Page 33 of Stormvein
The cage itself is obscene in its design. It’s barely large enough for a small child, let alone a man of my size. Iron bars form a crisscross pattern, too narrow to allow any comfortable position. The entire contraption sits atop a wooden platform, high enough to be seen … to display what’s contained inside.
This isn’t just transport. It’s a mobile warning. A demonstration of Authority power. The Shadowvein Lord—contained, subjugated, undone.
A message written in blood and pain.
My blood. My pain.
I think of how the Veinwardens greeted my return with hope, how Ellie gazed at me with growing trust despite knowing my manipulations. All of that stripped away with my power, leaving only this spectacle of humiliation.
Is this what they’ll tell of me now? The broken thing in the cage, rather than the shadow that once haunted the Authority’s nightmares?
I’m thrown inside, and the impact sends fresh waves of agony through broken bones and abused flesh. My dislocated shoulder wrenches further out of place as I hit the back wall of bars. Spikes line the bars and floor, designed to ensure maximum discomfort. My body contorts involuntarily, trying to find a position that doesn’t press on the worst injuries. But there is none.
They press against my broken ribs, the sword wound, the brand on my chest. They’re not meant to pierce, but to create constant, inescapable pressure. Every heartbeat sends fresh pain through my body as blood pushes against damaged tissue pressed against unyielding metal.
I try to shift position, but movement only makes everything worse. The size of the cage forces me into a position that makes it impossible to protect any of my injuries.
“No food,” Sereven instructs the guards gathered around the wagon. “Water, but only enough to keep him alive. Ensure he remains conscious. I want him to feel every single bump in the road.”
He approaches the cage, stooping to peer inside. Our eyes meet one final time.
“Four days to Blackvault, Sacha. Four days to contemplate your failed rebellion. Your failed escape. Your failed legacy.”
He straightens and turns to the convoy captain. “I leave for Blackvault tomorrow. I will be there when you arrive. Make sure he gets there alive, or your life will be forfeited.”
Chapter Eight
SACHA
The Authority does not punish action. It punishes deviation.
Authority Codes
The cage door slams shut,and the wagon lurches into motion, throwing me against the bars. My back, raw from the whip, hits the metal. Wounds reopen, blood dripping down my spine. The symbol burned into my cheek catches on a spike, sending fresh agony through my body.
Guards take position around the wagon, their faces shuttered. They keep their distance, watching with the wariness of men transporting a dangerous beast.
If only they knew how little threat I pose now. Broken, beaten, power suppressed by both the crystal’s damage and these strange restraints.
The convoy leaves Ashenvale, passing along the outer wall of the city. People stop to watch. Their faces show curiosity, fear. Braver ones spit and shout abuse, satisfied by the vision of a notorious criminal brought to justice. They’re noticeably younger than the ones who stay silent. Born after my initial capture, born under Authority rule.
As the wagon begins to move, each jostle, each bump, each stone beneath the wheels creates a symphony of suffering. My weight shifts constantly, pressing wounds against metal, spikes against burns, bars against bruises. The cage’s design is a perfect moving torture chamber, too small to find comfort, forcing weight onto injuries that beg for relief.
Every angle, every position forces contact with either the bars or the spikes. They dig into the whip wounds on my back, each movement ripping them open again. When I lie sideways, the bars press against broken ribs, making each breath feel like drowning. The branded Authority symbols on my chest and cheek come into contact with metal warm from the sun, sending lightning bolts of pain through nerve endings already screaming. My legs, forced to bend at unnatural angles in the small space, cramp and spasm. There is nowhere to extend them fully, and the continuous muscle tension builds into agony that rivals the wounds themselves.
The sun beats down, turning the cage into an oven. Sweat mingles with blood, stinging wounds and adding thirst to the litany of torments. My tongue swells, my lips crack. The taste of copper fills my mouth from internal bleeding, from bitten tongue, from loosened teeth.
Time passes in a fever haze. The wound in my side festers, infection spreading through my blood. Heat burns through me that has nothing to do with the sun. The brands on my chest and cheek weep yellow pus.
Blackness edges my vision. Sweet oblivion beckons. Almost there …
Cold water shocks me back to consciousness. A guard stands over the cage, empty bucket in hand. His face shows no satisfaction or cruelty. He’s just a man, following orders.
He turns to his companion. “Two-hour shifts. Keep him awake.”
The other guard nods, taking position beside the wagon. They’ve been well-trained for this task.
Night falls. The convoy makes camp alongside the road. Torches are lit, forming a perimeter around the wagons. Guards set watches, and establish routines. I remain in the cage, exposed to the night air that grows increasingly colder as the sun sets.
