Page 85 of Stormvein (The Veinbound Trilogy #2)
Chapter Thirty-Seven
SACHA
The Vein remembers what the world tries to forget.
Sayings of the Earthvein Sages
Ellie’s skin continues to flicker erratically with bursts of light as we ride away from Silverthread Pass.
She leans back against my chest, her body still trembling from the encounter with the glassbacks.
I can feel the tension in her muscles, the occasional shudder that passes through her.
It’s not just fatigue. Her familiar is still active, still pulling from her essence, feeding on her fear. And she’s too shaken to send it back.
The mist stalker pads alongside my horse, its fur matted with caustic ichor from the glassbacks.
Every time Ellie looks at it, she flinches.
The connection between them has become a wound that won’t close, causing her to relive what happened in Silverthread Pass over and over.
It’s a dangerous distraction that leaves her vulnerable when we can least afford it.
It shouldn’t still be out. She knows that. But instinct is overriding logic, fear trumping knowledge. She doesn't understand the damage it’s still doing to her focus.
“You need to recall it. As long as it remains manifested like this, it will continue draining you.”
“I can’t.” She turns her face away from the mist stalker. “Every time I try to connect with it, I feel everything again. The burning, the tearing. It’s too much.”
I understand her reluctance. The shared sensation she experienced in Silverthread Pass was overwhelming, leaving her physically sick. But her familiar must return to her or she’ll never regain her strength.
And she’ll need that strength soon. We both will.
There’s no margin for delay, not with Thornspire looming ahead, not with Sereven waiting with his crystal and his hatred. But pushing her too hard now could shatter what remains of her control. I have to get her there without breaking her in the process.
“Look at me.” I shift the reins to one hand and use the other to turn her face toward me. Her eyes meet mine. “The familiar is your power, not your enemy. It’s not something separate that can hurt you. Right now, you’re fighting it instead of directing it.”
She doesn’t argue, but I see the hesitation. The fear. She’s still caught in that moment. When the pain of her familiar felt like it might tear her apart from the inside. And maybe part of her is afraid that if she reaches for it again, she won’t survive it this time.
“How do I stop that?” The question holds genuine desperation. Her fingers find my wrist where I’m still holding her face. The contact sends a burst of light skating across my skin.
“Don’t try to control it directly. Don’t focus on what it’s experiencing.
That’s where the pain comes from, trying to process sensations that aren’t meant for the human mind.
” I move my thumb slightly, tracing the edge of her cheek.
“Think of it as light returning to its source. Not absorbing its sensations, but simply allowing it to dissolve back into your power. Like drawing breath into your lungs.”
She takes a deep breath, and closes her eyes.
“It isn’t about feeling what it feels.” I watch her closely. “It’s about reclaiming what is already yours. What was always yours.”
Her fingers clench then relax against the pommel of the saddle. Her power brightens slightly, and the mist stalker slows its pace to look at her.
“That’s it. It’s not entering you, it’s returning to where it belongs.”
Her breathing changes, becomes deeper. More even. She’s still pale, still shaken, but there’s a thread of control in her expression that wasn’t there before.
The familiar moves closer, its form becoming less substantial with each step toward us.
As it approaches, her light reaches outward in tendrils that meet the creature halfway.
She doesn’t flinch this time. And I don’t speak.
I don’t want to break whatever delicate balance she’s found between fear and command.
This moment belongs to her. Her victory against herself.
When they touch, the mist stalker dissolves … not into her, but into the silver light itself. Its essence flows back like water finding its level, merging seamlessly with the power that created it.
Ellie gasps, her body sagging against mine. “It worked.” There’s relief and pride in those two simple words.
“The connection should always be on your terms.” I keep my arm around her, supporting her while she finds her center again. “The familiar shouldn’t remain manifested when you don’t need it. It only drains power that way.”
“Why didn’t it hurt this time?” Her body relaxes against mine, her breathing steadier.
“Because you reclaimed it without trying to process its experiences. You accepted the power without absorbing the pain. You stopped fighting yourself.”
“What about its wounds?” She glances down at her arms. “It was torn open. There was blood from those … things everywhere.”
