Page 92 of Veinblood
“Twenty more mouths to feed. Our supplies aren’t going to stretch much further.”
“We’ll find a way.”
The survivors reach Greenvale an hour later. Most bearwounds that weren't caused by accident. Burns mark half their faces, others have hastily bandaged arms and legs. All of them have the same empty stare of people who've watched their neighbors die.
I move among them, crouching beside a young mother whose infant hasn’t stopped crying since they arrived. Her dress is singed along one side, and her hands shake when she tries to adjust the baby’s blankets.
“They arrived without warning,” she whispers when I ask her. “They didn’t make any demands, or ask questions.” She bites her lip, and shakes her head, tears filling her eyes. I pat her arm, and move on.
“They just cut people down and set fire to the buildings,” an old man with his arm in a crude sling tells me.
An old woman steps into my path. A younger man tries to hold her back, his face flushing with embarrassment or fear, but she shakes off his hands, and points at me.
“You. You’re him. The one they paraded through our village.”
The younger man's face pales. “Grandmother, please …”
She ignores him. “The convoy. You were in that cage they dragged through our streets.”
“Yes.”
“Half-dead from fever.” She looks around at the villagers hurrying to help the wounded. “Greenvale took you in?”
“Yes. They showed compassion when they had every reason to fear.”
“Millhaven is gone. Burned to ash. They came in the night.Authority soldiers with torches and swords. They made us watch while they killed anyone who tried to resist.”
Her grandson stares at me. “The convoy. That wasyouin the cage?” He glances at his grandmother, then back to me. “But the stories say you're a monster who devours children.”
“And what do you think now?” My voice is soft.
He looks around. “Monsters don’t send their own people into danger to rescue strangers. The stories they told us?—”
“Were lies,” his grandmother finishes. “Stories written by those who fear what they cannot control,” the old woman snaps. “I’ve lived long enough to recognize the difference between strength and cruelty. What they did to you in that cage wasn’t justice. It was torture.”
More survivors gather around us as she talks.
“They burned everything,” another Millhaven villager says. “One of them said they couldn't leave witnesses to what they'd seen. Something about orders from the High Commander.”
A man with a bandaged arm speaks up. “I was hiding in the grain stores when they came. heard the captain giving orders to his men. He said something about cleaning up loose ends.”
“Loose ends?”
“Anyone who saw you in that cage. Anyone who might spread word about your condition. They don't want witnesses to talk about what they did to you,” he replies. “Now that you're free again, can't have people saying the Authority had to torture you near to death just to keep you contained. That makes them look desperate instead of strong.”
Cold fury builds inside me. Sereven is murdering innocent people to protect his reputation. The convoy was meant to show his victory. What the villagers actually saw was a man tortured nearly to death, barely clinging to life. Now that I've escaped, those witnesses become dangerous to his narrative of strength and control.
“Sereven will answer for what he's done to your village. And to every other village he destroys to protect his lies.”
The man meets my eyes. “Good. Make the bastard pay.”
Lysa arrives then with a mix of women from Greenvale and Stonehaven. They take the wounded into the common hall where they can be treated. As they move away, fear crashes through the bond from Ellie. Sharp, immediate terror that almost drives me to my knees before I can catch myself.
“Sacha?” Varam’s voice comes from across a distance. I can’t do anything more than shake my head while I try to separate her panic from my own thoughts. My heart hammers against my ribs, my pulse races with adrenaline meant for dangers I can’t see, can’t fight, can’t even understand.
What is scaring her?Has she been captured?
I force myself upright, gripping the well’s edge until my fingers ache. The emotion fades as fast as it struck, leaving only residual anxiety and the bitter taste of powerlessness.
