Page 94 of Stormvein
Every sense is heightened as I listen. I can’t afford to give up the illusion, not yet, but I hold my shadows ready, prepared to strike if she tries to hurt Ellie.
“Lower the sword first.” Ellie’s voice is steady. No tremor betrays her fear, though she must be scared. Anyone would be facing a blade in what should be a place of safety. Her courage continues to impress me. Standing her ground despite the danger. Protecting me when she should be protecting herself.
“Not until I’ve spoken to him.”
“Itoldyou, he’s unconscious. He can’t hear?—”
“I don’tcareif he can hear me. I need to speak to him!”
The bedroom door crashes open, the impact reverberating through the room. Lisandra bursts through, her movements uncharacteristically erratic. I don’t react, keeping my breathing shallow and labored. The sound of footsteps—Lisandra’s boots, followed by Ellie’s lighter tread close behind—fills the chamber.
“Leave us.” Lisandra’s eyes are glued to me. Through barely-open eyes, I can see her face clearly. The tightness around her eyes. The pallor beneath her skin. The barely-contained emotion that doesn’t fit with the composed warrior I know.
“Not a chance.” Ellie’s refusal is immediate.
She positions herself between Lisandra and the bed, creating a physical barrier with her body. Her stance is protective, feet planted firm, silver light shimmering faintly. Her body languagedeclares a boundary that Lisandra has already crossed once. From where I lie, I can see the tension in her shoulders, the readiness in her posture.
For someone thrown into this world against her will, she’s ready to go to war to keep me safe. This woman who stumbled into my tower, confused and frightened, now stands between me and a blade without hesitation. The realization staggers me. The loyalty humbles me.
I don’t deserve such devotion. But I’ll spend whatever life I have left earning it.
“Please.” Lisandra’s voice shifts, a note of pleading entering it. The change is jarring, going from command to supplication in the space of a heartbeat. “What I have to say is for him alone.”
The sword lowers slightly, although she doesn’t sheath it. Her grip remains tight around the hilt.
“Then you can wait until he’s conscious again.” Ellie folds her arms, but the silver pulsing betrays her anxiety … to me, anyway. “I’m not leaving you in here alone with him. Especially not while you’re holding a sword.”
“You don’t understand what’s at stake.”
“Then explain it to me.”
“I can’t. It’s between me and the Vareth’el.”
Lisandra’s face contorts with some internal struggle. Her grip on the sword tightens, then loosens. The weapon seems almost forgotten now, held at her side rather than raised in threat. Whatever drives her isn’t simple aggression, or that of a commander wanting to check on the lord who commands them. It’s more complex. More personal. She turns, angling toward the bed.
“You don’t understand,” she repeats. “There may not be time later.” She takes a steadying breath. “I’ve made mistakes. Terrible ones. And I need to confess them before he’s gone.”
Confession. The word echoes around the room. Not ‘speak with him,’ or ‘say goodbye.’ Confession implies guilt. Implies wrongdoing. Implies the weight of something she can no longer bear alone.
They change the atmosphere in the room. Ellie’s defensive stance softens slightly, confusion overtaking caution. Her natural response to vulnerability, a momentary lowering of her guard.
“What mistakes?”
The question hangs in the air between them. I monitor every shift in Lisandra’s expression, every micro-movement that might betray her intent. Her gaze flicks to me, where I’m still playing almost-dead, breath shallow, Voidcraft holding the illusion steady.
Her eyes are too wide, too bright. Bright with unshed tears. Bright with fear. Neither of which has their place in the woman I know. Lisandra, who once held off three Authority patrols to allow an evacuation from a small village near the Salt Pens. Lisandra, who never showed weakness, even when recovering from wounds that would have killed a lesser fighter.
This broken woman before me is a stranger wearing her face.
“It doesn’t matter.” She says it too quickly. “Look at him. He’s barely breathing. He can’t hear us.” Her voice breaks as she surges around Ellie and kneels beside the bed. The move brings her close enough for me to smell the leather and steel that clings to her clothes. Close enough that I can feel her breath when she whispers.
“I’m sorry, Sacha.”
NotLord Torran. NotVareth’el. JustSacha. The familiarity is startling, discordant against the formality that’s always defined our relationship. That single word, my name, tells me more about what comes next than anything else could. Her sword clatters to the floor. The sound echoes in the room likea death knell. Ellie moves closer, caught between confusion and caution. The light surrounding her pulses in response to the tension in the room. She senses what’s coming, maybe not the details, but the weight of it.
Lisandra’s voice drops to a whisper so low that, if not for my enhanced senses, I might not have caught it.
“What happened at Ashenvale … It was my fault.”
