For a moment, there was only the hush of wind and the soft rustle of birds in the oaks. Evander’s heartbeat thundered in his ears.
Then Storne barked a laugh. “Well struck, Lieutenant!”
Evander staggered upright, chest heaving, a grin breaking through dirt and disbelief.
Gabriel dragged himself up with a grunt.
Storne’s mouth curved, hard with approval yet softened by pride. He leaned over Gabriel, hands pressed to his knees.
“Looks like Captain Seraphim won’t need to straighten you out after all. Lieutenant Tassen’s done a fine job of that.”
Gabriel groaned, raised the Vykenran salute—sharp enough to sting, sly enough to be forgiven.
Chapter Forty-Four
Set Down Your Armor
She asked him to lay down his armor—and for once, he wanted to.
Amerei’s fingers worked carefully at the ties of Viktor’s tunic, each knot loosening like a confession—love and guilt wound together in the dim.
The fabric clung stubbornly to the salve and bandages beneath, and she eased it down his shoulders with a reverence that left her throat tight. His skin was fire and ruin, and still—storm help her—she wanted him. Wanted him though guilt pressed hot against her chest.
Because wanting him and grieving him had become the same thing.
Her fingers stilled, grazing the black ink feathering across his ribs—warm skin over scarred muscle, the steady rise and fall of breath beneath. She hadn’t meant to linger there, but themark drew her—dark, intimate, a symbol that seemed to hum beneath her fingers.
Viktor stilled.
Slowly, he lifted his eyes to hers. Not a word passed between them, yet his look said everything:Don’t. Not yet.
Amerei’s lips parted, a thousand questions pressing at once. She swallowed them all, only nodding before she dipped her cloth back to the salve.
And then his eyes found hers again—blue as lightning breaking stormcloud—and the world shifted into him.
Amerei wrung out the cool mixture before smoothing it gently across the bandages at his chest.
“Are you certain you don’t want something more to dull it? The herbalist said there’s delirium tincture. Even a few drops would help.”
Viktor shook his head, the smallest movement.
“I can’t,” he said. “Not while we’re still on the road. I need my head clear.”
Her lips pressed thin, but she didn’t argue.
His gaze fell away, fixed on nothing, shoulders tense beneath her touch.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, the words ragged. “I feel so—useless. Can’t even lift a blade. And my Endowment…” He drew a shallow breath, almost flinching at it. “I don’t know if I can call it like this. I’m afraid to even try.”
Her hand lingered at his chest.
“Viktor…” she breathed.
He looked up.
Her words came steady despite the tremor in her voice.
“You’ve been mine since the morning you saved me in the forest. Not because you’re a Ruakite. Not because you’re a fine soldier. I didn’t know either of those things when I first saw you. What I did know was this—” her voice caught, but she pressedon, eyes unyielding, “—you crossed a desert to find me. You stood before a dragon without a second thought. And that same man saved us again in the Vykenraven.”
