Page 35 of Stormvein
“Move along,” the convoy captain barks at anyone who lingers too long. “There’s nothing else to see.”
But thereis. The true face of Authority justice. And not everyone approves of what they’re witnessing.
In one village, children run alongside the wagon, trying to catch a glimpse of the notorious prisoner. The guards shoo them away, but not before they see me—bloodied, broken, barely recognizable as human. Their expressions change from excitement to horror. One girl begins to cry, and her face stays with me long after we’ve left the village behind.
My fever climbs higher. The infection spreads visibly. Red lines tracking up from the sword wound, and across my abdomen. Blood poisoning. My tongue swells from thirst. My lips crack and bleed. The taste in my mouth is foul, full of copper, rot, and sickness.
When the wagon stops, the guards stand around eating and drinking, discussing me the same way one might discuss a problematic shipment.
“He’s burning up. Won’t last to Blackvault at this rate.”
A different face appears. The convoy’s healer, examining me with clinical detachment. His hands touch my forehead through the bars, testing the heat radiating from my skin.
“The infection is too advanced,” he says to someone I can’t see. “He needs treatment or he’ll die before he gets close to the purging chamber.”
“Sereven’s orders were clear. Alive, but suffering.”
“Then I need to intervene. Just enough to keep him breathing. The fever is approaching lethal levels.”
The cage opens and hands reach in. I couldn’t resist if I wanted to. I can’t even lift my head to see what they’re doing. They drag me forward, the spikes sending fire through the wounds on my back, stopping so my legs are hanging out, and they can access the festering sword wound in my side.
The healer cuts away bandages, exposing the infection to air. The stench is immediate. Putrid, sickly sweet. The mark of dying flesh.
“Hold him,” the healer orders, though the command is unnecessary. I don’t have the strength to fight.
Something stings the wound, burning liquid poured directly into infected flesh. My body convulses, a weak spasm that’s all my depleted strength can manage.
“This won’t heal it. It will slow the blood poisoning long enough to keep him alive until Blackvault. He has another day or two at most.” He applies a poultice of herbs, their sharp scent cutting through the miasma of infection. The guard stops him when he prepares fresh bandages.
“Leave it.”
The healer shakes his head but doesn’t argue.
“Pain is part of his sentence.”
They push me back into the cage, the impact sending fresh agony through every injury. The wagon lurches forward, and each jolt strikes a new faultline in my body.
The next settlement we pass brings the most dangerous reaction of all. Greenvale sits in a valley where Authoritypresence has always been light, where memories run deeper, and fear hasn’t yet silenced every voice.
As the convoy enters the village square, the crowd that waits is silent. There are no cheers. No thrown stones. Just a heavy quiet that makes the guards nervous, their hands drifting closer to weapons.
A woman pushes to the front, her walking stick tapping against the cobblestones. She’s old enough to remember the war, old enough to have lived through the early purges. When our eyes meet through the bars, recognition passes across her face.
“Meshavan,” she whispers, so quietly only I hear it. The old title, the old respect, spoken like a prayer.
The younger woman with her tugs at her arm, fear bright in her eyes. “Grandmother, please?—”
But the old woman doesn’t retreat. Instead, she raises her voice. “This is not justice. This is savagery.” The words cut through the silence.
Her words have been chosen with care. She’s not defending a Veinblood in her phrasing, though. She’s speaking against cruelty itself, giving others permission to question what they see.
Several villagers nod in agreement. A blacksmith, recognizable by the apron and burn marks on his burly arms, steps forward. “I’ve seen what real monsters do,” he says loudly. “This isn’t justice. This is revenge.”
Other voices join in.
“No one deserves this treatment.”
“Where’s the mercy in torturing a dying man?”
