Page 117 of Veinblood
We dismount, and three Veinwardens appear to lead the horses away. I keep my attention focused on Ellie.
“The Ashenvale Knot have been keeping a secret.” She takes a deep breath. “There are Veinblood survivors. Entire settlements who have been hiding for years.”
Her words rock me, and I actually take a step back. “That isn’t possible. The purges?—”
“Were never as complete as the Authority claimed. The other bloodlines survived. Flameveins, Earthveins, Tideveins and Windveins. Theyallsurvived. They are the ones who brought down the walls. They’re the reason we were able to take the city.”
The revelation stuns me. All this time, we thought I was the last. How could we have been wrong?
“How many?” My voice comes out rough.
“Hundreds. They’ve been hiding in plain sight, scattered across the countryside, living as farmers, and merchants, and craftsmen.”
The ground seems unsteady beneath my feet. Everything I thought I knew about the state of my people, about what the Authority managed to accomplish—it’s all wrong.
“The Spire is ready for your return. And your people are waiting to see you.”
My people.She’s not talking about Veinwardens, who fought for us, and kept the cause alive. She’s talking about Veinbloods who hold their own magic. And they’re waiting inside the Lirien Spire.
My father ruled over Meridian from that tower. His father before him. Generations of Shadowvein Lords who believedtheir line would continue until the world ended. None of them could have imagined it would fall to betrayal from within, or that it would take a woman from another world to win it back.
The thought of entering that space, of claiming the authority it represents sends a complex mix of emotions through me.
Responsibility, because these people will look to me for guidance in whatever comes next. They’ll expect me to know how to rebuild what has been broken, and how to lead them into the future.
Pride, because this represents vindication of everything I’ve fought to achieve. Every year of imprisonment, every second of torture, every choice to resist rather than submit. All of it has led to this moment.
And fear. Because leadership demands skills I’m not certain I possess. I know how to survive. I know how to fight. But ruling over people as High Prince instead of a commander at war? That is an ability I’ve never had the chance to develop.
Ellie’s hand finds mine, as though she’s aware of the thoughts running through my head.
“Are you all right?”
I look at the Spire, at the banners flying, and then at the woman who made all of this possible.
Ashenvale is mine again. But more than that, Veinbloods survive.
And now they need their prince.
Chapter Thirty-Two
ELLIE
“Trust, once broken, leaves scars that shape all future bonds.”
The Healer's Codex, ancient Tidevein manuscript
Sacha issilent as we walk into the Spire. His face could be carved from wood for all the expression it shows. He stares straight ahead, head held high, and strides through the entrance hall as though he’s always belonged here. Which, of course, he has. But last time he was here was when he sneaked in like a thief to steal back his ring.
My eyes drop to the black band that circles the ring finger of his right hand. His fingers flex, curling into his palm. Just once. But it’s enough to tell me that while he might look untouched on the outside, that’s not the truth.
I want to reach out, to touch him, to say something that might ease the tension, but everyone is silent around us, and if I speak it’ll draw attention to the fact he’s not as relaxed as he appears. So I stay quiet, and walk beside him.
Veinwardens are posted at key points on eachlevel, watching everyone who passes by. When they see me with Sacha, immediate recognition flashes across their faces. Every single one of them drops to one knee, and presses their hands to their heart, lowering their heads.
“Please rise.” Sacha gives the same response each time, his voice steady but carrying an edge that I’m sure I’m the only one who notices. Each encounter winds him tighter. The way his jaw sets, the way his breathing becomes more controlled.
By the time we reach the floor where the throne room is, Sacha’s composure is a mask stretched thin. His fingers haven’t stopped flexing at his side, and tension radiates from him in an almost physical wave.
