A breath—then she was gone.
Chapter Ninety-Five
Vorathen
A madman’s jump. A legend’s answer.
My second hour, the camp surged with rhythm—orders snapping like banners in wind, men moving as if driven by an unseen tide through the riverbed of war.
“Sagittarii to the eastern ridge,” Viktor said, voice cutting over leather and steel. “Oil and pitch forward but covered. If the wind shifts, you pivot on my call—no heroics.”
Master Carys inclined his head once, flint-bright.
“We’ll make your line sing, Commander.”
“Good.”
Viktor’s stare was hard.
“Feindoran.”
Gabriel stepped in with a ledger tucked under his arm and a bow case at his back.
“Reporting.”
“You ride with Vykenra. Carys has operational command. You answer to him or me—no one else.”
“Understood.”
Storne came out of the dust with two aides and a map case.
“Seraphim,” he said, gaze cutting to Ruby, “find yourself a bloody warhorse. The one that raced you over the cliff will suit.”
Gabriel didn’t miss a step.
“You mean the Draekenran stud that nearly took Oran’s finger.”
Storne’s mouth refused a smile.
“I mean the kind that doesn’t balk when the sky catches fire.”
To Viktor:
“Take my armorbearer. Name one for yourself while you’re at it.”
A chin jerk.
“Balian.”
A dark-haired youth shouldered forward from the pavilion’s shade, cuirass rubbing a too-skinny frame.
“Commander,” he said, voice too soft for the title.
“With Seraphim,” Storne barked, already angling toward the palisade.
Gabriel smirked, low enough to pass for a cough.
“Balian’s Storne’s nephew. Keeps him close for his sister’s sake.”
