Page 62 of Stormvein (The Veinbound Trilogy #2)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

ELLIE

Not all magic marks the skin. Some marks are quieter.

The Healer’s Codex, ancient Tidevein manuscript

The mountains rise up around us like silent sentinels, their jagged peaks cutting through the darkening sky. Patches of snow cling to the highest peaks. We’ve been riding for over twelve hours, pushing hard through narrow passes and steep trails.

The hard pace Sacha set has shown me that I’ve adapted to life in Meridian more than I realized.

Weeks of walking, climbing, and non-processed meals have carved strength into parts of my body that used to be soft and unused.

But riding is different from walking. It uses muscles I haven’t trained, and pulls at my back and legs in a steady grind I can’t ignore.

Each hoofbeat sends a fresh ache up my spine.

I shift in the saddle, trying to ease the discomfort … and catch myself watching Lisandra again. She’s riding ahead of me between two guards, spine straight, shoulders square, like she isn’t tired at all. Like the weight of what she’s done doesn’t touch her.

She betrayed us. Betrayed him . And I can’t stop turning that truth over in my head, trying to make it fit.

She’s the one who gave Sacha to the Authority.

The one who made that choice. But I keep remembering the version of her who welcomed me to Stonehaven, who showed joy when she discovered Sacha hadn’t died all those years ago.

She talked about survival with a voice that didn’t shake. She looked tired, but never afraid.

It doesn’t add up. If she were just another coward, or a spy, it would be easier. But she’s not. She’s smarter than that. Colder, maybe. She made a calculation. A choice. And I can’t decide if that makes her monstrous, or just human in a way I don’t want to understand.

I want to believe there’s more to it. That somewhere behind that carefully blank expression, she regrets what she did. But the way she rides now, like we’re not heading toward a confrontation where she might die, where we all might die, it makes my skin crawl.

My gaze moves beyond her to Sacha. He’s riding at the front of our group, occasionally sending his raven ahead to scout the path. He rides with confidence, choosing paths without hesitation, ensuring we’re constantly moving forward.

When he signals to stop, I’m swinging down from the saddle almost before the horse has stopped.

My legs protest, aching from hours on horseback, and I take a moment to steady myself by leaning against the horse, before leading it into the shelter of the trees, close to the small stream.

The valley Sacha has chosen seems protected—steep ridges, narrow entrance, dense enough overhead cover to keep us hidden from anyone looking down.

“We’ll stay here for the night,” he says. “No fire. Cold rations only.”

No one questions him.

I help set up camp. Securing the horses, arranging bedrolls, and checking if anyone needs their waterskins refilled from the nearby stream. Anything to keep my hands moving because I know that when I stop, I’m not going to want to move again.

Two fighters position Lisandra near the center, standing on either side of her, while the rest of the group moves around them.

Something about her has changed since we stopped.

Earlier, she looked stiff, still, almost blank.

The perfect prisoner resigned to her fate.

Now she seems sharper. Her gaze shifts around more often.

She’s keeping track of where people are, where their weapons sit.

Her shoulders aren’t tense anymore. They’re loose, ready.

I can’t tell if it’s nerves or something else, but I don’t like it.

“Water?” I offer her a waterskin, more as an excuse to be closer to her than out of kindness.

She accepts it with bound hands, her fingers brushing against mine.

“Thank you.” Her voice is calm and flat. No emotion. No warmth. No nothing.

I stay beside her while she drinks, watching her face. I’m not sure what I’m looking for. Guilt, maybe. Or fear. Something … Anything to make sense of what she did.

“You must be tired.”

Her eyes meet mine, direct and unreadable. “Aren’t we all?”

“Some more than others, I think.” I take the waterskin back. “Sleep would help.”

A bitter smile curves her lips. “I don’t think so.”

“Because you’re afraid of what Sereven will do when you bring him a message instead of Sacha’s head?”

That lands. She doesn’t flinch, but her eyes shift just enough. A flicker, nothing more. But enough to confirm what I’ve been suspecting since we left Stonehaven.

“Sacha won’t let him kill you.” I don’t know why I’m trying to reassure her. “That’s not the plan.”

“Plans change. Especially his.”

I want to argue, but I can’t find the words. The truth is, I don’t know what Sacha intends for her once she’s played her part at Blackstone Ridge. He’s impossible to read.

