Page 32 of Stormvein
“Order,” he corrects, leaning close enough that I can feel his breath on my face, warm against my cold skin. “Power under our control serves order. Power left unchecked, like yours, brings chaos.”
His eyes burn with the light of true conviction. A believer confronting the heretic. This isn’t about duty. This is a mission, a crusade, a war he’s been fighting since before I knew we were enemies.
“You and your kind represent chaos.” His voice drops to a whisper. “And order is the only true way to live.”
He steps back, composing himself with a gesture I remember well—smoothing the front of his robes, adjusting his stance. Control reasserting itself. The brief crack in his facade sealed over.
“But now that order has been compromised. Your escape proved the tower insufficient. The methods we used to harvest your power, flawed. And so …”
“Blackvault.” The word comes out slurred, almost unrecognizable.
“Yes.” Satisfaction gleams in his eyes. “The purging chamber waits for you. We added some special … additions for when you arrive.”
The purging chamber.
In the early days of the war, I saw what remained of a woman they’d put through it. A young Earthvein wielder. She wasn’t dead, she’d been emptied. Something fundamental stripped away, leaving only an empty husk behind. Her eyes were vacant, her movements mechanical. No recognition. No awareness left. Just a breathing body where a person had once been.
“I see you remember what happened to those who go through the purge.” His smile drips with superiority. “But you don’t need to worry about that, Sacha, because the purge waiting for you won’t only strip you of your power, it will erase you completely. You will die, but not until you’ve felt every single part of you destroyed first.”
He turns away. “Bring the irons.”
The torturer retrieves something from the brazier—a metal rod glowing cherry red at its tip. The Authority symbol, I realize as it draws nearer. The same one burned into my chest yesterday … or was it the day before? Time has lost meaning in this place of eternal suffering.
“This one is for your face,” Sereven says. “So no one forgets who owns you during your final journey.”
I try to brace myself, but there’s no preparation for this. The brand presses against my cheek, sizzling against already torn skin. The stench of burning flesh …myflesh … fills the chamber, and a sound escapes me that doesn’t sound human.
The world fades to gray, then black …
I surface to stone against my face. On the floor again. The chains are gone from my wrists, and someone is fitting new restraints. These bear strange symbols carved into the metal. When they lock into position, something tears inside me,worse than physical pain. My shadows, already distant since the crystal’s disruption, are gone. They haven’t been blocked, they’ve been annihilated from my awareness.
I can feel my heartbeat, hear my breathing, the pain coursing through broken flesh, but nothing beyond my skin.
The absence is more devastating than broken bones, than flayed skin, than burns and brands. It’s the severing of something at the core of my being. I’ve lived with shadow from my earliest memories, felt its presence, its response to my call. Even in the tower, bound as I was, I could still sense them around me. During the days of torture, I could feel their presence, even if I couldn’t reach them.
I reach for power that isn’t there and find only screaming absence. The effort itself causes physical pain, like trying to flex muscles that have been surgically removed. My body convulses with each failed attempt, creating a feedback loop of loss and agony.
Without my shadows, I’m not the Vareth’el. I’m not even Sacha Torran. I’m meat and bone and failing organs, stripped of everything that made me who I was. The restraints don’t just block my power, they’re erasing my very identity. I try to remember what it felt like to command shadows, to call the Void, but the memory itself seems to slip away, as if the metal bands are devouring even my memories.
“Special restraints.” Sereven’s voice comes from somewhere above me. “Developed specifically for you.”
He crouches beside me, examining the runes engraved into the metal bands.
“Old Kingdom sigils. Recovered from sealed texts beneath Blackvault. Fascinating, isn’t it? These restraints were designed to block power. If you look around, you’ll see them carved into the walls. I’m told that the restraints are more … intrusive.”
I try to focus on his face, but my vision swims. Blood loss, fever, trauma, all taking their toll. His features blur, sharpen, then blur again. Behind him, I see the outline of other people, flashes of red marking them as Authority officials. Officers in formal uniforms, witnessing the scene playing out in front of them.
This is a spectacle. A demonstration of Sereven’s power.
“Take him to the cage. I want him conscious for every moment of the journey to Blackvault.”
Hands haul me up, uncaring of my condition. My legs fold instantly, unable to support my weight. They don’t care. They drag me through the hallways, my feet trailing uselessly behind, leaving smears of blood to mark my path.
Each doorway we pass through sends fresh jolts of pain through my body as my feet catch on the thresholds. They don’t lift me to go down any stairs, and my legs slam against each stone step, my broken ribs grinding together. They take me through the main hall, where Authority soldiers stand in line to watch the procession. Their faces show varying emotions—satisfaction, disgust, fear, and even pity quickly hidden.
The Shadowvein Lord. Reduced to this. Bloody and broken, being delivered to its final punishment.
Daylight stabs my eyes when we emerge into a courtyard. The sudden brightness sends daggers through my skull after days in dungeon darkness. I blink against the assault, details coming into painful focus. A convoy of wagons waits, the central one holding a metal cage.
