Then first light broke through the crevice of Hythe’s Gap, a blade cutting cloud.
Viktor sensed it before he saw it. The winds changed. Cooler. Sharper. As though the land beyond the mountains was holding its breath.
They broke through the pass in silence, the sea a whisper too far to reach. But the road ahead soon stirred: riders. Messengers.
The first one tore past without stopping, cloak ragged, face streaked in ash.
“Silver Hills is on fire,” he shouted. “Go around.”
Another thundered through.
“Briar’s Keep has fallen. Glaston ash. I saw it with my own eyes.”
But when Gabriel called out,Westport?—no answer came.
The silence was worse than a scream.
They rode harder. Down through the tree-thick valleys of Halyon, where moss clung stubborn to stone and the forest seemed whole. Too whole.
Amerei clung tighter. Neither of them dared to speak.
It wasn’t until the sun rose above the tree line that Viktor saw them.
The hanging oaks.
Bent and reaching, their long arms trailing moss.
Home.
Aerdania remembered him. And this time, he was not returning alone.
Amerei kissed his jaw, and his grip on the reins tightened, on her tighter still. His blood burned with the truth that had carried him through fire and ruin.
Mine.
Chapter Eighty-One
The Crossroads
The queen stood beside her husband—unashamed—together the only hope from the ashes.
The trees thinned as the road bent toward stone.
There was no smoke. No fire. Just the hollow stillness left in their wake.
Ash drifted in uneven layers, clinging to roots and broken carts, softening jagged remains. The air was brittle with char, each inhale scraping the throat, each exhale tasting of ruin. Splintered beams creaked faintly in the distance, the valley groaning like a wounded beast.
The hill rose ahead, its face scorched and shadowed. At its base, the elders stood waiting.
No one spoke. No one bowed.
They watched the riders approach, their eyes heavy, their shoulders aching. As if they had been standing there for hours. Or days.
Amerei’s gaze was fixed, not on the damage but on the people. Someone had to bear the torch of hope. It had to be her. It had to be now.
In front of her, Viktor said nothing.
He had known these roads. These knolls. This was not how he had imagined returning.