Around the others, he’s closed-off, distant, always in control. But with me … he’s different.

There’s a softness there now, only shown in quiet moments, but there. And maybe that’s what makes it harder to guess what he’s planning.

Lisandra isn’t wrong about what he’s capable of. I’ve seen it. I just don’t know where the line is between who he is when he’s alone with me … and who he might have to be with her.

“I never wanted him to suffer.” Her voice drops lower, meant only for me. “Whatever you think of me, believe that. I thought they would simply return him to the tower.”

“But they didn’t.” My voice hardens, despite trying to stay neutral. “They tortured him instead. And then you sold him out a second time.”

“Yes.” No excuses. No justifications. Just that one word.

I study her face, searching for any sign of emotion—remorse, guilt, even fear—but there’s nothing. Just the kind of quiet that comes after a decision has already been made and can never be changed.

“How could you do it? After everything he’s done for the Veinwardens? The years he lost when they imprisoned him?”

“You’re not from this world, Ellie. You wouldn’t understand.” She looks away. “You have no idea what it means to survive here.”

“Try me! I’ve seen enough since I arrived to understand more than you think.”

Her eyes meet mine again. “I’ve watched people die for years.

Not clean deaths. Slow ones. Painful ones.

Fighters. Children. Entire families. I’ve buried more bodies than you can even imagine.

Dug the graves myself when no one else could bear it.

When Sereven threatened Stonehaven, I made a choice.

One life against hundreds.” She straightens, chin lifting, meeting my eyes full-on.

“Even his life. Even knowing what he is, what he means to our people.”

She says it like it’s that simple … that inevitable.

“But you knew what they would do to him!”

“I knew what they might do,” she corrects. “Risk assessment is part of war.” She pauses. “I didn’t think it would go that far.”

It’s not an excuse. It’s not even an apology. The way she says it—with complete detachment, as though she was talking about a stranger—sets something off in me. Power builds in me, and overhead clouds begin to gather.

“ Risk assessment? ” My voice comes out sharp. “They branded the Authority symbol into his skin. They whipped him. They?—”

“I know what they did.” For the first time, her composure cracks.

“I’ve seen it before. I’ve lived it.” She pulls back her collar, revealing the edge of a scar—the distinct three-ring pattern of the Authority, burned into her flesh.

“This isn’t a new war, Ellie. And he’s not the only one who’s suffered for it. ”

I don’t respond. I can’t . Anger, doubt, and something too close to understanding is choking me, stifling my voice. The silver light is visible beneath my skin, a reminder of how close I’m coming to losing control.

Lisandra’s eyes drop to my arms, following the way the silver flashes along my veins, mimicking lightning.

“You care for him.” Her gaze moves from my arms to my face. “That will complicate things for him.”

I don’t answer, holding her eyes with mine. She looks away first.

The words settle under my skin, despite my attempts to shrug them off.

Not because she’s wrong, but because she isn’t .

And I don’t know what that is going to mean with everything coming.

I still don’t understand how much of himself he’s holding back from me.

And I’m still discovering who I am. Those things alone make everything more complicated. For him, and for me.

Before I can say anything, not that I know what I can say, Sacha appears beside me. His gaze drops to the silver light still flickering under my skin, then lifts to study the storm clouds gathering above.

He doesn’t say a word or stop moving. He just steps past me, close enough that his fingers brush the back of my hand as he passes.

A feather-light contact meant only for me.

A touch that says ‘ I see you. ’ The second his skin meets mine, the glow fades, and the clouds begin to break apart, moonlight spilling between the gaps.

Then he’s gone, and just like that, exhaustion crashes over me. I walk away from Lisandra without saying anything more.

My bedroll is where I left it, my pack beside it. Crouching, I pull out a slice of journey bread and dried meat. It takes longer than it should to chew. Even my jaw is tired. But I force myself to do it, wash it down with water, and then stretch out on the thin bedroll.

Sleep doesn’t come easily. My thoughts are too loud. The echo of Lisandra’s voice. The brush of Sacha’s fingers against my hand. The look she gave me before I walked off.

You care for him.

That will complicate things for him.

When sleep does finally take hold, it drags me into dreams that splinter and reform. The tower, River Crossing, Sacha, broken and dying in the cage.