Page 42 of Shadowvein

“Will they see us?” My heart hammers against my ribs, the danger suddenly, terrifyingly real. These aren’t distant threats. They’re here …now. And whatever they want, it won’t be good. But my fear of a new unknown mingles with a new wariness of the man beside me. What else can he do?

“Not if we hide.” His hand closes around my arm, firm but not painful, as he guides me behind a cluster of rocks.

I fall silent, but now another fear is building underneath the first. I only know what he’s told me about why he was imprisoned and I can’t help wondering … If it came down to survival, would he protect me? Or cut me loose?

We crouch down, just as three mounted figures crest the riseahead. The creatures they ride look like horses …almost.But they’re wrong in small, unsettling ways. Leaner. Longer-limbed. Their necks curve too much. Their hides catch the light in a way skin shouldn’t, every movement flashing across scales like heat shimmer.

The riders are wearing deep red cloaks over fitted armor, their faces hidden behind faceless, glinting helmets. Each carries a long spear tipped with metal that flares like a signal every time it catches the sun. They ride in single file, and the path they’re following will bring them within three hundred yards of where we’re crouched.

“Authority patrol,” Sacha confirms in a whisper. “I think it’s a standard sweep. They’re not looking for us … yet.”

I wait until the last rider vanishes behind a rise before I speak. “What would they do if they saw us?”

“They’d try to capture me. Put me back in chains.” His voice goes flat. “You’d be questioned. Then imprisoned. Or executed. Anyone who aids an escaped ‘heretic’ is guilty by default.”

Out of everything he said, one word stands out.

Executed.

It takes a full second before my body reminds me to breathe. My palms are slick. A cold weight settles low in my stomach. I knew I was in danger the moment I stepped through that door in the tower … but this is different.

We stay hidden until Sacha is certain they’re gone. Then we move, at a speed that has my legs burning while I try to keep up with his longer strides.

By late afternoon, the heat is a weight I can’t shake. My clothes cling with sweat, my boots drag with sand, and every breath feelsheavier than the last. I consider stripping out of my sweater, only that would leave my arms to the mercy of the sun. But the heat, the distance, the rationed water—they’ve started to wear me down, slow and steady.

“There’s a water source not much farther.” Sacha points to something in the distance. “An oasis. We should reach it by evening.”

The wordoasiscuts through the fog in my head. I straighten a little. “Will it be safe? Could there be more patrols?”

“It used to be a stop for nomads who avoided Authority entanglements. If nothing has changed, they’re still seen as neutral, at least on the surface.” His expression stays guarded. “But we’ll need to be cautious.”

The light changes, the sun starts to set, and that’s when I see it … a smudge of green against the endless sand.

“The oasis.” Sacha confirms.

Details become clearer as we draw closer. A cluster of what looks like date palms surrounding a small pool of water, and several dome-shaped tents arranged in a semicircle. Goats graze on the scrubby vegetation at the outer edge, and smoke rises from a central fire pit.

“Stay quiet,” Sacha says. “The nomads speak a trade language. I’ll translate for you.”

“Will they recognize you?”

“It’s unlikely. It’s been many years since I passed this way.” His jaw tightens, just slightly. Enough to make me wonder what he’s thinking. “And those who did see me then would have little reason to remember.”

A tall woman emerges from the largest tent as we approach, hergaze assessing us with obvious curiosity. She’s wearing loose clothing in shades of red and blue, and her hair is covered in an elaborate scarf.

She calls out, her voice carrying across the distance between us. I have no idea what she says, but the questioning tone is clear.

Sacha responds, his stance loosening, shoulders relaxing. He gestures to me now and then, and I do my best to look inconspicuous and tired … which isn’t hard.

Their exchange continues for several minutes, then the woman nods and waves a hand toward the water. Sacha turns to me.

“We’re welcome to enter and access the water. They’ve offered their hospitality for the evening,” he says. “I told her we’re passing through on our way east.”

The pool is smaller than it looked from a distance, but gloriously real. I want nothing more than to sink into it whole, but I follow Sacha’s lead, kneeling at the edge to drink and refill the waterskin. The water is cool, refreshing, and sweet, without the odd taste of the tower’s supply, or the bitterness of the desert plants.

“Drink slowly,” Sacha warns. “Too much at once will make you ill.”

One of the nomads approaches with a clay bowl. The smell of stew reaches me, warm and spiced, rich enough to make my mouth water. I accept it gratefully, along with a piece of flatbread, and balance both on my knees. The bowl contains unfamiliar meat and vegetables. It’s heavily spiced, but it might just be the best thing I’ve ever eaten.

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