“We were—”
“Destined.”
Juliet’s voice broke, sharp as prophecy.
“Destined to find one another. Destined to set the world aright. He calls himself a scout—then how does he lose himself in your arms? You are the Princess of Casqadia. His hands should never touch you, yet he will make you his own. You must see it, Amerei. Tell me you see it.”
“I do…” Amerei whispered, her whole body shuddering. “I see it, Líri.”
Her eyes closed, and she could almost feel Viktor’s heat searing through her—as if he stood ablaze before her. So much had been taken: her mother, her throne, her right to exist as more than Zeporah’s handmaiden. And Viktor—tormented the same. Forced into silence, made to hide what he was, suffering beneath power until the Vykenraven revealed him.
Their meeting was no accident. Their love was no mistake. They had already outrun every power that tried to break them. Now they would answer destiny with fire.
“He’s coming back,” Amerei murmured, her smile breaking through tears.
“Yes.” Juliet kissed her brow. “Trust me, dear. A hundred men are nothing before your Ruakite—scattered like autumn leaves by the swing of his arm.”
Amerei drew a shaky breath. “Then I’ll need to be ready for him.”
“You will be.” Juliet’s tone brightened. “Come—let’s see you dressed while he’s away.”
Amerei brushed her sleeve beneath her eyes, laughter shivering in her throat.
“Is this how you felt when you married your Ruakite?”
Juliet clasped her hands, helping her rise. Her eyes gleamed with something like memory, something like warning.
“Bright one… my marriage ended the Bloodforge.”
She tightened her hold, voice low and resolute.
“Yours will summon the reckoning.”
Chapter Sixty-Four
Of Wind and Steel
The storm answered him now. And it spoke ruin.
The cliffside behind Fyreglade seethed with silence—the air heavy, the valley below bristling with enemy steel. Viktor reined Ruby to the edge, fire restless across his shoulders, while Storne’s horse stamped beside him. Two riders against an army, watching, waiting—the storm poised between their breaths.
The Midnight’s voice carried on the still air, stronger than ever.
“Send the wind to find them.”
Viktor closed his eyes and let the Endowment surge through him—his senses riding the current, sweeping the canyons, catching the thrum of a hundred hearts beating in chaos.
“There.”
He pointed to a gulley carved deep into the rocks.
Storne wheeled his horse.
“Call to The Midnight,” he ordered. “I compel you to stir a storm.”
“You said something about the Gearíyan Strait?” Viktor pressed, following.
Storne laughed, rough.
