Page 188 of Shadowvein

“Sacha.” His voice carries that same cultured tone I remember, untouched by time or circumstance.

Age has marked his face with deeper lines, but the coldness in his eyes remains the same—filled with the certainty I’ve only seen in men convinced of their own righteousness.

“How disappointing to find that the rumors of your return weren’t merely the superstitious ramblings of peasants.”

My shadows stir in response to him, drawn toward the place where hate has lived longest. Images flash through my mind.

Sereven orchestrating my capture at Thornreave Pass. The moment I understood what he’d done. His impassive face as theydragged me to my knees. The cold silence as they read out names. Veinwardens executed for loyalty. One by one. Forcing me to repeat them back. Until I knew them all by memory.

Every moment of my imprisonment can be traced to this man, and the doctrine of control he chose to serve.

“You seem troubled by my survival.” My voice is deceptively calm while darkness gathers. But inside, the old fire returns. A burn I haven’t felt in years. One that will consume my judgement if I’m not careful. “Particularly given how thoroughly you have been celebrating my death.”

His mouth curves into what could almost be called a smile, if not for the complete absence of warmth.

“A necessary performance to ensure order.” He adjusts the golden cuffs at his wrists. “Although I must admit, I do enjoy the symbolism of it all.” His gaze moves over the soldiers surrounding us. “Your execution provided such a unifying moment for our cause. People still mark its anniversary. Today, in fact. I would say it’s a lovely coincidence, but we both know it isn’t.”

While he speaks, soldiers continue to move into position, tightening their circle around us. They move quietly—no shouted orders, no wasted motion. Four of them carry swords etched with pale lines that glow faintly blue whenever my shadows draw near. The light pushes back against my reach, forming pockets where my influence falters. Not dispelled or broken, but thinned.

Overhead, storm clouds gather. My power responds to the brewing tempest, drawn to the weight in the air.

Sereven’s eyes hold mine, filled with triumph, the satisfaction of a hunter whose trap has closed around its prey.

“Were you truly arrogant enough to believe we wouldn’t be watching for you?” His voice is still conversational. Instructive. “That we wouldn’t be prepared? Did you really believe you could come back and everyone would celebrate your return?” He pauses, tilting his head, and this time when he speaks, his voice carries genuine curiosity beneath the mockery. “You never did understand the true purpose of order.”

My familiar stirs, restless. A second presence behind my ribs, recognizing the danger I’m in. It wants freedom to manifest. To rise. To strike. To hunt. I hold it back. For now.

Every heartbeat brings the circle tighter.

I meet Varam’s eyes, and make my decision.

“Varam,” I whisper. “Now.”

Shadow explodes outward from where I stand—a sudden eruption of absolute darkness that engulfs the clearing. Not merely an absence of light, but something active.Hungry.

The soldiers cry out in surprise, vision stripped away as night itself swallows the world. Their training hasn’t prepared them for complete sensory deprivation. But I see them. In the dark I’ve created, each body glows bright—heat and movement revealed in perfect detail, while they stumble blind.

Varam hesitates. Just for a second. Loyalty clashing with command.

“Go, Nul’shar.” My softly spoken word pushes him into movement.

He breaks into motion, sprinting toward the gap I’ve created in the northeastern perimeter where fewer soldiers are positioned. Hissteps are silent against the forest floor, years of training coming to his rescue.

I launch myself in the opposite direction, drawing attention, creating chaos, ensuring his escape route remains viable. Every shout I provoke, every burst of movement I trigger draws attention away from Varam.

One life preserved. One message that will reach Ellie.

Two soldiers recover faster than the others. They intercept me, weapons raised. My shadowblade materializes in my hand, a blade of condensed intent. An extension of will shaped into lethal form. The familiar sensation grounds me amid the chaos.

The first soldier strikes, his blade humming with a disturbingly familiar blue energy that flickers against my shadows. The contact sends a jolt through me, not merely physical pain, but something deeper, slowing my response as power recoils unexpectedly. I parry clumsily, and my counterattack comes from muscle memory and desperation, rather than skill.

My blade passes through his defenses before he registers the movement, darkness flowing into the wound rather than blood flowing out. His mouth opens in a silent scream as shadow consumes him from within, his eyes turning black before he collapses.

The second attacks more cautiously, weapon held in a defensive stance, aware now of what he faces. Behind him, others are regaining their bearings, reorganizing to close the distance I’ve created. I engage the soldier directly, blade to blade, tendrils of shadows extending outward to feint and confuse, while part of my awareness tracks Varam.

He’s almost clear.

Three soldiers angle to cut him off, but he’s too fast. A few seconds more, and he’ll vanish into the treeline, beyond their reach. Toward the river. Toward her.

---