At last Storne’s voice cut through it.
“Tonight,” he said, “you risk more than your lives. In the Vykenraven, Zeporah will be in your mind, beneath your skin. Perhaps you can distract her from your disloyalty—or perhaps you’ll draw her straight to it.”
A drop of water slid from the ledge above, striking the stone beside Viktor’s boot. He couldn’t tell if it was spray—or omen.
Storne’s gaze swept the circle, sharp as steel.
“You three.”
The men leaned in.
“If you have sired a child, you must say so now.”
The words struck like a blow to the gut.
Viktor’s chest locked, breath caged between ribs and throat.
He’s asking us in front of Amerei.
“Of course not,” Evander blurted, too quick, too certain.
A pause—then he glanced at the others, ears reddening.
“I mean… probably not.”
A crease touched Storne’s brow, but his reply was curt.
“Then it’s fair to say we’ve no need to worry about you?”
Evander nodded, grateful for the out.
“Don’t have to worry about me either,” Gabriel chirped, lying back against the stone.
Then he caught Storne’s stare and cleared his throat.
“No,” he said, scrambling upright. “As far as I know, I haven’t sired any elflings.”
Storne growled under his breath, “And you’ll take no chances in the castle tonight.”
Gabriel offered a sheepish salute.
Storne’s gaze turned to Viktor.
His mouth went dry. He felt Amerei’s eyes on him—only a flicker, but enough to seize his chest. She looked away before he could hold it. His bandaged leg throbbed, every heartbeat louder than the falls.
The word scraped out rough.
“No.”
Storne’s eyes narrowed.
“As far as you know?”
Viktor gave a single nod, pulse hammering.
Silence lingered before Storne spoke again, lower now.
“Good,” he said. “Having a child forces your heart into two places at once.”
