Page 90 of Shadowvein

The chamber feels smaller than it did yesterday. The low ceiling. The unmoving air. The way sound seems to press inward instead of drifting out.

I hate to admit it, even to myself, but I miss the desert, the open silence between dunes. I even miss the tower, the temperature inside that was just right.

This space is built for safety, but it feels like more of a prison than the tower did. Like I’m stuck somewhere that makes it too hard to breathe.

I don’t know if I make a noise, but Sacha’s head lifts. He turns toward me, gaze flicking across the room until it finds mine.

For a heartbeat, we just look at each other.

Then Varam touches his sleeve, and he turns back to the map without a word, without a change in expression, shutting me out …again.

He’s been continuously evolving since we arrived in Ravencross. The man I met in the tower, careful with his words and movements, has been replaced by someone who radiates authority and power. The people here defer to him without hesitation, their body language shifting the moment he speaks. Some of the older ones look at him with something like admiration and anticipation. The younger ones watch him with barely concealed awe.

How much of what he told me in the tower was true, and how much was calculated—crafted to earn my help, to win his freedom? The questions don’t let me rest. And more than that, are Sacha and these people fighting real oppression, or are they the threat the Authority claims?

Without the language, without the history, I'm blind to the truth of this place. For all I know, I've aligned myself with something I should fear. The weight of this uncertainty settles in my stomach likea stone. I thought I was helping someone escape injustice. But maybe I’ve made myself complicit in something I don’t understand.

The doubt won’t leave me, constantly circling under the surface. Am I surrounded by people who are oppressed or are they a danger to society?

Maybe they’re both.

The main door slams open, hitting the wall with a bang loud enough to make even Mira jump. A man bursts through, not even waiting for it to swing wide. He’s breathing hard, eyes sharp as they scan the room and lock onto Varam.

He doesn’t pause before launching into a stream of words delivered so quickly that I can’t even pick out the ones Idoknow. Whatever he says makes Varam snap upright. He says something to Sacha, and the three of them move to the far side of the room. Their conversation is quick, low, while everyone at the table watches and waits.

After a few minutes, they break apart, and return to the table. Varam looks over in our direction.

“Mira.”

She nods, then pours a cup of the herbal drink they favor here. In my head I call it tea. She places it in front of me, pats my hand, then rises and crosses to the others.

The instruction is clear.

Stay here. Stay quiet.

I take a sip, and watch as Sacha traces a line across one of the maps. Whatever he says makes Varam frown, his head shaking once. The tension between them is obvious, even from across the room.Something has changed, and it’s serious enough that even I can feel it. And once again, I’m on the outside, watching the pieces move without being told what they mean.

Frustration spikes, hotter than before. I’m tired of being the outsider, the silent one in the corner, the one who's sheltered, but never informed. Iknowthe language gap makes things harder, but Sacha could explain if he wanted to. And that’s the problem. Hechoosesnot to. He chooses to leave me in the dark. And when hedoesspeak to me, I know he’s editing. Choosing which truths I’m allowed to hear, and which ones stay locked in a language I can’t reach.

I set down my cup harder than I mean to. Liquid sloshes over the rim, spattering across the table. The sound echoes in the quiet, right as the messenger turns to leave. Others follow, filing out behind him with grim expressions that make my stomach tighten.

Sacha stays where he is, alone at the table now, shoulders hunched, back rigid. The way his fingers press into the parchment speaks louder than any of the words I can’t translate. Whatever just happened, it’s serious.

And I’mstillbeing treated like a child. Four days of quiet smiles and obedient nods. Four days of pretending I don’t notice that I’m being managed. It reminds me of the group home I was raised in. The way staff used to talk around us, nottous. Decisions made in low voices. Always expecting us to wait quietly, to be grateful for scraps of inclusion. I learned early how to fade into the walls of a room. How to take silence as instruction.

Heat rises to my face, a slow-burning anger that's been buildingfor days. The taste of it is metallic on my tongue, a counterpoint to the bitter herbs of the tea.

Enough.

My skin is too hot, my hands cold. My pulse thrums beneath the tightness in my jaw. This might be my only chance to speak to him alone. I rise and cross the chamber.

Sacha doesn’t look up, but I know he hears me coming.

Healwayshears me.

“What’s happening?” I stop at the opposite end of the table.

“Preparations.” He doesn’t look up.

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