She gave his hand a quick, warm squeeze before slipping free.
“Come. Before we’re missed.”
She rose, water dripping from the net’s braid, sunlight haloing her shoulders.
Viktor followed, the warmth of her touch still burning in his palm—her vow searing into him until it was his own:
“…then I will.”
Chapter Eight
The Mirror and the Flame
He reached for his reflection and found a stranger staring back.
Viktor slipped back through the palisade, pulling his arms across his chest to stretch the ache. Each step made him wince—and that was enough to draw jeers from a tent pitched low to the ground.
“What’s the matter, Captain—desert bite ya?”
“Get in here, lad! We’ll set that ache straight.”
“You needdesert dew!”
Viktor lifted a hand, waving them off.
“If that’s spirits you’re offering, I’ll pass. Duty doesn’t drink.”
“We’re off duty!” the first bellowed.
“Worked through the night and should be sleeping, but Samson here owes me coin.”
Dice rattled across the table, followed by groans.
The lad who’d thrown them grinned—bright-red hair knotted into thick coils falling past his shoulders, eyes burning with mischief to match.
“Desert dew isn’t spirits,” he said. “It’s a balm. And you need it.”
He lobbed a clay jar through the air.
Viktor caught it on instinct.
The lid turned easily beneath his fingers, releasing a cool, herbal scent—mint and resin carried on desert wind.
He smeared a little along his forearm, then blinked as the ache eased near instantly.
“Dask.”
He stepped inside, lowering onto the bench with a wry grin.
“Actually—I’m also off duty.”
The men roared.
“What do they call you?”
“Captain Viktor Seraphim.”
“A spoiled welp from Casqadia,” someone muttered.
