“Do not mistake this for Casqadia’s burden alone, my lord. If the Tome is opened, it will not distinguish between north or south, human or elf. It will burn us all.”
Xavien’s gaze softened on her, the edge of his mouth bending.
“Spoken like a queen who already thinks beyond her borders.”
His tone was lighter than the moment deserved, but the look in his eyes was not.
“Careful, Amerei—you’ll have my senate clamoring to crown you in Vykenra.”
A cold current moved through Viktor.
He stepped closer, words like sharpened steel.
“If Zeporah unlocks that vault, there will be no senate left to crown you, and no realm left to rule.”
Xavien’s eyes lingered on Viktor, sharp and measuring. Then, without shifting his gaze, he spoke a single name.
“Selene.”
The guards at the back stirred, moving to open the doors.
But Storne stepped into the silence.
“Our course is clear. Zeporah fled south. If she carries the Tome, she carries it to Tyra. We’ll need cutters swift enough to chase and galleys strong enough to board.”
Xavien’s attention turned back, voice cool.
“The Silver Fleet has three such cutters, two galleys armed to the teeth. Admiral Rael commands them. They will put to sea within three days.”
His tone hardened.
“But they will fly Elváliev’s standard. And their first loyalty will be to me.”
Storne’s eyes flicked once to Amerei, a nod, unflinching agreement.
Quills scratched. Orders were taken. The hall began to move with the machinery of alliance.
Storne named routes, Xavien confirmed ships and captains, scribes scratched to seal the pact. The tension shifted, thinning into the work that followed decisions.
Then the council chamber doors swung open—and for an instant, Xavien’s attention narrowed to only her. Raven-dark hair spilled loose over her shoulders, catching torchlight in glints of blue. Eyes the color of stormlit seas swept the chamber—devastating in their stillness. When her gaze lifted to the king across the table, something shifted. Like prophecy breaking open.
Xavien tipped his head toward the chair next to him, then spoke to the rest of the hall.
“The fleet sails in three days. The council is adjourned.”
Benches scraped, quills snapped shut, the hall dissolving into motion.
The fleet was promised. The hunt begun.
But Viktor felt no triumph.
Xavien’s decree did not release him—it bound him.
Ships meant sea.
Sea meant war.
And the Tome meant war of fire.
