Viktor swallowed, but said nothing.
“For the boy’s sake, I hope I’m wrong,” Storne added. “My father’s seer through the Bloodforge faced a terrible death. And she who came after—” His voice roughened. “Eiliyah was so young—”
Viktor’s head snapped up.
“Eiliyah?”
The name punched the air from his lungs.
Storne’s chest rose fast. His voice softened, reverent despite himself.
“Eiliyah Ara—”
“Aradostylan.”
The name tore from Viktor’s mouth unbidden, searing his tongue.
Storne froze.
“You know her? How in the abyss would you—”
The world slammed still.
Seventeen years since his mother vanished. Seventeen years of silence and ash.
Now her name spoken aloud—weaved with The Midnight’s strange whispers, the boy’s age, the voice in the Vykenraven. Threads tightening around Viktor’s chest until he could hardly breathe.
Nothing—absolutely nothing—had been accident.
A broken laugh slipped from Viktor’s lips.
“Eiliyah Aradostylan…”
He lifted his gaze, storm breaking behind his eyes.
“…is my mother.”
Storne stared, stricken. His mouth opened, closed again.
“Dask,” he said at last. “I didn’t know…”
“Neither did I,” Viktor breathed.
Silence settled heavy as stone.
Ivan shifted, but no one spoke.
Finally Storne drew a sharp breath, forcing his tone back to steel.
“Assume in your plans that Amerei wins us the Sagittarii of Vykenra. Outfit them in mirrored shields. Archers will fire from cover, aiming high. The moment a dragon drops, swordsmen rush it. Fast. Coordinated. No mercy.”
“Understood, Commander.”
Viktor’s voice was steadier than he felt.
Storne tugged on his gloves, each motion clipped, jerking leather into place like the closing of an order. He handed Viktor the weight of command in words alone.
“Go draft the plans upstairs. You’ll find my father’s codex in the bottom drawer. Treat it well—it’s the only record of the Bloodforge untainted by elves.”
