“There it is,” he murmured.
He stumbled forward, the reins falling slack in his fingers.
“So it’s true—you mean to put her before the court?”
Storne didn’t answer right away. He only adjusted his gloves, gaze sweeping over them all, daring another question.
Viktor, silent at the edge, felt the whispers ripple through the company but held his tongue. Backcountry men had no business in courts, elven or otherwise.
Storne’s gaze cut to Gabriel, cold as drawn steel.
“You asked if we’ve started a war. We have. Our first strike will be to set Amerei before the Senate of Elváliev as Casqadia’s rightful heir.”
His shoulders set, his voice firmed.
“Prince Xavien has promised she will be heard.”
The name fell like a spark into oil.
Silence.
Evander’s hand stilled on his reins. Matteo’s head snapped up. Gabriel froze, eyes narrowing.
Something old and uneasy hummed beneath the torches—unspoken, but understood by all who heard it.
Amerei caught it instantly. Her gaze moved from one face to the next… then to Viktor. His brow furrowed as he studied her, sensing the unseen storm gathering behind that name—one he did not yet understand.
Storne slid the last strap into place and straightened, hand firm on the pommel.
“Bloodline will not be enough. The elves must see Zeporah’s corruption—and they must see Amerei stand against it.”
Evander stroked the muzzle of his horse, then paused, realization dawning.
“Then you’re no longer Lady Zrynon,” he said, turning sharp toward Amerei. “You can’t be, not if you stand against Zeporah.” He searched her face. “If we’re reminding the world who you are—who are you?”
Storne stepped forward. He drew a long breath, voice deepening with ceremony.
“She is Amerei, daughter of Cassandra, daughter of Phaedra, daughter of Julian, son of Titus.”
He paused—a heartbeat of reverence—before finishing.
“Her name is Princess Amerei Aleksandra Zrynon.”
Amerei caught his hand and pressed it to her lips.
“Zrynon Storne,” she corrected softly, eyes never leaving his.
For an instant, the commander’s iron mask cracked, her words settling into his bones.
“If I am to reclaim the throne,” she said, “it will be by my mother’s blood—and my father’s determination.” She lifted her chin. “Let this be my first proclamation.”
Storne closed the distance and pulled her in, holding her tight, as if the years of silence between them could be burned away in a single embrace. His hand lingered at the back of her head, his breath rough against her hair.
When he let her go, she turned—and her eyes found Viktor’s, fire blazing there. Pride rose sharp in his chest, but beneath it, a hollow ache: she was already more than his, and one day the world might try to take her.
Evander swung into his saddle, smirking faintly. “I know I won’t slip and call you ‘Lady Zrynon’ anymore. Not that I ever did.”
Storne crossed his arms and tipped his head toward him.
