The recruits filed into motion, threading through the canyon pass.
The wind stilled, but Viktor carried its fury in his marrow. Fire flared at his heels as he drove his horse harder, every stride a vow.
I’m coming, Amerei.
* * *
In the quiet halls of Fyreglade, a sudden gust swept through the open window—biting first, then warm, like winter yielding to spring.
Amerei turned from her mirror, hand rising to her heart. The air still carried him—salt and smoke, cinder and snow.
She smiled through a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
He was coming.
Chapter Sixty-Five
Before the Garden
The realm could burn, the armies could fall—but she was waiting in the garden, and he was ready.
The sun slipped low, casting her molten glow over the jewel of Fyreglade. Castle towers gleamed, banners stirred, and even the air itself seemed to quiver with anticipation. Servants darted between cottages, whispering—asking if it was safe to emerge, if the hour had finally come.
Viktor’s gaze flicked toward Storne, who spoke as if the moment had already been declared. “The apothecary, at once.”
The servants brightened, smiles breaking wide.
At the archway gate atop the hill, Matteo stood waiting.
Storne rode ahead, calling, “Gather your men and mount up.”
Viktor huffed a laugh beneath his breath.
Matteo has no idea what waits at the bottom of this cliff.
He looked down the winding stone path, catching the glint of chariots and the thunder of boots below. A strange ache welled in him—distance. The kind born the moment a man stepped into what he was: a Ruakite.
Would he ever again be tasked as a simple soldier? Would he ever wield only sword and rank? His Endowment was never meant to war with men, yet the soldier’s life had shaped his every breath.
Half man.
Half myth.
And half irritated that nothing could ever be simple again.
Yet even his humanity reached for more. Somewhere upon this estate, his bride awaited him—the Princess of Casqadia. He remembered what Storne had told Ivan: in time, Amerei could name him Prince Consort.
The thought made his mouth curve crooked.
Him—an Aerdanian lad—sitting at tables with kings. The absurdity nearly outweighed the terror.
“Our mother smiles on this day,”The Midnight whispered.
Viktor exhaled, eyes brightening.
“Our mother…”
For one stolen moment, the truth of where she dwelled no longer mattered.
