Viktor smirked at Amerei, Gabriel groaning beside them.
“Here we go again…” he muttered.
Viktor only shook his head before moving to the kettle in the hearth.
“Try it,” Issachar called. “Tell me if it’s ready.”
Viktor dipped the spoon and tasted—stonefish stew, barley roasted, sea cabbage and black onion simmered in salt-ale, rich and warm. He nodded once. “Ready.”
He ladled bowls and set them on the table.
Issachar’s gaze lingered on Amerei.
“My dear—you are half-elven.”
“I am,” she said with a grin.
“Who are your parents?”
Gabriel nearly choked on his broth. Viktor reached, but Gabriel waved him off, rasping, “Just… wrong pipe.”
Amerei turned her bowl, her eyes steady, her voice carrying a quiet strength.
“My mother was Cassandra. My father, Masten Storne. I am their only child.”
Viktor froze.
Silence, sudden as tide gone out.
“Masten Storne of…”
“Elváliev.”
“Cassandra of—”
“Casqadia.”
Issachar held his breath.
“Cassandra of Casqadia.”
His gaze lingered on Amerei a moment longer, as if seeing her anew, then shifted back to Viktor. “Tory… a word.” To Amerei: “Forgive us.”
He pushed back from the table.
Viktor followed him through the front door.
Outside, the wind swept off the cliffs, tugging Issachar’s cloak, the sea below restless with foam. He leaned heavy on his cane, gaze lost in the horizon, as if searching for an answer there.
Viktor pulled the door closed.
And his father spoke, voice carved from the gale.
“You always did chase storms.”
“This one found me,” Viktor answered, the sea-wind threading through his words.
Issachar turned slowly, eyes gray as weathered stone.
