Page 118 of Veinblood
When we reach the doors leading to the throne room, his steps slow. The two Veinwardens standing outside straighten, salute, and then step forward to open the doors. They swing open silently. Sacha hesitates for a heartbeat before nodding and stepping across the threshold … crossing back into a life stolen from him.
The throne room comes into view before us, its vaulted ceiling disappearing into shadows that even the sunlight streaming through the tall stained glass windows cannot fully reach.
Sacha stops walking, his breath catching. The sound is so quiet I almost miss it beneath the echo of footsteps as Varam and Mira step through the doors behind us.
I move closer. His gaze sweeps the room, and a muscle in his jaw ticks when his eyes find the throne. The longing there isclear. The look of a man seeing home after years of believing it lost to him forever.
“The Obsidian Throne. My grandfather sat there when he signed the Treaty of Seven Winds. My father held court there for thirty-nine years.”
At the edge of my awareness, I can hear Varam and Mira talking quietly as they move deeper into the room. But Sacha remains where he is. He’s studying the room, his eyes moving from one detail to the next with the same intensity he’d use to assess an upcoming battle. I wonder if he’s seeing a different version, anoldermemory of what it used to look like.
I touch his arm. The muscles beneath my fingers are coiled tight, ready for action. “It’s yours now.”
His eyes narrow slightly, the only sign that my words have reached him.
“If you would rather wait before meeting people, you could show me around? I haven’t had a chance to see anywhere other than the throne room and a bedroom yet.”
He turns toward me, and for just a moment, his mouth softens into something that isn’t quite a smile, but close. His hand brushes against mine.
“Varam.” He turns to where Varam and Mira are standing examining the restored banners. “Take Jorana and Corwin, and meet with the Veinwardens. Arrange for a formal audience tomorrow with both them and the Veinbloods who helped take the city.”
“Where are you going?”
“There is something I want to see.” He waves a hand for me to precede him out of the room. “The Spire has seven levels. The throne room, which is called the Hall of Ascension, occupies the heart of the fourth level. Below it are the council chambers, public areas, servants quarters, and below ground is the archives. Above are private quarters for guests and higher staff who live here. My quarters were on the sixth level. The seventh was where my parents lived.”
The mention of his parents sends a shadow across his features, brief but unmissable. I wonder what memories those rooms hold, whether Sereven destroyed them or took them for his own.
We climb the stairs in silence, and step into a hallway. There are two sets of double doors facing each other. One set has iron bands crossing them, secured with locks to keep them closed. The other set is partially open.
Sacha glances at the open doors, but doesn’t move toward them.
“Those are Sereven’s quarters.” His voice is quiet, with no hint of what he’s thinking. He turns to face the locked doors. “These were mine.”
Were. Past tense.
He stares at the doors, at the locks, and I find myself holding my breath. The tension building is almost unbearable. I can see the war between the desire to open the doors and the fear of what he might find playing out across his face in waysmost people wouldn’t notice. A slight clenching of his jaw, the narrowing of his eyes, the way the fingers of one hand flex.
“Maybe some things are better left as they were. What if?—”
“What if what?”
He doesn’t answer. Just stares at those locks like they’re snakes coiled to bite. Shadows pool around his fingertips.
“It doesn’t matter.”
But itdoesmatter. This isn’t just about entering a room. It’s about facing the life that was stolen from him by the one person he should have been able to trust. It’s about the man he used to be before betrayal, imprisonment, and torture stripped everything away.
The shadows move, flowing outward to the locks, and pouring through the keyholes. They click open one by one until the iron bars tilt down, leaving the doors free to open. With one more flick of his finger, another stream of shadows fills the main lock on the door, and this time when it clicks, the sound echoes along the hallway.
The doors swing open to reveal a small antechamber with a white marble floor inlaid with gold. Lightstones flare as we step inside, their amber glow pushing back the darkness. Two large pots stand either side of the doors. The fact they’re not covered in dust suggests someone has been here.
Recently.
Sacha doesn’t pause. He strides through the space, and throws open the second set of doors.
Light streams through tall arched windows, and dust motesdance in the beams of sunlight. The air smells clean and fresh, not at all what I’d expect from rooms that had been sealed off. Sacha steps inside, and I follow him, watching the way his shoulders tense with every detail he takes in.
He moves to a high-backed chair, carved from deep red wood, placed beside the window. There’s a small round table beside it, and on top a book lies open, face down, as though whoever was reading it had just stepped away.
