A voice cut from the hall before Evander could reply.
“The Midnight has arrived. Apothecary, now.”
Storne’s shadow moved past the doorway without pausing.
Viktor gathered his mantle, rolling his shoulders beneath the weight of command, the weight of the nameThe Midnight.
A gentle sound caught him just as he entered the corridor.
“Viktor…”
He turned.
Amerei stood in her doorway, robe loose, hair falling into her eyes. Her voice was silk and tremor.
Duty clawed at him—Storne’s orders, The Midnight’s arrival, the promise of answers—but her voice stopped him cold. One word from her and the heaviness of war bent to the gentleness of her eyes.
He strode to her, brushing stray strands from her face.
“I was told I’m not allowed to bother you,” he murmured, grin tugging at his lips.
Her eyes gleamed. “Then you’d better have a good reason.”
She rose onto her toes, pulling him into a kiss that stripped every thought of war from his mind.
For a heartbeat he let himself drown in her warmth, her whisper breaking against his lips: “You still want to do this, don’t you?”
“Amerei.” His laugh came rough, unsteady. “I’ve run across deserts, fought until my hands bled—but nothing has undone me like waiting for tonight.”
Her smile deepened, her next kiss slower, pulling him down with her.
He broke it—barely—his hands still lingering at her waist.
“I’m sorry. I have to go.”
Her brow knit. “Oh?”
“Your father sent for me. The Midnight has just arrived.”
A shadow crossed her face, her hands falling from his mantle. “So soon?”
“I’ll find you after,” he promised, brushing his thumb across her cheek even as he drew back.
“See that you do,” she whispered, the faintest ache behind the words.
He should have kissed her goodbye, sealed the promise with his lips—but the burden of command dragged him onward.
He turned, mantle snapping as he strode away.
Her silence followed him down the corridor—louder than any footsteps ever could.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
The Thread Unbroken
He had never met the boy, and yet he had known him all his life.
The apothecary lay hidden between two hills behind Castle Fyreglade, veiled by an herb garden and an apiary. Viktor moved past the raised beds, the sun drawing fragrance from every leaf, the air heavy with green heat. Bees hummed in their wooden homes—a low, living song. The garden spilled into a meadow farther down, teeming with life.
