Page 77 of Veinblood
“And the choices you make.” Meren’s voice is softer than it’s been all evening. “I still believe your presence here is dangerous. We cannot rush into a decision.”
I look between the three of them, these people who gave up everything to save me.
Kalliss smiles. “You represent the possibility that thingscanchange.”
Or I represent the threat that could destroy everything they’ve built.
Chapter Twenty-Two
SACHA
“What the Authority calls chaos, the Vein calls completeness.”
Writings of the Veinblood Masters
The sun rises slowly,casting long shadows across Greenvale’s village square. I’m standing in the exact spot where Sereven’s convoy displayed me weeks ago while villagers lined up to witness what the Authority called justice. The memories overlay the present like double vision—then and now existing in the same space, separated only by time and circumstance.
Then—the jeers of guards, the rattle of chains, the blank faces of terrified villagers, the Authority symbol branded into my flesh still seeping blood.
Now—birdsong cutting through morning air, the distant sound of livestock, smoke rising from chimneys, the peaceful existence these people have built, regardless of everything the Authority represents.
But peace is fragile. What I’m about to ask of them will shatter it.
My decision to wait here is deliberate. I need them to see me where I was displayed broken and dying. They need to process that the man they watched being carried to execution has returned. I’m not skulking in shadows or approaching their homes like a thief. I’m presenting myself openly where I can be seen and recognized, giving them the freedom to choose how to respond.
The contrast with my last visit feels almost dreamlike. Back then I was broken and caged, now I’m whole and free.
But free to do what? To ask for help I have no real right to request? To endanger the village because my people need sanctuary and I have nowhere else to turn?
I harbor no illusions about what I’m going to do here. I’m going to take one man’s sacrifice and try and use it to plant seeds of resistance in soil the Authority thought they’d made barren. The blacksmith’s death bought us something precious—proof that compassioncansurvive fear when it matters most. His actions demonstrated that the Authority hasn’t completely severed the bonds between people, that old loyalties still matter.
The question is whether his neighbors remember those same loyalties, or if thirty years of Authority rule has taught them that survival depends on turning away from strangers in need.
In the distance, the first wisps of smoke begin rising from chimneys as people wake and tend their fires. A dog barks somewhere beyond the houses, and I can hear the distant lowing of cattle being led to pasture. They’re stirring to what they believe is another peaceful morning, unaware that their lives shifted in the darkness.
The garrison I eliminated were professional soldiers who would have sent word the moment we appeared seeking sanctuary. Their deaths were necessary, and each cut severs another thread connecting this village to the Authority. But each killing makes what I’m about to ask more dangerous for everyone who lives here.
The first to appear is a woman carrying wooden buckets toward the well at the square’s center. She’s humming softly beneath her breath, paying no attention to the world around her. She is three steps away from it when she notices me standing on the opposite side, and the buckets crash to the ground with a clatter that shatters the peaceful morning. The song dies on her lips, her hand flying to her mouth, as her eyes widen and she takes an involuntary step backward.
“Oh! You frightened me half to death. I wasn’t expecting to see anyone out this early.” She frowns, studying my face. “Do I know you? You seem familiar somehow.”
“Perhaps. I have been here before.”
“Before?” Her gaze sharpens. “I don’t recall any traders coming through recently. We don’t get many strangers this time of year.”
“I wasn’t here to trade.”
The careful politeness in her expression shifts toward wariness. “I don’t remember any other visitors … Wait! Were you with the convoy? The one that passed through weeks ago?”
“I was.”
Before she can say anything more, the sound of our voicesdraws others from their homes. An older man steps out from his doorway, followed by a woman. They approach cautiously, the man’s face creasing with concern as he takes in the scene.
“Is everything well, Calla?” His gaze moves from her face to mine, then down to the scattered buckets.
Relief flashes across her face, and she turns to him. “This man says he’s been here before. He claims he was with the convoy that passed through.”
The man’s entire posture shifts, his hand dropping toward the knife tucked into his belt.
