They took their places: Storne at center, Viktor one step right, Amerei a breath forward. Gabriel drifted to one side, Jasmine to the other.
A horn gave a low, rolling call at the gate, echoing like a summons bending the air.
“Open,” Storne ordered.
The flaps split, daylight knifing through.
The Crown Prince of Elváliev appeared in the blaze, dismounting as though the horizon bowed to him. The Sagittarii arrayed behind, arrowheads catching light.
Xavien’s gaze swept the pavilion—cool, assured—before fastening on the commanders, then on the woman between them.
Viktor’s arm stayed fixed, hand tightening over Amerei’s.
Xavien advanced, dark gold hair bound close, traveling leathers unmarred by dust, a mantle deep as midnight seas at his throat. Two Sagittarii shadowed him, bows unstrung but ready. Behind them came a third elf—older, hawk-eyed, white threading his temples—still as a drawn bow.
“Well,” Storne said, voice even, hard, “I expected an envoy, not the heir of Elváliev.”
Xavien inclined his head. “Envoys don’t carry what I bring.”
His gaze flicked to Amerei—swift, disciplined. Viktor caught it.
“Prince Xavien,” Storne said, gesturing to the chair. “Commander Seraphim. My queen.”
The titles fell like stones across water, bridges that would never hold.
“Commander Seraphim?” Xavien’s eyes narrowed on Viktor. “Commissioned by the queen, or—”
“By fate itself,” Storne cut, hammer on anvil.
Xavien inhaled, then sat, sliding off his gloves with precision.
The older elf remained standing.
“Rhyne Carys, First Bow of Vykenra,” he announced, Elvish fine as glass in his voice.
“Master Carys,” Storne acknowledged.
Carys’ brow lifted.
“The Sagittarii ride the eastern ridge. We’ll take your captain—Gabriel, son of Cillian. If he is what I’ve heard, our arrows will not be arrows.”
“They won’t,” Viktor said evenly. “They’ll be missiles.”
Carys’ mouth curved.
“I rode with Cillian Feindoran,” he said quietly. “I know.”
An aide set parchment before Xavien, ink still wet. Another poured wine. He signed, drank with ease.
“Xavien Draekenra,” he intoned, smooth, “come to receive Her Majesty’s household and ensure her safe conduct to Amethyst.”
He slid the page forward, eyes on the goblet.
“Halyon wine, is it?”
A wicked smile touched his mouth.
“A good day for deviltry.”
