Page 91 of Veinblood
“There's a baker named Willem,” Corwin tells me later thatday. “He lost his son to a work detail that never returned. He barely contained his rage when Authority soldiers entered his shop earlier, looking for tax payments.”
“The blacksmith, Dara, has been fined six times this month for ‘excessive noise,’” Bessa adds. “Her anger is visible every time soldiers pass her forge.”
“Joss, our inn keeper, serves watered wine to Authority soldiers and full strength to everyone else,” Jorana laughs quietly. “It’s a small rebellion, but it shows wherehisloyalties lie.”
I memorize each name, building a mental picture of what we're creating. Willem the baker, grieving and furious. Dara the blacksmith, ground down by constant harassment. Joss the innkeeper, fighting back in whatever small ways he can. People with reasons to hate the Authority enough to risk their lives.
“When do we light the fires?”
“Soon,” Jorana says, though her tone suggests she's still working through the timing. “We need everything to happen at once. Too early and they'll have time to respond. Too late and we lose the element of surprise.”
“What about taking back the city itself?"
“We will need to move fast once we begin,” Bessa explains. “Start the riots, then strike while their attention is divided.”
“When we take the Lirien Spire, I want to be there. I want to see Veinblood banners flying, waiting for his return.”
“Whenwe take it.” She nods.
Not if. When.
We’re going to do it.
We're going to give Sacha his city back.
After over twenty years of imprisonment and exile, he’ll return to find his home waiting to greet him.
Chapter Twenty-Six
SACHA
“The Authority builds monuments to its power. The Vein builds connections between hearts.”
Wisdom of the Wandering Sages
The raven returns at dawn.Before I can even register its arrival fully, it floods my mind with images that turn my stomach. It shows me Millhaven from a bird’s eye view. Ash drifts between collapsed timber frames where homes once stood. Bodies sprawl in the village square, arms flung wide, faces turned toward the sky. The mill wheel, which gave the village its name, stands motionless above the creek. Char marks streak its surface.
“Survivors?”
The image changes, pulling back across the mountainside until it finds the group my scouts are shepherding along the narrow paths. Twenty people, maybe twenty-five. Children clinging to adults, an old woman supported between two younger men, her head wrapped in bloodstained cloth. They pick their way slowly, coming toward Greenvale.
I draw the familiar back into me with a thought, feeling thecool press of shadow as it dissolves back into my skin as I stride back to the village square where people are clustered in worried groups. When they see me approaching, the conversations die, and their eyes turn toward me.
Eyes that say, “Fix this. Make it safe. Tell us what to do.”
Erya stands apart from the others, her hands clasped in front of her, and I walk over to her.
“The scouts are on their way back with survivors. Some are injured. We will need to prepare to receive them.”
Some villagers react with sharp intakes of breath, others immediately spring into action. These people likely know people in Millhaven. They probably trade with them, attend the same seasonal festivals, share family connections.
“How long do we have before they get here?” Erya asks, already moving toward the small common hall.
“An hour, maybe less. We’ll need to clear some space for the wounded.” I raise my voice, beckoning to Mira. “Send word to Lysa. We’ll need every healer we can find.”
The villagers organize themselves quickly. Some gather bandages and healing supplies, while others try to make space to house the newcomers.
Varam appears beside me while I’m watching people rushing back and forth.
