Page 146 of Veinblood
“But what if next time I’m wrong? What if my emotions decide someone is a threat when they’re not? What if I become the kind of person who kills first and asks questions later?” Her teeth sink into her lip, and her voice drops to a whisper. “What if I become like him?”
I study her face in the moonlight, taking in the worry in her eyes, the way her mouth tightens. It’s not the expression of someone drunk on power or eager for more violence. This is someone horrified by her own capacity for destruction, terrified of the darkness she's discovered within herself.
And that terror, more than anything else, proves she's nothing like Sereven.
“Do you want to know the difference between you and my brother?” I brush my thumbs across her cheeks, feeling the lingering warmth of magic just beneath her skin. “Sereven enjoyed the killing from the beginning. He sought out excuses to use his power. He created enemies where none existed, turned every disagreement into a reason for violence.”
Her eyes meet mine.
“You're sitting here sick with horror at what you've done, questioning every instinct, terrified of becoming something dark. That self-doubt, that capacity for disgust at your own actions … that's what will keep you human.”
“But Ididenjoy it,” she whispers. “For a moment, when they all fell at once, I felt ... intoxicated. Like I could do anything, become anything. The power wanted more, and part of me wanted to give it more.”
“And that terrifies you.”
“Yes.”
“Good. The day it stops terrifying you is the day you need to worry.” I lean closer, my forehead touching hers. “Power without restraint is destruction. Power with fear is wisdom. You're learning the difference between necessary violence and cruelty.”
She's quiet for a long moment, processing my words. I can almost see the internal struggle playing out behind her eyes.
“I’m not the same woman I was when I first arrived here.”
“No. You’re not. Does that frighten you?”
“Yes. It should frighten you too. I just killed twenty-fourmen, and felt satisfied doing it. That’s not normal, Sacha. That’s not who I used to be.”
“The woman you used to be could have gotten us all killed tonight.” I help her to her feet, and she sways slightly. “Mourn her passing, but you have become what you need to be to survive. What this world requires of you.”
I look around. Everyone is back on their horses, waiting for us. We need to put distance between ourselves and this place before anyone comes investigating. The smell of death and the lightning will draw attention—from both humans and scavengers.
“We should go. Your lightning will have been visible for miles.”
She nods. I offer her my arm, and she leans against me as we walk back to her horse.
“How do you live with it?” Her voice is quiet as she prepares to mount. “The satisfaction? Because I know you feel it too. I've seen it in your eyes when you kill.”
I don’t answer straight away. How do I explain that the satisfaction comes not from the killing itself, but from the justice of it? That every life I take is considered against the lives it will save? That I've learned to separate the necessary dark pleasure that keeps me sharp from the destructive hunger that would consume everything I care about?
How do I tell her that some nights the ghosts of those I've killed do visit my dreams, their faces mixing with older horrors from my past?
“Some nights are harder than others. But I’ve learned that the alternative … that letting evil triumph because I was too squeamish to stop it … costs more sleep than taking action ever could. And I accept that part of me enjoys the victory, the moment when justice is served. But I never let that enjoyment drive my decisions. The satisfaction comes after the necessity, never before.”
“And if someday the line gets blurred? If I can't tell the difference between justice and revenge?”
“Then you'll have me to remind you. Just as you remind me that there are still things worth protecting.” I stroke my thumbs across her cheekbones, marveling at how someone who just leveled two dozen men can still look so fragile. “We'll keep each other human, Mel'shira.”
She considers this as she reaches for her horse’s reins, then pauses. “I used to think there were clear lines between good and evil. That protecting people meant never becoming something dark yourself.”
“And now?”
“Now I think those lines exist mostly in stories.” She swings herself into the saddle with visible effort. “Real protection sometimes requires becoming the monster so others don’t have to.”
She touches her heels to the horse’s flanks and it moves forward. I keep a careful eye on her as we ride, noting the way she occasionally sways in the saddle, how her hands grip the reins too tightly to compensate for her unsteadiness. If there's one thing I've learned about Ellie, it's that she's stubborn. She won't admit that what she did has exhausted her until she's about to collapse.
I find myself thinking about her transformation, about the woman who first entered my tower with terror in her eyes. That Ellie would have been horrified by tonight's violence, would have tried to find another way, would have hesitated at the crucial moment and gotten us all killed.
This Ellie—the one swaying in her saddle ahead of me—acted without hesitation when our lives were threatened. She didn't flinch from necessary violence, didn't waste time with useless mercy toward those who would have shown us none.
