She turned toward Storne.
“Masten—leave us.”
Storne grunted, clapped Viktor once on the shoulder, and said, “Return to my chambers when she lets you go.”
“Yes, Commander.”
Viktor bowed his head until the door shut behind him.
Saecily rummaged through her basket, then caught Viktor’s hand and pressed a small sachet into his palm.
“And this,” she said briskly, “issiring-cease. Chew it before tonight… unless you’re ready to sire an heir.”
Viktor frowned at the bundle, jaw flexing.
“Dask, elves think of everything.”
His mouth curved—not quite a smile.
“Back home, we don’t have such things.”
Saecily folded his fingers around it firmly.
“Well, you do now. And you’ll use it. For her sake as much as yours.”
Viktor tore the pouch open with his teeth and bit down on the herb. The bitterness scorched his tongue—anise, lemongrass, sharp and awful. He grimaced, swallowing hard.
“Good.” Saecily turned back to her basket. Her eyes glinted as she added, “Someone’s got to teach her.”
Viktor froze. “Teach her?”
Saecily arched a brow.
“Amerei once told me she thought bedding a man was like… breaking a horse.”
He nearly choked.
“Storm take me. Ahorse?”
His hand dragged over his face.
“Stars help her.”
Saecily’s mouth curved sly.
“Stars helpyou.”
Still grinning, she led him to a quiet, book-lined corner at the back of the cottage. A table waited—parchment, quill, and ink laid out in order.
“If you can set it all aside,” Saecily said softly, “I ask you to write your vows.”
Viktor lowered into the chair, still tasting the bitterness of the siring-cease. His jaw tightened, mind whirling.
He buried his face in his hands—she thinks it’s like riding a horse.He cursed under his breath, then straightened, storm burning low in his blood.
The quill lay heavy in his grasp when he reached for it, ink pooling dark at its tip. Something simple. Something sacred. He bent to the page—storm and vow and her name already written inside him.
“Amerei…”
