“Worse,” Viktor said evenly. “I’m from Aerdania.”
Blank looks—then laughter.
“That’s Chalvka,” said the red-haired one, “and Ivkar. I’m Samson. We hail from Kryon—where real men are made!”
He hoisted a mug, clashing it in toast.
“What happened to you, Captain?” Chalvka asked.
Viktor huffed.
“Ran myself like a mill horse stuck with a brand.”
Ivkar barked a laugh.
“So you flogged yourself like a mill horse—only to prove you’re the ass tied to it!”
The tent shook with their mirth.
Chalvka stood and seized Viktor’s arm, dragging his sleeve down without ceremony.
“You’re doing it wrong,” he said, scooping a fingerful of balm and working it hard into the muscle.
The pressure burned—then cooled.
Viktor hissed through his teeth.
“What’s in this?”
“North wind and calloused hands—that’s all it takes,” Chalvka said. “But only a Kryonite’s got both.”
“I believe that.” Viktor tipped his cup, smiling crookedly. “And this is no elvish ale either.”
“Our spirits could kill an elf,” Samson said with a smirk. “Saw it happen once.”
Laughter swelled again—dice, mugs, and rough camaraderie filling the hour until Viktor finally rose, stretching easier than before.
Samson caught his arm and tossed the jar after him.
“Keep it, Captain. If you can’t fight with steel, fight with this.”
Viktor weighed it in his hand, the scent already seared into memory.
“Desert dew,” he echoed under his breath, tucking it away.
* * *
Afternoon found Viktor astride his horse, eager to return to duty—anything to quiet his mind.
The blood bay moved like water beneath him—long, easy strides, every muscle built for distance. Viktor let her carry him beyond the palisade into the rocky flats, where wind curled cold from the mountains and the sky stretched merciless.
He reined her in at a rise and surveyed the land.
Empty stone. Brittle scrub.
Nowhere to hide if wings blotted the sun.
His mind worked with a soldier’s precision—measuring lines, imagining fire.
