Page 78 of Shadowvein

Writings of the Flamevein Oracles

The voicesin the main chamber are getting louder—deep and urgent, punctuated by what sounds like commands or questions. I press my ear against the door, trying to decipher meaning from tones alone. Frustration eats at me as the foreign words slip past my understanding, meaningless sounds that tell me nothing.

This language barrier isolates me more effectively than the desert ever could. At least when it was just me and Sacha, Iexisted. Here, I’m invisible, surrounded by people whose words, gestures, and expressions all carry meanings I can’t grasp. I haven’t heard a single word that even sounds like anything from home. My dependence on Sacha for translation keeps me tethered to him, an invisible chain I never asked for.

Taking a deep breath, I push the door open and step into the main chamber.

The scene before me freezes momentarily as several pairs of eyes turn in my direction. The underground room has been transformed overnight into what looks like a command center. Mapsand documents cover the large wooden table, weighted down with small stones and daggers. A dozen people surround it. Three of them are faces I recognize from yesterday, the rest are new. They all study me with undisguised curiosity.

I’ve never been good at being the center of attention. I shift from one foot to the other, aware of what they must see. Whatever this group is, they’re comfortable with each other, theybelongto each other. And I don’t … not really. Except maybe Sacha, in the way that cages belong to keys.

My palms itch with the urge to shrink in on myself, and vanish into the wall. Instead, I keep moving, slow and careful, pretending that the stare of a dozen strangers doesn’t make my skin crawl.

Sacha is standing at the head of the table, mid-gesture over a map. Everything about him looks different this morning. Gone is the man who walked the desert beside me.

The black tunic is sharper than the one he wore in the tower. It’s stitched close to the shape of him, fastening in a line of fine silver hooks that catch the light from the lamps. The fabric has weight, the kind that moves only when he does. His pants match, dark and fitted, tucked into boots polished to a dull, near-mirror sheen.

Nothing soft. Nothing loose. The blade Varam gave him yesterday hangs in the scabbard at his hip, the belt wrapped around his waist.

But it’s not just the clothes.

He stands differently. Shoulders back, head high. He moves like someone used to being obeyed without question. I’m not sure if that’s more reassuring or terrifying.

When he touches the map, they pay attention. When he speaks, they hold their breath and listen.

He hasn’t said much about this place, or these people. But I canseehow they look at him. Like he never left … and I’m the one who doesn’t belong.

“Vashna tem, Ellie,” Varam says, nodding in my direction. My name sounds strange coming from him. Their accents make my name sound exotic instead of plain. His face reveals nothing, but the slight incline of his head feels respectful.

I hazard a guess at the meaning of the words.

“Good morning?” I inch carefully around the edge of the room, and all eyes follow me.

Sacha says something to the assembled group before stepping away from the table and coming to stand in front of me.

“Did you sleep well?”

“Mostly.” The dream I had still hovers at the edges of my mind—Chicago snow, the tower, the raven with eyes that were far too intelligent to be a mere bird. It had moved like it knew me. “What’s going on?”

“Preparations.”

He glances back at the table when one of them calls out to him. Every word they trade is a locked door I can’t open. Every sentence Sacha has to translate is something he’s chosen to reveal … or keep.

“More will be arriving throughout the day. We’re assessing current Authority positions and our remaining resources.”

His use of ‘we’ and ‘our’ doesn’t escape my notice.

Mira appears at my side, carrying a wooden tray with bread, fruit,and something that reminds me of a teapot, with smoke curling out of its spout.

“Neresh kavir solavin.”She gestures toward a small table away from the main gathering.

“Mira is offering you breakfast,” Sacha translates. “And will begin your language lessons, if you’re agreeable.”

The prospect of learning to communicate independently sends a wave of relief through me. A tiny rebellion—each word I learn is one less reason I have to rely on him for everything.

“Yes, please.”

She leads me to the small table, setting down the tray before pouring two drinks from the pot. She sits across from me, and places a cup and plate in front of me.

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