Page 80 of Veinblood
She nods. “Some of us held onto hope that one day we would see a Shadowvein Lord rise up again.” Her smile softens her face. “I never believed it would be the same one we thought we lost.”
“Thank you. For remembering. For choosing this path despite the danger.”
She takes my hand in hers, and squeezes. “Go and bring your people, my Lord. We will be ready for them.”
I make my way out of the village and back to where Stonehaven’s survivors are waiting for me. The morning sun climbs higher, burning off the mist that clings to the valley floor. Varam meets me at the edge of the clearing where they’re camped. His expression is tense with worry and hope.
“The village has agreed to take us in. They’re preparing space and organizing supplies. It won’t be easy or comfortable. Greenvale is not a large city, but a small farming community. Space will be tight, and resources will be stretched thin. There will be adjustments for everyone involved.”
“It’s better than dying in the mountains. I’ll get everybody ready to move.”
“Warn them that this sanctuary comes with risk. When reports stop coming from the garrison, they will send a patrol to investigate. These villagers are choosing to stand with us knowing what that might cost.”
“And when that patrol arrives?”
“They’ll find that Greenvale is no longer an easy target.”
He turns to relay the news to our people, leaving me alone. The bond connecting me to Ellie pulses stronger, more insistently, as though responding to this moment of partial victory.
She's alive, moving, facing challenges of her own somewhere to the northwest.
Soon, Mel’shira,I promise silently.Soon I'll come to you.
Chapter Twenty-Three
ELLIE
“The deeper the roots, the fiercer the storm they can weather.”
Sayings of the Earthvein Sages
Morning light filtersthrough the windows, and across the small table where I’m sitting. I spent the night at the settlement instead of returning to Ashenvale. Vorith showed me to a small two-room cottage that they keep for visitors, and introduced me to the woman who maintains it. Kessa had greeted me warmly, then offered it for me to use for as long as I wanted to stay.
One night of real sleep has done wonders. It’s the first time since landing in that alley that I haven’t woken at the slightest sound, with my senses on high alert. My muscles have finally unknotted from constant tension, and even my connection to Sacha seems less … fraught. A warm pulse somewhere deep in my chest confirms he’s still alive. The sensation brings both comfort and frustration. I can sense his presence, but nothing more. I have no way to tell him I’m safe, no way to know if he worries. I have to trust he can feel this thread between us the same way I do.
Movement catches my eye and I turn my head to look out of the window. Kessa is outside, tending her garden. She’s kneeling in front of a row of vegetables, hand hovering over the plants. Her fingers tremble slightly, reaching toward wilting leaves before pulling back, an almost-touch that never quite happens.
She looks up, a smile breaking across her face, and she speaks to someone who’s just out of view. A few seconds later, there’s a knock at the door.
“Come in.” The door swings open to reveal an older woman with red hair.
“I’m Nava.” She doesn’t come inside. “Vorith thought you might like to get some fresh air. I have a workshop nearby, if you’d like to come and see?”
“I’d like that very much.”
I follow her out, and she leads me through the village to where her workshop is at the edge of the settlement. Inside, tools hang from pegs along the walls, wooden bowls sit on shelves, a partially carved chair stands in one corner, and various projects scatter the workbenches.
“What do you do here?”
“I mostly make furniture, and take it to sell in the Ashenvale markets.” She runs her fingers along the edge of a table. “I’ve been working with wood for over twenty years now. It keeps my hands busy, but sometimes I wonder what I might make if I could work the way I was meant to.”
The longing in her voice is clear. Here is a woman with gifts beyond measure, forced to ignore them.
“How would anyone know if you did that?”
“Most wouldn’t, but doing so would become a habit, and that makes the risk of being seen higher, so it’s best to use more … accepted methods.” She glances toward the door, then moves to a trunk in the corner. She pauses before lifting the lid, and takes something out. “That’s not to say I don’t sometimes take that risk though.” She unwraps the cloth. “I made this for my daughter’s wedding.”
Two figures dance together, their forms carved with such skill they seem alive within the wood. As I watch, they actually do move—a slow, graceful rotation that suggests music only they can hear. The grain spirals through their joined hands, creating patterns that shift and change as they turn.