“Non-existent. They’re visible representations of what you expect to see after the battle. Your mind gives form to fear and pain. When you bring it forth again, it’ll be whole and healed.”
She nods slowly, and shifts a little in the saddle, her body fitting against mine in ways that remind me of quieter moments back in my quarters at Stonehaven.
We ride in silence for a time, the night wrapping around us, offering temporary concealment as we move through valleys and across ridge lines, the sound of hoofbeats muffled by the soft earth beneath.
When we pause briefly to rest the horses, Ellie follows me when I walk to the edge of the ridge, scanning the horizon. Thornspire Keep lies somewhere beyond the furthest line of hills.
“We need to talk about what happens if things go wrong.” Her voice cuts through my thoughts, pulling me back to the present moment.
“They won’t.” My response is automatic, a shield against the doubt that could undermine resolve.
“Sacha.” The way she says my name—part exasperation, part concern, and wholly determined—makes my lips twitch despite what we’re potentially riding toward. “If Sereven uses that crystal against you again, if I can’t recreate what happened at Blackstone Ridge, if we’re separated somehow?—”
“There are always contingencies.”
I turn to face her fully. The silver in her eyes catches and holds the light, giving her gaze an otherworldly quality that reminds me how far removed she is from the woman who first stumbled into my prison.
“If we’re separated, if one of us is captured, the mission remains the same. Secure the crystal. Remove it from Sereven’s reach. Kill him, if at all possible.”
I say it clinically, because that’s how I’ve learned to survive.
Strategy without sentiment. Purpose without passion.
But her expression shifts, just slightly, a tightening around her eyes, a downward pull at one corner of her mouth, and I know she’s hearing something colder than I mean.
Something that echoes the man I was before her, when manipulation and survival was all that mattered because nothing else remained.
“That’s not what I mean.” She steps closer. “If you’re hurt, if I’m hurt … if one of us dies?—”
“That won’t happen.” I cannot allow that to be a consideration.
“You don’t know that!” Frustration fills her voice, her fingers curling into fists. “You nearly died twice already. Sereven clearly wants you dead. If he succeeds?—”
“The others will complete the mission, and take you to safety. The priority then will be returning to Stonehaven with whatever information was gathered. Regrouping, and continuing the fight.”
She studies my face. I’m not entirely certain what she’s looking for.
“That’s it? Complete the mission and move on? As if you’re … expendable?”
She’s not asking about strategy anymore. She’s asking what happens to us, to this thing that’s grown between us. She’s asking if she matters more to me than the cause I’ve served for a lifetime.
“No,” I admit. “It isn’t complete the mission and move on.”
Her expression softens a little.
“But we do have to focus on survival first,” I continue, unable to fully abandon the practicality that’s kept me alive this long. “Anything else is a luxury for when the immediate danger has passed. Feeling comes after fighting, after surviving. That’s always been the way.”
I’ve spent years learning to compartmentalize. Pain locked in one box, purpose in another, rage in a third. All contained until it could be weaponized. It’s how I survived years in a tower, how I kept sane when others would have broken.
But the look she gives me says she doesn’t want boxes. She wants the whole truth, messy and dangerous as it might be.
“I watched you dying. I can’t do that again. I won’t.”
“Then we ensure it doesn’t happen, Mel’shira.” I cup her cheek. “We stay together. We protect each other. We use everything we have learned to counter whatever Sereven attempts.”
She leans into the contact, eyes closing for a second. When they open again, determination has replaced uncertainty.
“Promise me you won’t sacrifice yourself.” She covers my hand with hers, keeping it pressed against her face. “Even if it seems like the only way. Even if you think it’s necessary. Promise me you won’t choose your death over your life.”
I don’t answer immediately, caught between truth and training, between what I’ve always believed and what I’m beginning to feel.
In war, in resistance, sacrifice sometimes becomes a necessity rather than a choice.
This has always been the foundation of my existence.
It’s my training, my purpose, my burden to carry.
It’s not a romantic idea woven of noble speeches and dramatic vows.
It’s practical. Cold. Someone is always the cost. People break, people bleed, people die so that others might live.
And I’ve never been the exception.
She doesn’t understand why I can’t make her that promise. She doesn’t understand why the words stick in my throat.
I do. And I wish I didn’t.