Page 134 of Veinblood
The next morning I wake to find Sacha's side of the bed empty. When I get up and look around, he’s already dressed and standing at the tall window in the main sitting room, watching something outside.
“What's happening?” I join him at the window.
“More Veinwardens are arriving.” He points toward the courtyard where travel-stained riders are dismounting. “This is the fourth group since dawn. Word is spreading that Ashenvale has fallen to the Veinbloods. They're coming to see if it's true … if the Shadowvein Lord has really returned.”
I study the new arrivals from our vantage point. These people move with a wariness that speaks of spending decades in hiding, scanning for threats even within the supposedly now-safe walls of Ashenvale.
“How many do you expect?”
“Veinwardens from every surviving knot across Meridian, eventually.” His expression is neutral, but I catch the tension around his eyes. “They need to see their prince with their own eyes before they'll believe it's real.”
The stream of arrivals continues throughout the day. Each group brings the same mixture of hope and wariness. They want to believe their prince has truly returned, but years of loss have taught them caution. By evening, I've watched a dozenconversations where Veinwardens stare at Sacha in wonder, some seeing him for the first time, and some recognizing a face they thought they'd never see again.
The pattern repeats over the following days. Morning meetings with new arrivals, afternoons reviewing incoming information about Authority movements, evenings planning. I find myself drawn into these discussions more than I expected, attending as Sacha's consort, and the person these people see as his chosen partner.
Mira finds my adjustment to the attention amusing. “You should see your face when they bow,” she says around a laugh on the third morning. “It’s as though you're expecting them to suddenly announce this was all a mistake.”
“Because Iamexpecting that. I still feel like a fraud wearing his crown.”
“You're learning. That's all anyone can do.”
“What if I make choices that get people killed?”
“Then you'll learn from those mistakes and do better next time. Leadership is about accepting responsibility and continuing to serve despite the burden.”
That afternoon brings news about Sereven's movements. Varam enters the study where Sacha has been meeting with newly arrived Veinwarden leaders, and spreads a map across the table.
"Multiple sources confirm Sereven is moving south toward Blackvault. Many of his forces defected during the retreat rather than fight against the returned High Prince. But his core command structure remains intact.”
“How many commanders?” Sacha asks.
“Seven confirmed.” Varam points to different locations marked on the map. “Remove enough of them, and he will become isolated.”
“We'll hunt them. Strip away his support structure until he's nothing but a man with delusions of power.”
“And if he tries to flee Meridian entirely?”
“He won't.” The certainty in Sacha's voice is absolute. “Losing Ashenvale, then learning that I not only survived, but have reclaimed my throne will drive him to desperation. He'll want to face me directly, to prove he was right to try to destroy everything I represent.”
“Which makes him predictable.” I blurt the words out, and both men turn to look at me.
“It will make himvulnerable.” Sacha's smile turns predatory. “Emotion clouds judgment. Desperation leads to mistakes. When he finally comes for us, he'll be thinking with his hatred instead of with logic.”
As the meeting breaks up and people begin making preparations, I find myself thinking about how much has changed since the coronation. Three days ago, the crown felt like a burden. Now it feels like armor, as protection for everyone who looks to us for leadership.
That night, I wake to find Sacha's side of the bed empty. Moonlight streams through the balcony doors, lighting up his figure as he moves quietly around the chamber. He's dressed indark clothes I've never seen before. Soft leather that makes no sound, and dark fabric that seems to drink shadows.
“Where are you going?” I sit up, pushing hair away from my face.
He freezes, then turns to face me. “I didn't mean to wake you.”
“That’snotan answer. Where are you going dressed like that?”
For a moment, I think he's going to deflect or lie. Then he sighs. “To settle a debt.”
“What kind of debt?”
“The kind that requires blood.” His voice turns cold in a way that makes chills run down my spine. “The torturer who left me in the state you found me in. He's still here, still breathing, still plying his trade.”
