract attention, but I can feel the shift in the air. The way the room bends around Sacha’s presence. The way even someone like Rolan—skeptical, steady Rolan—looks at him now, like something sacred just took shape in front of him.

And that’s only the beginning.

Throughout the morning, other Veinwarden leaders arrive one by one, each summoned privately.

I recognize them all. Some have been kind to me, others kept their distance and were formal.

All of them accepted me as part of Stonehaven.

Each enters with the same solemn demeanor, stealing themselves for what they believe is a deathwatch.

Instead, they find Sacha on his feet, waiting for them.

Their reactions unfold like a study in human disbelief.

Some freeze in the doorway as Rolan did, bodies locked in resistance against what their eyes are reporting to their brains.

Others blink rapidly, as though trying to clear a vision they can’t possibly be seeing.

Others approach cautiously, hands half-raised as though they’re expecting it to pass through an illusion.

More than one looks at me, searching my face for confirmation or explanation, their gazes lingering on the silver in my hair and eyes before darting away.

The progression of emotions play across their faces in waves.

Initial shock gives way to disbelief, then turns into joy.

A fierce, barely constrained joy that often becomes laughter that sounds close to crying.

None of them flinch in ways that suggest guilt.

There are no downcast eyes. No evasive words.

If Lisandra had help, none of them are betraying their involvement with their behavior.

But there is something else beneath those reactions.

Something that makes me just as uneasy as potential betrayal.

Fear. Or awe. Sometimes both tangled together.

It’s the look of people witnessing something that shatters their understanding of what’s possible, and in that fracturing, something new awakens. Something that resembles worship.

More than once, I hear lines of the prophecy whispered, and each time, Sacha’s jaw tightens. I need to ask him about it. There’s more to it than the lines I’ve heard. There has to be.

Telren is the first to do more than show shock followed by happiness and awe. He steps forward slowly, and I can almost see his mind working as his gaze scans Sacha’s face, his hands, his skin.

“This level of tissue regeneration at such speed,” he murmurs, circling Sacha like a scholar with a puzzle. “It defies every known principle. There should be scarring. Weakness. Something .”

“The process was … unconventional.” Sacha doesn’t even look in my direction.

Others don’t ask any questions at all.

A grizzled fighter with burn scars along his jaw lowers his head, lips moving in silent thanks. An older woman crosses her hands over her heart, and whispers his name like it’s a sacred prayer.

Another, gray-haired and shaking, drops to one knee and begins whispering in a language I don’t recognize. Sacha moves before she can finish, crossing the space between them and taking her hands in his.

“I’m not a god or a prophet.” His voice is firm as he draws her to her feet. “I’m a fighter. Like you. Like all of us. Save your worship for someone who deserves it. I need your strength and courage, not your devotion.”

The woman nods, visibly shaken, but steadied by his response. And Sacha … he watches her, a look in his eyes that suggests he’s bracing himself for how often this might happen. As if this moment, the moment someone still sees the man and not the myth, matters more than anything else.

He never once mentions me. Not when they ask how it happened.

Not when Telren presses for details. Not when another whispers something about the Veinblood prophecy.

Every single time, he deflects, answering with just enough to satisfy.

Even though it’s clear to me that he hates the attention, he still kept the focus off me and the part I played in his healing.

And I’m grateful, because whatever I’m becoming in their eyes, I’m not ready to face it … not yet.

I watch the procession from my corner, noting how their eyes follow Sachas’ movements with a new intensity.

The man they respected before has become a legend made flesh, a prophecy fulfilled.

And with each Veinwarden elder who leaves shaken, I sense a shift in Stonehaven’s very foundations.

Stories will spread despite sworn secrecy.

They will go back to their husbands and wives, and share what they’ve seen.

They will tell their children, who will tell others.

Whispers will become rumors, rumors will become belief.

“No signs of additional betrayal.” The satisfaction in his voice is quiet but real. Controlled like everything else about him.

“They all seemed genuinely shocked. Though I’m not sure how I feel about the ones who kept trying to worship you.”

“It’s a natural response.” His tone is surprisingly gentle. “To what they perceive as a miracle.”

“Because no one should have survived what you did.”

He doesn’t deny it. “People need something to believe in during war. Something beyond daily survival.”

“But you shut it down pretty quickly with that woman.”

“Worship creates distance. And that’s the last thing we need right now between fighters who have to trust each other with their lives.”

“What about the prophecy? I know part of it. Where shadow leads, storm will follow . But there’s more to it, isn’t there? And it bothers you.”

“Prophecies are dangerous things. I’ve watched people die trying to fulfill what they believed was their destined role. I prefer to make my own choices, not follow a path someone else has chosen for me.” He pauses. “But I can’t deny that this one does seem to predict certain … events.”

“Me, you mean.”

I study him, watching the way he relaxes a little now that the room is empty. The mask is still in place, but it’s thinner now.

“Yes, Mel’shira. You.”

I pour a cup of tea, or what counts for tea here, and hand it to him. He takes it with a small smile.

“Can you tell me more about it?”

“It’s vague, as most prophecies are. But it does seem to mention the tower, you, and your powers. I can ask for a copy to be brought for you to read, if you wish.”

“Maybe after we get back.” I take a breath. “If you’re still okay with me coming with you, I should practice with this power. Just in case.”

He studies me over the rim of the cup. “And if I wasn’t?”

“I’d want to understand why.”

There’s a pause, one where I hold my breath while I wait for him to speak. “You’ve seen how far Sereven is willing to go. I’d rather you stayed as far from that as possible.”

“I’m not asking to fight. But I want to be ready in case something goes wrong.”

“I have no intention of letting you close enough to danger for you to need it.”

“But it could happen, and I need to be prepared.”

“You sound like Mira.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

A faint flicker of amusement touches his eyes, then he nods. “All right. We’ll work with theory and mental techniques for now. Physical tricks can wait until we’re away from Stonehaven.”

For the next few hours, he guides me through meditative exercises designed to strengthen my mental control over the storm energy.

He begins with breathing, instructing me to inhale for four counts, hold for seven, and then release for eight.

His own breath matches mine until we’re breathing together.

From there, he leads me through visualizations, having me imagine the currents of air around us, the moisture suspended within them, the electric potential building and dissipating with each breath.