Page 56 of Shadowvein

I remain where I am until their footsteps fade. Until silence retakes the forest.

The bodies are already beginning to cool. Blood darkens the leaves beneath them, sinking into root and soil.

Nothing in me regrets what I’ve done. But something in me resists what it costs. Exhaustion pulls at my lips. Sweat drips down my spine. Drawing on the void shouldn’t be this draining. But I know why, and until I reclaim the last remaining parts of my power, the weakness will remain.

I walk back to the camp in darkness, silent as the shadow I command. The raven returns ahead of me, circling once before dissolving into my skin. No one else stirs. The caravan leader andguard didn’t raise any alarms. The world sleeps on, unaware of how near it came to waking in fire, or not waking at all.

The shelter is as I left it.

I don’t enter immediately. Instead, I stand outside, letting the night wash over me. The hunger that has followed me since my release has dulled, but it hasn’t vanished. I fed it something ancient tonight. Something I once believed would feel like victory.

It doesn’t.

Ellie stirs, and I turn to watch her. Her eyes open briefly before closing again, lashes dark against her cheeks. She clutches the cloak tighter against her, a small sound escaping her throat as she settles deeper into sleep. The wariness that tightens her features in waking hours has softened, revealing a vulnerability she tries to hide from me when she’s conscious.

I find myself unable to look away. There’s something disquieting in the stillness of her expression. In sleep, her face appears younger. Unburdened.

A strand of hair falls across her face, and my hand lifts of its own accord.

An arc of brownish-red streaks the back of it. My gaze catches on the shape. Blood. Not just a splash, but an arterial spray—thick, fresh enough to glisten in the moonlight. It runs between my fingers in slow rivulets, mapping the lines of my palm like some macabre fortune-telling. Beneath it, shadows move, turning the blood nearly black where they mix.

I freeze, hand suspended inches from her cheek.

The contrast is stark—her unmarked skin against mine, paintedin death. For a moment, I see it. What I am. A creature of void and violence, reaching toward something untouched by either. The blood seems to pulse against my skin, a reminder of the lives I’ve just unmade with these same fingers.

I let my hand fall, curling it into a fist that sends a drop of crimson spattering to the dirt between us.

Stepping back, I return to the entrance of the shelter, and draw shadows tighter around me, my thoughts still with the woman sleeping nearby.

How strange her experience must be—torn from her world, thrust into a realm of unfamiliar dangers, dependent on a stranger with abilities she doesn’t understand. Yet she hasn’t broken. She adapts. She learns. She survives. These are not insignificant qualities. They speak of a strength that resonates within me, a recognition I find increasingly difficult to dismiss as mere tactical appreciation.

My familiar responds to my thoughts, its consciousness brushing against mine. It's curious about this woman from another world. It combs through my memories of her arrival, and in return offers its own. The years I was sealed, and the figures who passed the tower without ever knowing it was there.

What quality allowed her to succeed where hundreds failed?The question won’t leave me.

With dawn, the caravan begins to stir. Traders rise, kindling small fires and preparing morning meals. Their routines speak of lives spent on these mountain routes, moving goods between settlements according to seasonalpatterns.

Pack animals are fed. Cookware clinks. The scent of frying bread filters through the early morning chill.

None of them know what the night held. They pass within yards of where blood still darkens the forest floor, unaware that death moved so close to their dreams. The leader has kept his word. There is no sign of the bandits remains anywhere.

Ellie wakes when a nearby family stokes their fire, the soft crackle of flame catching in the air. Her eyes find mine immediately, that ever-present wariness returning with her consciousness.

“Good morning.” She sits up and tucks her borrowed cloak around her shoulders.

I incline my head. “We should reach Ravencross by high sun. The path follows the valley alongside the river.”

We’re invited to sit with others for a simple breakfast—flatbreads cooked on hot stones, dried fruit, and tea—then move among them as they pack for departure.

As I mount my sandstrider, the caravan leader approaches, and stops beside the beast’s head.

“The path to Ravencross passes through a narrow gorge.” He points northeast. “Authority patrols have increased there in the last few days. Those traveling without proper documentation often face questioning.”

The warning is clear.

“I appreciate the information. Perhaps there are alternate routes for travelers who prefer discretion?” There were three the last time I passed through here, but I can’t assume they’re still safe.

He studies me for a long moment, then nods toward a trailbranching northward. “The ridge path takes longer, but offers privacy. It rejoins the main road near the western gate.”

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