“By reprimand?”
“Voluntarily,” Gabriel said. “He’s faster than any in the camp. Man or elf.”
The commander ignored him.
“Captain Seraphim may speak for himself.”
His eyes swept Viktor—indents from braids, wind-burned skin, eyes carved by discipline.
“When were you due back?” he asked.
“Sunrise, sir.”
“Where are the others now?”
“Briar’s Keep,” Viktor said, voice low and unflinching. “Far as I was told.”
The commander pulled off a glove, set a ring on the table.
His gaze lingered.
“You beat the rest of your scouts by half a day.”
He didn’t smile, but something in his posture shifted—a flicker of respect he didn’t try to hide.
“What have you to report?”
Gabriel gestured. “Commander, may I formally introduce—”
“No need. Sit down.”
Viktor knew the name anyway: Commander Masten Storne—war hero of the north.
Storne spread a map across the table.
Viktor watched. Sharp beard. Pointed ears.
A half-elf?
He waited.
“What have you to report?” Storne repeated.
Viktor dropped the pack into his lap, leather creaking under his hands.
“Casqadia’s northwest cannot be irrigated. The queen anticipates famine. She requests troops—fearing unrest.”
“Granted.”
“The Kryonites move north. She fears they’ll tap the buried rivers—old veins of water sealed beneath the stone.”
“So she drills first?”
Viktor allowed half a smile. “Yes.”
“She’s clever,” the commander said. “Formidable.”
He nodded once. “Go on.”
