He flinched when he finally said the name:
“Westport.”
Gabriel looked at Amerei. Eyes wide. Words withheld.
Storne fell silent.
Viktor broke.
“Westport, Storne. Tell me.”
The commander shook his head.
“We don’t know yet, Viktor.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
Viktor surged forward, voice cracking like it might break apart.
And Amerei’s hands hovered where he’d been.
Storne held up the letter.
“Scouts got word out as quickly as they could, Viktor. I’ll send my own—”
“No.”
Viktor snapped, indignation blazing through the grief.
“They won’t be fast enough.”
Storne met Amerei’s gaze.
He knew before she did.
“I’m going.”
Viktor turned on his heel, eyes heavy with desperation.
“High-Captain,” Storne ordered. “You will not.”
“My father is there.”
Viktor’s voice broke, raw and jagged.
“Alone. Sick—”
Then, louder, torn from his chest:
“And you’re telling me he could be dead.”
Storne stood, grief in his brow, iron in his stare.
“You are ordered to stay on this estate.”
Viktor pulled back, chest rising like a man drowning.
“Not if the queen permits me to go.”
