Gasps rang out.
A meteor streaked across the sky, then another.
The world hushed.
The gatekeeper’s hand fell away.
Viktor passed through under the rock and into camp.
Soldiers gaped skyward.
Cheers rose. Fires lit. Painted tattoos of sun and moon glowed on skin.
Behind him, the world held its breath.
But Viktor walked on.
Inside his tent, he unbound his hair, stripped off his runners, and replaced them with boots. He reached for his red-and-black mantle and slung it over his shoulders like armor.
“Seraphim!” a voice called from behind the dividing wall.
Viktor grabbed his pack and strode into the next chamber. A handful of officers looked up.
An elf half a head taller than him stepped forward with a grin.
“Scouts aren’t due back ‘til dawn, yet here comes Viktor Seraphim at the eleventh hour.”
A bulkier soldier crossed his arms with a scowl.
“It offends your rank for you to run, Seraphim.”
Gabriel slung an arm around Viktor’s shoulder without missing a step.
“It offendsyour facefor you to speak, Oran.”
“Burned like a forge fire!” Laughter cracked from the back of the tent.
Gabriel nudged Viktor. “Did you miss the eclipse?”
Viktor’s tone stayed even. “I saw enough.”
“Remarkable, yes?”
“Otherworldly,” he murmured—half in awe, half in warning.
Just then, a bearded elf entered, his mantle rich and finely embroidered. Gold-trimmed rapier. Leather gloves. Ringed hand.
The men quieted without command.
With a glance, he dismissed the others.
“Captain Feindoran,” he said to Gabriel. “Fetch your scout.”
“I’m here, Commander.” Viktor bowed.
The bearded elf looked him over, unimpressed.
Gabriel stepped in. “Captain Seraphim runs for his unit—”
