“So it’s true,” he shot back. “You mean to take her from Viktor.”
Storne shrugged, slow, deliberate.
“You said it yourself—an Aerdanian soldier, a Casqadian princess. The elves won’t stand for it.”
He flicked a sidelong look at him, voice cool as drawn steel.
“Are you going to tell him?”
The words hit like a knife to the ribs.
Gabriel blinked. “What?”
“Captain Seraphim,” Storne said evenly. “Are you going to tell him?”
Gabriel’s fury broke loose.
He tore the captain’s pin from his tunic and hurled it to the floor.
“Take my title,” he said, already stepping away. “Send me back to the elf-king. I want no part of this.”
He turned for his chamber door.
“Captain Feindoran.” Storne’s voice cracked like a whip. “You’ve not been dismissed.”
Gabriel stopped.
Slowly, reluctantly, he turned back.
Storne bent, retrieved the pin, then exhaled a rough sigh.
“Your loyalty is your greatest strength, Gabriel.”
He pressed the insignia back into his hand.
“Stop letting anger cheapen it.”
The weight of the pin burned in Gabriel’s palm. Memories clawed up—Vykenran courts, whispered bargains, the endless bending to those born higher. But Viktor was his brother-in-arms. No rank, no title outweighed that bond.
Storne’s voice dropped quieter, almost fatherly.
“I can think of no better match for a Casqadian princess than a Ruakite soldier hopelessly in love with her. She could never be better protected.”
Gabriel’s head snapped up.
He froze, staring. “You… approve?”
Storne let out a breath that might have been a laugh.
“I have no intention of interfering,” he said, stepping out of shadow. “But it is Viktor’s burden to prove himself to her—and, in time, to this realm.”
Gabriel’s brows rose.
“You won’t stop them?”
Storne folded his arms over his chest.
“Amerei is preparing to rule a kingdom,” he said simply. “I must trust her to make her own choices.”
