Her eyes narrowed, stilled.
The realization struck him—slow, cold.
“…you cannot see Fyreglade.”
Before he could speak again, Zeporah’s dagger flashed from her thigh, biting against his throat.
“You lost us one hundred men,” she seethed.
“Seraphim was there!”
“IburnedSeraphim!”
“He’s healed, Zeporah.” Leolis wrenched the blade from her hand and cast it aside. The clang rang sharp through the chamber. “He. Conjures. Storms.”
Her mouth crashed into his, teeth raking his lip until blood rose.
“If not for your father,” she hissed against him, “I would be rid of you.”
Leolis laughed low and dangerous—the scrape of steel drawn from its sheath. His lips dragged across her ear.
“He never won you Adamar Seraphim’s soul…”
A vial slid from his sleeve into his palm, glass catching the torchlight. His smile twisted sharp.
“Without me—” he leaned in, voice a scorch against her skin, “—you’ll never claim Viktor Seraphim’s, either.”
She lunged for it, but he twisted away. Snared by his stare, she yanked him forward by his belt, ripping the clasp free. Her lips brushed his jaw.
“He will come to me,” she whispered.
Her teeth grazed his throat.
“Hear me.”
Her voice lowered, silk stretched thin over steel.
“I shall conjure my own storm—not one of wind or rain, but of fire. A horde of dragons, set loose, and he will choke on the price of his treason.”
Leolis tossed his head back, laughter knifing through the chamber. “A storm of dragons? You’re not ready to take Sevrak.”
“Not Sevrak.”
Her lips burned against his ear.
“Aerdania.”
Chapter Sixty-Nine
As If There Were No War
In the press of his vow, in the fire of his touch, she learned what the court had never told her:
love was never meant to wound.
The sun rose quietly over Fyreglade, gold and violet spilling across Viktor’s chamber.
The bed was warm, the air sweet with moonblossom, yet a chill pulsed beneath his skin—something that lingered past the cliffs, beyond the mountain pass. It had stirred after sleep claimed Amerei, when the night went still.
