Storne was already in the hall, strapping his knives into place, the steel gleam answering the flare in his eyes.
“Leolis comes,” he rasped. “One hundred strong. Charioteers.”
Viktor stilled, fists tightening. “They’re after the munitions.”
Storne’s stare met his—a silent accord forged in the same flame.
He turned sharply to Evander.
“Feindoran,” he ordered. “Find him. Now.”
“Yes, sir.”
Evander didn’t bow. He ran.
Storne fastened his belt and met Viktor’s gaze
“I’m calling every able man to defend this estate. You and I…”
His voice dropped to a growl.
“…we’re going after Leolis alone.”
The Endowment stirred in Viktor’s veins.
“Understood.”
He seized his mantle, threw it under his arm.
Juliet’s voice carried from the veranda—calm, cutting, unmistakable.
“Are you remembering your father at the Gearíyan Strait?”
Storne paused mid-stride, a smile like tempered steel flashing in his eyes.
“I am.”
The Gearíyan Strait?
Juliet straightened, her tone turning to challenge.
“Then who will guide our Ruakite?”
“He is the son of Eiliyah Aradostylan,” Storne said, pride threading through the words. “And it’s her other son who speaks to him.”
Juliet’s mouth curved, fierce and knowing.
“Go on then,” she said, eyes finding Viktor. “Be a good husband—and fend off the wolves.”
Amerei.
Storne was already descending the stairs, but Viktor turned.
She stood in her doorway, every line of her body waiting for him.
“The armory, High-Captain,” Storne called.
“Yes, sir.”
