“Nearly forgot,” he said.
She tilted her head, still flushed, still catching her breath.
“What is it?”
“The real protector of the realm,” he said dryly, tossing the siring-cease into his mouth. He grimaced at the taste, swallowing hard. “Keeps me from siring an heir. Dask, it’s foul.”
She laughed, rummaging through her own bag until she found a small vial of silverleaf, swirling pale and potent in the glass. She lifted it between them like a prize. “This ensures I can withstand you, High-Captain.”
His grin turned wicked. “You sure you brought enough?”
She shoved him, but he caught her waist and pulled her flush against him, mouth brushing her ear as he rasped, “Gabriel gets us just this once. Next time, I tie him to a tree.”
Her smirk curved sharp.
“Thought you might call down lightning.”
His mouth grazed her temple.
“It’s Gabriel, love. We only want to maim him—not kill him.”
The laugh slipped from her lips, but the heat in her eyes lingered. He held her gaze too long, his thumb stroking at her waist, silent promise thrumming between them.
Tonight.
A hard thump rattled the wall planks.
“Tory!” Gabriel’s voice, loud enough to make them both start. “Dask—get down here. You’ve got to see this.”
Viktor groaned, forehead dropping to Amerei’s shoulder. His shirt still hung half-untucked, her hair mussed where hishands had been in it. She tugged his collar back into place, breath still unsteady.
“Tonight,” he promised, before turning toward the ladder.
He shoved it open, climbing down into the light that spilled from below. Amerei followed, smoothing her hair as her heart still pounded.
Gabriel stood at to window, the faintest grin tugging at his mouth.
“Look…”
They stepped to him—
And froze.
At the foot of the hill, the whole of Westport had gathered. Men, women, children—faces gaunt, eyes raw with grief and hope alike. A hush rolled through the crowd as heads turned, voices whispering his name.
Tory Seraphim.
They had come for him.
Chapter Eighty-Five
Tory Seraphim
The crowd saw only their champion—none saw the letter he sent into the night.
Torches lined Dunes Way as far as the eye could see, swaying in the night wind. Villagers clustered together, whispers rising and falling, their eyes fixed on Issachar’s house.
“I had the strangest knock at my door,” Issachar said, glancing at Viktor. “Children—half the street’s worth—asking to see Tory Seraphim.”
