Page 79 of Veinblood
But then another voice cuts through the growing panic.
“I remember you.”
The crowd turns as one toward the speaker. An elderly woman pushes through their ranks, leaning heavily on a carved walking stick. Her gray hair is braided with ribbons that mark her as a village elder, someone whose words will carry weight. She stops directly in front of me.
“You were with that convoy, but not as a guard or soldier. You were the one in the cage.” Her voice carries clearly across the square. “Half-dead and bloody, chained like an animal being taken to slaughter.”
A collective intake of breath ripples through the crowd. The memory she’s describing is sinking in, pieces clicking into place.
“You were dying,” she continues. “You could barely lift your head. They forced every one of us out of our homes and lined us up right here in this square to watch as they broughtyou through. They called it a lesson. A demonstration of what happens to enemies of the Authority.”
Everything she says is the truth. I stay silent. Her memory is a weapon I can use, but it cuts both ways. They saw me chained, branded, and defeated. But do they remember what I represented to people like her when the Authority first rose up?
“They were taking you to Blackvault for execution. Yet here you stand, healthy and whole.” She turns to face the crowd. “Do you understand what you are seeing here? The Shadowvein Lord has returned.”
The effect is immediate and electric. I brace, shadows rising to just beneath the surface of my skin, ready and waiting to protect me should it come to violence. Gasps echo across the square. Some people step backward. Others lean forward, staring at me with new recognition.
“My husband tried to help you,” another female voice calls out. “He said he couldn’t bear to see what they’d done to you. He followed the convoy into the mountains and never came back.” Her voice breaks slightly. “Did you see him? What happened to him?”
I step forward and the crowd parts, allowing me to walk toward her. She stands near the edge of the group, her face a map of worry lines and sleepless nights. She already knows what I’m going to tell her, I can see it in her eyes, but there’s still a tiny flicker of hope that maybe,somehow, the story ends differently.
“The guards discovered him beside my cage,” I tell her quietly. “They called it treason to help an enemy of theAuthority.” I reach out and take one of her hands between both of mine. “I’m sorry. He died trying to ease my suffering.”
Her face crumples and she sags forward. I support her weight, this woman whose husband paid with his life, all because he felt he owed me a debt.
“I told him he would be caught. Itoldhim.” She wipes her eyes. “I begged him not to go. But he said some things can’t be ignored, that he would rather die knowing he tried to help you, than continue to live here knowing he stayed silent while you suffered.”
Silence follows her words, people processing what they’ve heard. I wait, letting them consider the blacksmith’s sacrifice, the choice he made between safety and conscience. The same choice that now stands before them.
“He was a good man,” the older man says into the silence. “Always believed in doing what was right, even when it cost him. Even when the rest of us would have chosen the safer path.”
“He died believing he owed you something.” The woman who first recognized me raises her voice. “I was here thirty years ago when you stood against the Authority when they came for the Veinbloods. I witnessed how you protected our families when they found Veinbloods in our homes. Most of us would not be here today if you hadn’t fought for us then.”
More whispers pass through the crowd. Younger faces turn toward their elders, seeking explanation for events that occurred before their birth.
“My husband said that debts of honor don’t disappear just because times get harder,” the blacksmith’s widow says softly. “If we’re going to consider this, then no one can be forced. No one can be pressured. Everyone has to choose. And weallhave to agree. If even one person says no, then you will have to find somewhere else.”
“The common hall can hold forty people if we move the tables and bring in bedding,” someone calls out.
“The garrison. If the soldiers aren’t there, that will give space for another twenty.”
“The barns. If we put more of the animals together in the biggest one, we can clear out the other two. That’s room for maybe sixty more.”
“Winter is coming, but we have time to build more shelters, especially if they will help.”
“Food is the bigger problem. Three hundred people?—”
“We will manage. We’ll have to. Share what we have. Send out hunters for more.”
I watch as the atmosphere changes around me. Within minutes, the people have divided themselves into groups, and are discussing how they can prepare for the people on the doorstep.
The blacksmith’s widow watches as everyone comes together with something like satisfaction on her face. Her husband’s death has become a catalyst, turning his individual act of courage into something larger.
The elderly woman who recognized me moves to my side.
“Greenvale will help your people, the way you helped ours. We do not forget our debts, and we don’t abandon those in need.”
“There are Veinwardens among the survivors. People whocan fight. We will protect this village if the Authority attempts to retaliate.”
