Gabriel.
The sight of him swam as Viktor’s knees buckled.
Gabriel caught him by the shoulders, voice rough with both relief and rebuke.
“Dask, Seraphim—always have to run yourself into the ground, don’t you.”
He huffed a low breath, shaking his head—
then Viktor collapsed fully against him.
“Storms… he’s going down.”
Gabriel turned to the guards, voice sharp but quiet.
“Get him on a horse. To my tent. Now.”
Soldiers obeyed at once, soon slinging Viktor across a mare. Gabriel walked alongside, a steady hand at his back, his expression grim.
“Easy, brother. I’ve got you.”
Inside the tent, he and a guard lowered Viktor to the bed.
Gabriel stripped off his pack, rolled him to free the canteen, then tossed the gear aside.
“Not a word of this,” he told the guard.
“Absolute discretion. Go.”
He cupped Viktor’s face, coaxing him back with a gentle tap.
“Come on. Wake up.”
A rustle at the door drew his head up.
“I said leave,” he growled.
Until he saw her.
Amerei stood there, golden in the torchlight.
His eyes widened.
He bent low over Viktor.
“Lady Zrynon—”
“Let me help you,” she pleaded, already on her knees.
Gabriel jerked his chin.
“You can’t be here with me alone.”
“I’m not,” she pressed, tugging at one of Viktor’s leather braces.
“As far as anyone knows, I’m in my father’s bathhouse behind the command ring.”
“Amerei—”
