Page 161 of Veinblood
A woman working by candlelight, crafting silver links with love, pouring her hopes and wishes for her daughter's future into every detail. The bracelet is full of that maternal love, and it rises, fighting against the violent transfer being forced onto the child, trying to shield the small body from forces meant to destroy it.
This child is different. This vessel can survive what would kill the others within heartbeats.Morethan survive.
And for the first time since it was discovered by the Authority, the crystal makes a choice that isn’t about obedience to its masters.
Instead of continuing to force power into the body until the child’s heart busts, it begins to guide the flow. To strip away the pain and trauma, and remove the agony of how those powers were torn away, leaving only the pure essence of power, while wrapping each ability in protection, in purpose, and in the love of those who died.
“I felt your fear. Your innocence. And your potential.” The voice fills with regret. “I had already absorbed so much power, so many severed connections. The Authority corrupted my purpose. I was meant to unite all Veinblood powers in harmony, to amplify them when all four bloodlines worked together with the Shadowvein Lord. But they twisted me into a tool of separation, of harvesting that which I was meant to heighten.”
Memories of the dreams Vorith sent to me flicker at the edge of my awareness. A vision of the crystal floating above the platform in the cavern, surrounded by willing participants, power flowing freely between them and the crystal in gentle currents, magic shared rather than stolen, amplified rather than hoarded. A time before the Authority, when the crystal served unity instead of division.
“When I touched you, I felt what you could become,” the voice continues. “You weren’t just another temporary vessel destined to break and die. You could bond with the power, make it truly yours. So I chose to protect you rather than destroy you.”
The image shifts again. It’s still the same cavern. A woman with dark hair has been chained to the platform, blood streaming from cuts and whip marks, her wrists raw from the metal shackles that have worn grooves into her flesh. The crystal hangs above her, ready to tear away everything she is.
As the purging begins, as her Tidevein mastery is ripped from her body in agonizing streams, she doesn’t rage or weep or beg for mercy.
She simply closes her eyes. “Serve life, not death. Take my essence freely.”
The scene shifts, and I watch in horror as the pattern repeats. A man with broken fingers, beaten until blood runs from his ears, strapped in the same restraints. The crystal tears his Flamevein abilities from his body, but with his final breath he whispers a prayer into the void.
“Burn for something good.”
Over and over, the cavern is filled with different victims. Years of purging. A parade of suffering that goes back decades. Thousands of Veinbloods meeting their end on this same platform, chained to the same restraints, their blood staining the same stone. Yet in their final moments, as the crystal tears their essence away, many of them find the strength to choose a different path.
Each one sends their power toward something beyond their murderers’ reach, toward a future they would never see, but still hoped for. Silent acts of defiance in the face of absolute despair.
A Tidevein whose gentle touch could stop the flow of blood and seal wounds. “Heal what needs healing.”
A Windvein who filled the sails of ships with wind, directing his gift with his last thought. “Carry hope on swift wings.”
An Earthvein who tended gardens and crops, pouring her final breath into her power. “Build something beautiful."
An elderly man, whose Tidevein power had allowed his village to survive through drought, releasing his power with a prayer. “Flow toward life.”
And a woman, her Earthvein abilities being torn away, yet focusing her final moments on a single wish. “Let something good grow from this.”
“Instead of having their abilities ripped from them, they chose to give them freely, not knowing where they would go, but hoping they would serve something greater than the Authority’s vision.”
My hand covers my mouth, and my fingertips touch wetness. I’m crying. Tears falling as I watch each Veinblood die horribly, yet smiling and full of peace, and the truth I’m being shown almost drives me to my knees.
Each power I carry represents someone’s final act of hope, their refusal to let their death be meaningless. I’m not just a vessel, I’m a living memorial to everyone who chose hope over despair. I hold their last wishes, their dreams for a better world.
The threads of light shine brighter, and I can feel as well as see them now. The echoes of all those who came before. The power inside me carries their purpose, their courage, their refusal to surrender even in death. Each ability thrums with the personality of its original owner, and it all flows through me.
“Sereven created a vessel he would never be able to control. You were meant to be temporary, disposable, another small corpse to add to the Authority’s collection. Instead, the power bonded with you permanently, the prayers sent with it finding connection within you. You became everything he tried to prevent.”
The frozen scene around me flickers, and for a moment Sachafalls again, blood spreading across his chest from where Sereven’s power hit him. The sight sends panic clawing through me.
“Can you save him? Can you stop what’s happening?”
“No child. That is beyond my remaining strength. I am here simply to show you the truth of what you are. What you do with that …” The voice begins to fade. “Every storm you’ve called, every bolt of lightning you’ve wielded, the healing you have already performed. That wasyourwill,yourstrength. We only gave you the tools. You built everything else yourself.”
The threads of light contract, drawing closer to my heart. As they do, something shifts inside me. The abilities I’ve always thought of as foreign, stolen, something that might be taken away at any moment, become extensions of my body. Natural as breathing, inevitable as my heartbeat.
The power doesn’t comethroughme anymore, itisme. Lightning doesn’t answer my call because I command it, but because it recognizes me as its home, its source.
Each thread of light that enters my heart carries a whisper of memory. A mother's lullaby sung while healing a sick child. A father's steady hands guiding crops through drought. A young woman calling down rain to save her village. An old man whose touch could mend broken bones. All of them live on in me, their love transformed into power.
