“Don’t admit to anything,” Evander hissed. “Whatever he asks, hold your tongue.”
“It will be fine,” Gabriel said—calm, but unreadable.
Evander shook his head. “Say nothing. You’ll thank me later.”
“It will befine,” Gabriel repeated—and this time it almost sounded like a promise.
Evander shot him a glare.
“Fine? You may be practiced at dancing through courts, Gabriel, but our backcountry boy here has never seen the inside of a royal judiciary.”
Viktor clapped his shoulder, forcing a smile.
“Whatever’s coming, I’m ready for it.” He stepped forward. “I have to be.”
Gabriel gave a single nod, solid as stone. Evander only cursed beneath his breath.
But as Viktor started down the hall, Evander called softly after him.
“For what it’s worth…” He glanced around, lowered his voice. “She loves you.”
Viktor didn’t answer.
Evander’s words chased him through the corridor, too loud even when spoken low.
She loves you.
He knew it—dask, he knew it—but hearing it from another man’s mouth made it feel perilously exposed, a secret dragged into daylight.
The mantle and the sword marked him as Elváliev’s captain now, yet he still carried Aerdania in his bones. And somehow Amerei loved him. That truth unraveled him, and it would be the one thing he refused to surrender.
Banners lined the corridor, heavy with heritage—the silver tower of Storne, the golden gryphon of Zrynon. Each crest whispered of duty older than him, heavier than him. And still, here he was—summoned into the heart of it.
Viktor’s hand was steady when he knocked.
“Come in,” Storne’s voice called at once.
The chamber smelled of ink and smoke.
Storne sat behind his desk, sleeves rolled, pen scratching as though a soldier hadn’t just crossed the threshold of his command. He didn’t look up.
Then the door opened again.
Amerei entered, her violet gown catching the candlelight, her hair bound in braids like a crown—every inch the princess Storne had raised her to be.
“Shut the door, Captain Seraphim,” Storne said without lifting his eyes.
Viktor obeyed.
When he turned back, Amerei was already at his side, chin raised, fingers brushing dangerously close to his thigh. For the first time since knocking, he was afraid—not of Storne, but of what he might demand of Amerei.
“Commander—”
“Stand down, Captain.”
Storne set down his pen.
He looked straight at Amerei, his voice dark.
