“My thanks,” he said. His gaze stayed on Xavien. “And for the aid to Aerdania.”
Xavien inclined his head.
Amerei’s eyes slipped to Viktor’s hand on the scales. His thumb stilled, then lifted away. She saw the calculation in him—the way winter weighs a storm and chooses to stand.
“Then our terms are set,” Xavien said, rising. “Her Majesty’s household rides within the hour.”
Storne gave one nod. “Sevrak will finish its preparations.”
Xavien’s gaze cut to Viktor.
“Commander Seraphim,” he said, polite as a blade, “see that Velascarin meets the fire before you do.”
Viktor’s mouth curved, faint, edged. “I intend to meet both.”
The attendants closed the chest. The armor’s name lingered a beat longer, then folded into parchment scrape and shifting boots.
Amerei let out the smallest breath.
“By oath of command,” Storne declared. “I transfer Queen Amerei’s person and household to Prince Xavien Draekenra until the cessation of hostilities or her safe return at our summons. Witnessed.”
Gabriel and Jasmine answered, “Witnessed.”
Canvas parted. Cold light spilled in. The meeting dissolved—seals lifted, aides dismissed, chairs scraping.
Storne’s words lingered, iron, final.
Viktor guided Amerei forward, his silhouette a shadow at her side.
Outside, the camp breathed—leather and steam, the sharp bite of oiled bowstrings. Horses stamped, heads tossing in the pale sun.
At Viktor’s step, the blood bay mare lifted her head. Ruby, breastcollar silver-chased with Elváliev’s serpent-sword and a commander’s cipher. In her forelock, someone—Evander, no doubt—had woven a slim ribbon of black and silver.
Xavien’s gaze caught there. His mouth barely moved as he leaned toward the nearest Sagittar, Elvish dropping like a pin:
“Velas a’dran muleth.”
(The mare is but a mule.)
Viktor didn’t break stride. His reply came rough, a soldier’s growl sharpened for every archer’s ear:
“Velas tor’en drae.”
(She knows her master, and I know her worth.)
A couple Sagittarii exchanged glances.
Xavien’s brows ticked, then smoothed to nothing.
Amerei hid her smile with a deep breath.
Xavien stepped closer to Ruby, palm sliding along her blaze as if appraising tack. His tone stayed light, almost idle—meant for the horse, meant for the crowd.
“A broke mare always makes for the easier ride.”
He glanced up through his lashes at Viktor—just a flick—before withdrawing his hand.
Viktor’s shoulders tightened. He kept his stare forward, refusing the bait, his silence a wall. The commander had better things to do than bleed for a prince’s amusement.
