Before Amerei could say a word, Viktor raised his voice.
“Vek Seraphim. Vek dran. Kira velk.”
(I am Seraphim. I am yours. She is mine.)
The sound cut through the air like stone splitting beneath fire.
One of the elders inhaled sharply.
Another murmured, “He speaks the old tongue.”
The bearded man drew his cloak tighter to his chest. His every word was as sharp as the rapiers at his side.
“Dar vek tornak?”
(Who is your father?)
Viktor answered, “Issachar.”
The man studied him a moment, his eyes narrowing.
“I am Tarnic. This is Marith.”
He gestured to the woman. Then he nodded once.
“Come, Vek’torn Issachar. Korr sal ven’dara.”
(Come, son of Issachar. Bring the lightbound queen.)
He looked to Gabriel, the slightest smirk upon his lips.
“…vek taldros ven’kurn.”
(…and the walking tree.)
Gabriel didn’t need Viktor to translate. He just tucked his arms behind his back and followed. Happy to have been accepted by a people who feared his kind.
Amerei spoke to all as they walked up the hillside.
“I will dispatch the crown prince of Elváliev at once.”
“We welcome the help of the elves,” Marith said softly. “Thank you for your kindness.”
They drew closer to the crest of the hill. Every breath held. Every step laden.
Viktor’s fingers found Amerei’s ring. He held her hand tighter.
“I’m here, Tory,” she whispered. Only he could hear.
The valley opened.
The hill across the way, scarred with ash. Deep, black gouges cut into the grassy face.
Then they saw the city—Aerdania’s only true city—gutted, ripped from the safety of the knolls surrounding.
Silver Hills.
There was no cry of gulls. No smoke on the wind.
