Viktor sighed through his nose. “Always straight to the point, aren’t you?”
He raked a hand through his hair. The last time he’d left home, it was on a scouting mission for Zeporah. Now—everything had changed. Too much to capture in any letter.
“I’ll tell him when I see him again.”
…whenever that may be.
Gabriel followed him into his chamber, kicked out a chair, and lounged.
“You met with Ivan this morning?”
Viktor stripped off his tunic, tossing it aside with a scowl.
“You won’t grant me a moment’s peace, will you? Dask,” he muttered with a smirk, “you never fecking do.”
Gabriel raised both hands in mock innocence.
“The stage is set for the southern front,” Viktor explained, rifling through the wardrobe.
“Ballistae to the north, Sagittarii of Vykenra if we can win them. You’ll need to join them—Ruakite elves led them in the Bloodforge.”
Gabriel scoffed. “They’ll welcome me after I refused my father’s place?”
“They will,” Viktor said, grinning faintly. “If they want your power through their ranks.”
“Ashes and storm…”
Gabriel turned toward the window, brow knit tight.
“At what point do we stop playing sentries for Amerei and start defending the fort?”
Viktor shot him a glare—fair warning.
Gabriel held up a hand. “Sorry. I won’t pretend to know your plight.”
Viktor braced a palm against the wardrobe, head bowed.
How long before war called him again? Where would Amerei be sent? Not Fyreglade—not this unguarded jewel. Leolis had proved its walls too porous. Where then could she go?
He growled low, slamming the wardrobe doors.
“The feck am I supposed to wear?”
“For the wedding?” Gabriel blinked.
“Yes. My uniform?”
“You think I’d know?”
“More likely than I would,Lord Feindoran.”
“Come now,” Gabriel teased. “No time for cursing.”
Viktor buried his face in his hands.
“An elf is meant to braid my hair.”
“That’s it. I’m out.”
