Viktor’s grin tugged crooked.
“Then for his sister’s sake, I’ll make a soldier out of him.”
His gaze sideways.
“Recommend me a horse, Gabriel. Storne will have my head if I drag in another mare.”
“You want bone, wind, and will,” Gabriel said, eyes on the lines of the remount strings. “Deep chest. Cold eye. Not a dancer—a breaker of miles.”
From the pavilion poles, the red-braided Kryonite youth edged closer, helm tucked under one arm.“Beg pardon, Commander.”
A quick glance for permission.
Viktor’s nod was curt.
The boy went on.
“There’s a devil that runs the basalt gullies. Black as sin, scar down the muzzle. Loyal to the teeth—if he lets you near ‘em.”
Gabriel shook his head. “A wild stallion running the desert—”
“Where?” Viktor cut him off.
“North ridge,” the boy said. “Past the dry fall, where the wind sings in the stone.”
Viktor folded his arms, gaze narrowing.
“You can take me there?”
“Aye.”
A curl of a grin.
Viktor stilled, a memory dropping like a stone. He lifted his chin the slightest measure. “You’re the one who gave me desert dew. Aren’t you?”
“Aye.”
“Name?”
Gabriel flipped the ledger.
The boy answered, “Samson Andreas.”
“Lieutenant Andreas,” Gabriel read. “Eighteen. Enlisted at fourteen—how the feck—Storne’s guard…”
“Move him to my guard,” Viktor snapped, not breaking eye contact.
“Armorbearer.”
He turned to Balian.
“You two. With me.”
Viktor unhooked Ruby’s reins from the rail and set a punishing pace for the north gate. Samson fell in on his right, Balian trotting to keep up on the left, the camp’s noise thinning to hoofbeats and breath. Sentries snapped to as they passed. The gate opened with a groan of iron and dust.
Beyond the palisade, northeast, the flats opened—white and wind-peeled, the basalt ridge a black seam against the morning.
“There,” Samson pointed.
