Amerei could still see Viktor’s face in the torchlight—scorched all around but untouched. Unbearably human. Unbearably his. Her lips parted, breath shaking out of her as they lashed him to Storne’s back.
“Viktor…”
The words slipped raw, almost broken—
“You’re mine.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
To Bleed and to Belong
He gave his blood to the fire, and she gave her heart to the man it left behind.
The border lights flared at last—lanterns burning in a grassy rise, doors carved into the knoll like hollow mouths.
Relief struck sharp in Amerei’s chest. Hours of riding—Viktor fading in and out against her father’s back, every breath thinner than the last—and now they were here.
Elváliev.
The scent of rain and pine cut through the smoke, the first breath of peace after hours of ruin.
Storne called ahead, “Matteo—ride! Tell your father to ready for surgery.”
The young soldier spurred forward, hooves drumming twice the pace of the others. By the time they reached the stables, he was already back, breathless, waiting.
Storne’s horse dropped to its knees. The straps came loose. Soldiers eased Viktor’s weight down, his head lolling, a broken groan spilling as they hauled him between them.
“The delirium’s worn off,” Storne said, grim.
“Storm help him.”
“Inside,” Matteo gasped. “Quickly.”
Amerei stumbled after them. Her father intercepted, thrusting a tunic into her hands.
“Cover yourself. And stay out.”
“I’m not leaving him.”
Her voice snapped, steady despite the tremor in her fingers.
“Amerei—”
“I won’t leave him. I won’t let him suffer alone.”
Her stare made him falter. Dask, she looked so much like Cassandra. Duty warred with something older—love, fear, the memory of another battlefield and another daughter’s cry. At last, he caught her hand, pulling her with him. “Then come.”
They reached the door just as Viktor’s scream ripped the night apart. The sound gutted her, tore her open.
The room smelled of herbs and smoke, lanterns throwing long shadows against the mud-brick walls. An elven man waited inside, sleeves rolled past scarred forearms, a leather apron hanging heavy at his chest.
“Lay him here.”
With one sweep of his arm, he cleared a long wooden table.
Storne met his eye and gave a short nod. “Roland.”
The healer inclined his head once, already reaching for his instruments. His hands, worn and ready, wasted no time with questions.
