Page 111 of Shadowvein

The markings of the Shadowvein Lord return to their rightful place—my true nature asserting itself after too long restrained.

The air leaves the guard's lungs in a strangled sound, halfway between gasp and whimper. His eyes go wide, pupils dilating so rapidly I can track the black consuming the iris. His face drains of color, leaving his skin ashen with shock. His fingers twitch violently at his side, caught in the limbo between drawing his weapon and dropping to his knee, survival instinct warring with ingrained reverence. Sweat beads on his upper lip, gleaming in the lamplight. A tremor runs through his body, visible in the quivering of his jaw, the sudden rigidity of his shoulders.

His gaze locks onto mine, and for a heartbeat, time suspends. Then his eyes break away, unable to withstand the weight of what I know he sees there.

“Shadowverin” he breathes—half prayer, half disbelief.

He drops to one knee without seeming to realize he’s moved, one fist pressed hard to his chest in a warrior’s salute. His shoulders tremble slightly.

“We heard rumors,” he chokes out. “But—” He swallows. “But we didn’t believe?—”

“As you can see, the rumors are true.” I touch his shoulder. “Please, stand.”

His movements are jerky as he obeys, his wide eyes flicking over my face, my clothes, the blood streaks on my hands—memorizing details to confirm later that this wasn’t hallucination. Then something shifts in his posture. His breathing steadies, slowing in the measured rhythm of a trained fighter. His hands, which had been trembling, now settle back at his sides.

“You encountered trouble?” His voice finds its authority again, though it still carries a note of awe.

“An Authority patrol,” Tisera answers. She glances at me. “It was handled.”

He nods grimly. No further explanation is needed. His eyes sharpen with professional assessment, the trained soldier now evaluating tactical implications rather than dwelling on the impossible.

“Lisandra has been waiting since Varam’s message arrived. She knew Tisera was bringing someone, but—” He shakes his head, muscles working in his jaw as he tries to reconcile my presence before him with what he knows should be impossible. His training fully reasserts itself as he straightens to attention. “She wasn’t expectingyou. No one was.”

He turns, then hesitates, and spins back. “Come.” The word emerges crisper now, as years of protocol and duty override his personal reaction. His stance has changed—back straight, movements deliberate.

His steps are precise as he guides us deeper into the stronghold, his soldier's discipline wrestling control from his shock. His breathing has regularized, but he still casts quick glances at me as we walk, but now they’re more assessment than disbelief, security rather than awe. The trained Veinwarden escort has replaced the stunned believer, although the reverence remains in the way he positions himself slightly ahead and to my left—the traditional placement for a guide of rank.

The passage opens into a vast chamber carved from rock. Torches flicker in their sconces, casting a shifting light across thestone. The air is thick with the hum of movement. Fighters train in combat forms, weapons clashing in rhythmic strikes. Others cluster around rough wooden tables, maps spread between them.

Then someone lifts their head and sees me.

A veteran fighter freezes mid-strike, his practice sword hovering in the air. His weathered features transform, decades of weariness giving way to something long forgotten. His eyes widen, throat working silently.

Another whisper breaks free from somewhere to my left, hanging suspended in the space between noise and silence.

Shadowverin.

A sudden hush ripples outward, conversation faltering, heads snapping up in disbelief. Weapons lower mid-strike. A chair scrapes harshly against stone as someone stands too fast. The tension is a living thing, thick and thrumming, pressing into the silence that follows.

A younger woman beside him follows, though uncertainty flickers across her face. She knows the legends but has never seen the reality. Within moments, a third of the room kneels, while others remain frozen in place, suspended between action and reaction.

"It can't be," someone murmurs from the back.

"The marks on his skin—" another voice cuts in, awed and fearful.

One man reaches for a weapon, then thinks better of it when those near him shoot warning glances.

The shadows on my skin respond to the energy in the room, darkening, shifting more rapidly across my flesh. I feel them pulse with each heartbeat, attuned to the storm of emotions surroundingme—fear, hope, reverence, suspicion. Some faces show nothing but shock, while others reflect something deeper. The rekindling of a faith long thought extinguished.

And then a figure pushes through the gathering crowd. A woman, tall and lean, her white hair pulled into a severe knot at the nape of her neck.

Lisandra.

The moment she sees me, she stops mid-stride. Her breath catches, loud enough to draw the attention of every fighter nearby. For a long moment, she simply stares—shock, disbelief, and something more complex that might be grief or relief or fury, or perhaps all three intertwined.

Then the mask descends. Her jaw tightens. The vulnerability vanishes as quickly as it appeared, and those sharp assessing eyes lock onto mine. Eyes that once followed my every command without question. Eyes that witnessed what the Authority did at Thornreave Pass.

Her hand twitches toward the dagger at her hip but stops short, her fingers clenching into a fist instead. A tremor runs through her before she stiffens against it, spine straightening, shoulders squaring. She looks like someone who has seen a ghost, and is refusing to acknowledge it.

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