Viktor drew a breath, voice low, edged.
“One might prefer sacrament—on the eve of battle.”
Xavien touched the rim, unbothered.
“Your Majesty.”
Amerei matched his tone.
“Prince Xavien.”
“You’ll find Castle Amethyst prepared,” he said. “Rooms aired. Kitchens warned. Doors open. You’ll rest in the consort’s wing—nearest my chambers. Practical for your safety, of course.”
Viktor’s fingers pressed faint into Amerei’s hand.
“Will your wife be joining us in Amethyst?” she asked, chin high.
Viktor’s mouth tugged, inward.
My shameless girl.
Xavien paused, only a breath.
“Her Highness remains where duty requires.”
“Then we are alike,” Amerei said, soft as silk. “We go where duty requires.”
Xavien’s gaze lingered, then he lifted two fingers.
“Bring it. Velascarin.”
The name moved through the pavilion like shadow over flame.
Storne’s head lifted.
“Velascarin,” he echoed, low. “You raided your vaults.”
Attendants eased a lacquered chest onto the table. The lid swung back—lamplight sliding over black scales, sea-dark, devouring light until an iridescent sheen ghosted their edges.
“Scale of Victory,” Xavien murmured. “Cut from the serpent your father bested on the Myrran shelf in the Bloodforge. Turns fire. Even dragonfire—if the bearer keeps his feet.”
He did not look at Storne when he added, “You know the story.”
Storne’s jaw set. “I do.”
Xavien smiled with his eyes, then turned the chest toward Viktor.
“Commander Seraphim. Elváliev offers this for the line you’ll hold.”
Viktor didn’t look at the armor.
His stare fixed on the prince.
Behind the polish flickered not triumph but shadow—a fear no goblet or smile could drown. He remembered the garden, the falter, the words that clung like ash:King of a realm on fire.
“I accept,” he said, voice even, “for the men who stand with me.”
Only then did he press his palm to the cuirass. Cool. Heavy. Honest.
