“That’s the only life he knows,” she said simply.
Storne’s jaw eased a fraction. He glanced to Viktor—no protest there—then back to his daughter.
“Take him,” he said, relief disguised as order. “And keep him away from anything that burns.”
Gabriel added, deadpan, “So… everything in a fortress.”
Storne did not look up. “Precisely.”
He scribbled something into the parchment.
“The castle contingent makes camp after midnight—Lady Inara with them. No banners. Casqadia’s lines are fraying and Zeporah’s grown desperate. They fled before the court went up in flames.”
“Jasmine,” Amerei breathed.
She glanced at Gabriel, the captain trying hard to hide his contentment.
Storne’s quill stopped. Ink pooled at the end of a ridge-line.
“Last order,” he said, eyes still on the map.
The aides went still.
Gabriel’s smirk died.
Amerei’s fingers found the hem of Viktor’s uniform.
Storne lifted his eyes to Viktor.
“High-Captain Seraphim.”
“Commander?”
“No.”
Storne’s gaze hardened.
“You are.”
Amerei froze—pride flaring, disbelief bright in her eyes.
“Father…”
“Field commission. Effective now.”
Storne set the knife down with a click, eyes narrowing on Viktor.
“If I fall, you hold the line. If I don’t, you still hold it.”
An aide straightened too fast, the shift of armor breaking the quiet. Gabriel’s mouth split in a feral grin he couldn’t quite smother. Amerei’s hand slid into Viktor’s, tight.
Storne rounded the table and clasped Viktor’s forearm. His voice dropped.
“I could not carry on my father’s legacy. The old powers chose you—and I will not stand in the way.”
His grip firmed.
“I name you, Viktor Seraphim, Commander of Sevrak’s host.”
