Page 83 of Shadowvein

With each movement, the chamber darkens as the void responds to my practice. My familiar stirs actively now, its awareness bleeding into the weapon until I can feel every vibration of air the blade disturbs, see the minute changes in light and temperature as the edge passes through space. Sword and shadow artist becoming one entity.

I execute a final sequence—feint, step, upward cut that trails absolute darkness—and the blade phases briefly intangible before solidifying again at my thought. This is what they feared. Not just a man with a weapon, but a Shadowvein who can control the void, and make death itself take form.

Three short knocks sound against the door, disrupting my flow.

The door opens, and Varam enters, carrying a rolled bundle of maps and papers under one arm. His eyes follow the blade and the darkness that follows it like loyal hounds. A flicker of a smile touches his lips, before he nods once, as if to saythere you are.

“Still quick with that blade.” He sets everything down onto the table. “I wouldn’t want to face you, even after all these years.”

“Muscle remembers what the mind forgets.” I slide the swordback into its sheath. Eventually, I’ll return it to shadow, but for now I want the solid weight of it at my hip. The mantle of leadership settles back onto my shoulders as I join him at the table. “What do you have?”

“Reports from our scouts.” He unrolls a map. “I’ve sent word to the outer knots. Only the ones I trust with the news of your return.”

I study the parchment he’s laid out. It’s a detailed rendering of landscapes once familiar, now marked with changes that speak of years of Authority expansion. Red markings indicate checkpoints, patrols, and garrison strengths. Territories I once moved through freely, have been carved up and are now controlled by the Authority. All information gathered at considerable risk to the scouts.

“How many will come?” My fingers trace what used to be free passage, now blocked by Authority checkpoints.

“Eight. Perhaps ten. A couple are already here. Ferrin will arrive shortly with reports from the west.” He taps the map. “Look here. They’ve doubled the garrison at Riverfork, and established a permanent checkpoint at Blackbridge Crossing. These positions have been reinforced in the last couple of months.”

He pulls another map from his collection, laying it on top of the first. This one shows supply lines—routes marked in varying colors indicating degrees of Authority control. The pattern is clear. A web of control, tightening around any existing pockets of freedom.

“The northern trade route was lost after the Earthvein purge.”

He points to a faded path that once connected mountain settlements where our strongest allies lived. Where children with earth magic once raised stone sculptures for play, not defense.

“They redirected everything through the central valley, where checkpoints can monitor all movement.”

I absorb the information, rage coiling beneath the still surface of my thoughts. Varam has become more than the commander I left behind. He has adapted, endured, learned to lead a cause forced into hiding. A Veinwarden who has preserved what could not be openly defended.

“What is our current strength?”

“Three hundred active throughout all regions. Perhaps five hundred sympathizers who provide intelligence, supplies, occasional shelter.”

The numbers are far below what I once commanded.

“We had to prioritize survival over direct confrontation since Thornreave.”

Before I can respond, there’s another knock. A tall man enters, pausing just inside the doorway. For a moment, his expression falters, eyes widening as they meet mine.

He recovers quickly, but not completely. His spine straightens. His eyes don’t.

“Lord Torran.” His voice remains steady, despite the shock on his face.

I study him, searching for familiarity in features changed by years and hardship. “Ferrin.”

Varam nods. “Ferrin oversees everyone in the western settlements. His knot monitors Authority movements across Blackhollow, Fireground Deep, and Silverkeep.”

He approaches the table, and deposits additional maps besidethose Varam has arranged, then waits, not stiff, but clearly uncertain if he should speak.

He doesn’t speak until I incline my head.

“Western patrol reports,” he begins. His voice holds steady now, but he avoids my eyes. “Authority movement along the trade routes increased yesterday. They’ve added checkpoints at three major crossings.”

“Is there a pattern?”

“All are concentrated along routes leading from the Sunfire Dunes.” His gaze flicks up, just long enough to catch mine, before veering off again. “They’re searching for something …” He pauses. “Or someone.”

“Any signs that they’ve found anything of note?”

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