Page 11 of Veinblood
Just the artificial hum of heating systems and the muffled sounds of a city struggling through a blizzard.
Exhaustion pulls at me, but I resist it. Sleep feels like abandonment, like giving up on the vigil I need to keep. If I can't search for him tonight, at least I can hold onto this connection, this proof that we're both here, both surviving.
But eventually, my body betrays me. My eyelids grow heavy, my breathing slows, and consciousness slips away despite my efforts to stay awake.
Sleep brings dreams of Thornspire’s walls cracking under the force of our combined powers. Sacha’s face in the moment before the light consumed everything. The crystal’s blue light. Sereven’s expression.
And the silver haired woman’s warnings.
Chapter Four
SACHA
“The cold teaches what fire cannot—that survival demands surrender to forces beyond our control.”
Writings of the Flamevein Oracles
The snow continues fallingas I move through the unfamiliar landscape, each step taking me deeper into a realm that I don’t understand. The strange surface beneath my feet, harder and more level than any stone road in Meridian, offers solid footing despite the storm.
The cold penetrates deeper with each passing hour. It’s still mild in Meridian, winter has yet to set in, and my clothes offer little protection against the weather here. Ice forms on the fabric where my breath touches it. Each step takes more effort than the one before. Stiffness begins in my hands, then spreads, slow and persistent, through the rest of my body. I flex my fingers, forcing circulation back into them.
The cold is an enemy I can’t negotiate with. But stopping isn’t an option. I can’t afford to rest. Not until I’ve found her.
I pause at regular intervals to test the faint connection,feeling for any change in strength or direction. It remains weak and steady, still pulling northwest, leading between buildings that rise around me like the cliff-faces at Thornreave Pass.
A part of me hoped it would change. That she might feel it. That, somehow, she would reach back.
She hasn’t. Not yet. I should be thankful that it holds, at least. I just don’t know if that means she’s safe, or simply alive.
In Meridian, night would bring me an advantage. Darkness to hide within, shadows to use. Here, light spills from walls, and doorways, and glass panes suspended above the streets. It doesn’t fade or shift with the passage of time. It doesn’t follow the arc of the sun or yield to dusk. It remains constant, forcing the dark to recede, and makes true concealment impossible.
I check to ensure there is no one nearby, then send my raven ahead, directing it through narrow gaps between buildings, and extending my awareness beyond what my eyes can reach. It confirms what I already expected to find. The streets are mostly empty, the storm driving people indoors, and the pathways are quiet beneath the weight of snow.
A door ahead of me opens, and a group spills out onto the street, voices raised in laughter. The light from within floods the steps behind them. Their movements are loose, unguarded, as they stumble forward, ignoring everything around them. I slip beneath the overhang of a building, shadows drawing close around me and shielding me from view.
Their voices carry across the snow—laughter, arguments, the kind of ease that follows alcohol and good times withfriends. I don’t understand the words, but I recognize the rhythm. I’ve heard it after battles, when survival itself feels like reason enough to speak loudly into the dark.
One stumbles against his companion, who shoves him away with a bark of laughter. They speak in rapid bursts, their breath forming clouds in the cold air ahead of them. The casual violence in their play-fighting reminds me of the young soldiers under my command.
As they pass where I stand, one of them stops. His head tilts slightly, eyes narrowing as if trying to focus through shadow. For a moment, I think he sees me. I hold still. I don’t move. I don’t breathe. Shadows gather at my fingertips, ready to strike if the balance shifts.
The man’s companions call to him, their tones impatient. He hesitates, then shrugs and turns back, rejoining his friends. I stay where I am until their footsteps fade, then count another fifty heartbeats before stepping back into the open. The encounter reminds me how exposed I am here, how little I understand about this world's dangers.
The cold grows worse the longer I walk, and eventually it reaches a point I can’t ignore and push through. My limbs are heavy. My clothes are soaked, offering little protection against the relentless assault of wind and snow. Each gust cuts through fabric as if it were paper, stealing what little warmth my body generates.
Ice crystals form in my hair, on my eyelashes. When Iblink, they scrape against my skin. Even breathing hurts, each inhalation like swallowing knives.
I force myself to keep moving while my raven flies above my head, searching for somewhere I can shelter for the night. Each location it offers is too crowded, too exposed, or too well-sealed. It was a mistake to leave the place I’d secured earlier. Had I known the storm would become this bad, I would have stayed where I was and waited for morning.
I could shape a shelter from shadow. The magic would hold against wind and snow, creating warmth where none exists. But this world has no understanding of what it might see. A structure of pure darkness materializing in the middle of the pathway would draw attention I can’t afford. If someone noticed, I wouldn’t have time to correct the mistake, nor the language to convince them they saw nothing unusual.
Then the raven shows me something promising. An unfinished structure just ahead, its incomplete state allowing access through gaps in the framework. Footprints in the snow show that people were here recently, but they’re being filled in even as I watch.
I approach carefully, searching through shadows for hidden watchers or unexpected obstacles. The building rises three levels above the street, its outer walls a patchwork of wood and other strange materials. Tools lie scattered in the snow, half-buried, where workers must have abandoned them when the storm arrived. Even only half-built, it seems solid, standing firm against the wind.
Ducking through a gap in the wood, I step inside. The wind lessens immediately, though the air is no warmer. Snow still drifts through open spaces, but at least the worst of the storm stays outside.
My raven moves ahead of me, searching for threats. It finds none, but it does locate stairs leading to the next level. I test each step before putting my weight on it, listening for cracks or strain, until I reach the floor above.
