His tone was final.
“Never be alone with him again.”
The air between them cracked with the weight of it. Her tears fell faster, not from guilt now but from the ache of his trust, of his fear. She pressed her lips to his temple, whispering through her sobs, “I promise.”
He exhaled shakily, his body yielding into her hold at last.
“Then it’s done.”
Her sob broke free, and she drew him close—as though holding him was the only vow that mattered.
Dawn was already pouring through the shutters when their tears ebbed into silence. They did not sleep, only held one another as the light grew stronger, climbing toward the second hour. Birds had begun to stir in the garden beyond, their calls threading through the hush, while sunlight crept across the sheets in warm bands. By then, the silence between them had gentled into something steadier, a fragile peace after the storm.
Amerei studied him—the scar at his brow, the roughness where fire and blade had carved him, the strength still alive in his gaze.
At last she slipped from the bed, warm air brushing across her bare shoulders, and crossed to the chest at the foot. When she lifted the lid, crimson and silver gleamed inside—cloth newlywoven, trimmed in steel thread. She carried the tunic to him and sat beside him on the bed.
“Come,” she said softly. “Let me dress you.”
He obeyed, though slowly, bracing on one elbow as she pulled on his leathers then guided the tunic over his head and down across his splinted ribs. The crimson caught the morning light, a living flame against his skin.
When she reached for the cloak, he caught the shimmer of its embroidery—a phoenix, wings outstretched, wrought in silver across the dark red field.
He froze, staring.
“The old banners are gone,” Amerei said, watching his eyes. “No more gold. Casqadia rises again. A realm reborn.”
Awe broke across his face, tempered by the shadow of exhaustion.
“A phoenix…”
She smiled faintly, adjusting the cloak on his shoulders.
“Like you.”
She bent once more to the chest and lifted a case of black wood. When she opened it, steel glinted in the dim light—the gauntlet. Blackened, newly forged, waiting.
Viktor’s heart sank.
“So I go into council half a man,” he murmured.
Amerei set it on the bed between them, meeting his eyes.
“No. You go as a commander who lived when none should have. A man who rose from fire. The gauntlet doesn’t hide what you’ve lost—it declares what you’ve survived.”
Something in him broke at that—shame giving way to reverence. He bowed his head, letting her unwrap the bindings and fit the gauntlet over his ruined hand. The clasp snapped shut with a sound like finality, like promise.
For the first time since the war, Viktor stood in the colors of Casqadia—crimson and silver, phoenix at his back, steel at hishand—dressed not by duty, but by the woman who had claimed his heart.
She stood behind him before the copper mirror, marveling at his changed reflection. The scar at his brow caught the morning light, and her fingers lingered there.
“I’ve grown so fond of this,” she whispered.
He huffed under his breath.
“Still need to shave before we leave…”
“Don’t you dare,” she cut in, firm despite the softness of her touch.
