“Strange thing,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “I’m not Aerdania’s soldier anymore. Not yours yet, either.”
She lifted her head a little.
“Elváliev’s banner…”
Her voice fell to a whisper.
“Him.”
The word came out like a warning neither wanted to name.
Viktor’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t answer. “Doesn’t matter.”
But Amerei felt it—the weight of whatever he wouldn’t name settling over him like a cloak.
She slid her hand up to his heart, stubborn as ever, and said, “Let them count you however they please. You’re mine, Viktor.”
At last he looked at her, eyes storm-dark, and the corner of his mouth softened. “That, love, is the only banner I’ll ever march under.”
For one more stolen moment, the world stilled for them alone. His heartbeat, his warmth, the vow in his last words—shewanted to carry all of it into the day ahead. But dawn was already climbing over Fyreglade. She could not linger here forever.
She slipped from the warmth of his chest, the hem of Gabriel’s spare shirt brushing her thighs. She slipped it over her shoulders, folded it with care, and set it on the chair beside the bed.
Viktor, already reaching for his trousers, gave her a look that was half devotion, half agony.
She tied her robe tight, fingers fumbling the sash, and leaned once more over the bed. His hand caught hers, pulling her down for a kiss that lasted longer than it should have—slow, aching, the kind of kiss meant to keep a man through battlefields and years.
Their eyes held as she pulled away, the hush between them saying what words could not.
She eased the door open, cool air spilling against her skin—
and froze.
There, leaning against the opposite wall, pipe between his teeth, smoke curling like judgment—stood Commander Storne. His eyes cut past her into the chamber, hard as steel.
“My chambers. Second hour. For Captain Seraphim. That is an order.”
Chapter Fifty-Four
No Unbraiding Us
Before the court, before the crown, before war itself—
he bound her with a vow no power could sever.
There would be no unbraiding them.
Viktor fastened the clasp of his new mantle, the black-and-silver weight of Elváliev settling sharp across his shoulders. The uniform fit as though forged for him—trim lines, polished sword at his hip, hair tied back with soldier’s precision. He looked every inch the captain Aerdania had made him. Every inch the perfect soldier.
The corridor outside was quiet but not empty. Evander lounged against the stone arch, chewing the last of a crust, while Gabriel stood farther down with arms folded, gaze to the window. Both looked up when Viktor stepped out.
“Headed to breakfast?” Evander asked, casual, though his eyes lingered on the uniform.
Viktor let out a breath.
“Storne’s chambers.”
For a beat, the words just hung there. Then Evander’s mouth tightened, and he leaned toward Gabriel, whispering something under his breath. The next second both were at Viktor’s side.
