“It’s not a Vykenran sunrise,” he said, “but it’s home.”
“It’s perfect.” She leaned her head against his shoulder, letting the hush of the waves fill the pause.
His voice swept the quiet. “Evander told me you sit by the ocean every year for your mother’s passing.”
“I do.”
“So do I,” he admitted, voice low. “When I miss my own.”
He tugged the blanket tighter.
“I used to think the Isle of Eilles was just beyond the horizon. Didn’t realize it lay off the elven coast.”
His laugh was short, unguarded.
“I always believed the sea returns what it takes. Maybe not whole. Maybe not the same. But it drifts back.”
Her hair brushed his jaw as she lifted her gaze.
“Do you still wait for her, Viktor?”
He shook his head.
“No. But Father does. When he’s ready, we’ll carve her name beside Adamar’s.”
He nodded toward the rocky ledge above the waterline.
“He’s there. We laid him in a tomb of stone so the tide could reach him but never take him.”
Amerei pressed her fingers to his lips.
“The tide won’t take you either. You’re coming to get me from Amethyst.”
“I am.” He kissed her hand, voice gravel low. “And you’ll know me.”
Her gaze held his. “I’ll know you. No matter what’s broken.”
Sand crunched behind them. Gabriel stood on the slope, arms folded, hair windswept, amusement playing at his mouth. “You two planning to sit here until the tide rolls in, or are we riding to Sevrak?”
“Windmere first,” Viktor said flatly. “We’ll need every sword we can rally.”
“A detour for reinforcements—or just to strut in front of your men? Shave before we leave, Tory.”
Viktor huffed. “Feck off, Feindoran.”
Gabriel waded into the surf, trousers darkening.
“Cover your ears, my lady,” he warned, then tossed over his shoulder, “I told your father last night’s haunting… wasn’t ghosts.”
They were on him before he could flee, spray soaking his shirt. Gabriel sputtered, laughing, and retaliated until all three dripped with seawater.
The hour blurred into stolen emberbrew, scraps tossed to Issachar’s hound, and Amerei’s reminders that Viktor still hadn’t shaved. He only smirked, eyes bright with mischief.
When the blade finally touched his skin, she sighed.
“I do wish you could keep it.”
“Your father would strip my mantle so fast," he muttered under his breath.
