Page 50 of Stormvein
Her grief for me, sharp enough to steal breath.
Her rage at the Authority, hot enough to burn.
Her determination, anchored so deeply that it does not move.
Her scream as unfamiliar energy courses through her for the first time. The storm that forms in response to her grief, her rage.
And underlying all of that, something else. A feeling she keeps guarded, even from herself. Something that rose when she believed I was lost.
I feel the echo of the transfer, the resonance of powers never meant to combine, yet finding harmony. The silver light isn’t only hers anymore, threads of shadow weave through it, binding it,shapingit into something new.
Like the strange crystal in that ancient chamber, her power draws from the world even as it reshapes it, absorbing energy while projecting her will upon it.
The storm that forms is both natural and unnatural, both elemental and constructed. Lightning that strikes with purpose, rain that falls with intent.
Agony flares. Real, physical pain from my body breaking through the dream barrier. The vision wavers, then begins to dissolve. I fight to hold onto it, to maintain this connection.
The crystal chamber reappears, its ancient stone stained with blood both old and new. The hooded figures gather around the crystal again, but now I can see their faces beneath the crimsonhoods. Every one of them bears Sereven’s features, repeated in endless variation.
“We preserve what we claim to destroy,” they chant in unison. “We use what we condemn as evil.”
They turn as one to face me, their eyes full of the crystal’s cold blue light. “The Shadowvein Lord sees too much,” they say together. “Knows too much.”
“You failed.” I face this legion of betrayers. “I escaped the tower. I survived your torture. Your secrets will not remain buried. Others will learn of your deceit.”
“Escape?” They laugh, the sound echoing around the chamber. “You followed the path laid before you. You did exactly what we expected you to do.”
The scene shifts to where I fell, when Sereven’s crystal tore through my shadows as I attempted to flee. I see it now from outside of myself. My body collapsing, the blue light not only disrupting my power but harvesting it.
The crystal doesn’t destroy. It collects, absorbs, stores, anduses.
The memory is strangely disconnected. I feel no echo of the pain that tore through me at that moment, no resonance of the desperation that drove me. I simply witness as my power is stripped away, as my shadows dissolve into the crystal’s hungry light.
“You took me to take more. To finish what the tower began.”
“Shadow and storm,” they reply. “Both are necessary. Both valuable. Both dangerous.”
The vision fractures, splintering into disordered shards of memory and dream. Through them, I glimpse the twisted towers of Blackvault. Its spires are crowned with stained glass depicting the purging of magical corruption. Beneath it lies the truth. The chambers where they store what they claim to destroy. Vaultswhere forbidden knowledge is preserved and studied rather than eliminated.
The purging chamber itself, where they planned to finalize my destruction, is not what it appears. The energy extracted from condemned Veinbloods doesn’t dissipate, but flows through hidden channels, collected and concentrated for purposes I cannot discern.
The fever in my physical body surges abruptly, breaking through the visions, burning through my blood, making thought itself painful. Reality reasserts itself. Each heartbeat sends fresh waves of agony radiating out from wounds that show no signs of healing.
The brands on my chest and cheek throb with infection’s heat. Broken ribs grind with each involuntary movement, the sensation of bone against bone nauseating even through the haze of fever. The sword wound in my side throbs with its own separate rhythm of torment, hot and wet as infection burrows deeper into vital organs.
I catalog each injury. A habit formed during years of imprisonment when control of my mind was the only autonomy I possessed. The metal restraints still encircle my wrists, their weight both physical and magical, continuing to suppress what remains of my powers, preventing even the weakest connection to my shadows, to the Void. The manacles edges have worn trenches into my skin.
My body has become a battlefield I’m losing inch by inch. The infection advances through realms of muscle and bone, claiming ground with each passing hour, dividing function from will, planting infection’s flag in conquered regions. My remaining strength retreats before the onslaught, abandoning outlying provinces, concentrating dwindling forces around core functions necessary for bare survival.
I attempt to retreat into deeper unconsciousness, to escape the torment that keeps growing stronger and more pervasive with each passing moment. But the fever holds me close, keeping me suspended in a torturous middle state. Too damaged for coherent awareness, too agitated for the merciful release of complete oblivion.
My body burns from twin sources. The external heat of inflamed wounds and the internal furnace of infection. The poison spreads through my bloodstream, creating tributaries of fire that flow to every extremity. The brand centered on my chest, the Authority’s three-ringed symbol of dominance, feels as fresh as the moment it was applied, nerve endings still screaming in protest.
The visions disintegrate into incoherent, disjointed images without narrative or meaning. Disconnected images flash behind my closed eyes. The tower’s silver walls, Ellie’s face, the crystal, and the blood-stained chamber. None connect. None of them make sense. They’re fever dreams without substance or significance.
Through this delirium, voices occasionally penetrate—distant, then close, before receding again. Worried tones discussing my condition with increasing urgency.
“The fever isn’t breaking …” Varam—my friend, my ally. His voice is strained with uncharacteristic fear.
