Above him the phoenix banners stirred, silver wings spread wide.
Blue mist rising in his eyes, he vowed:
He would heal before the Tome was opened.
Again, the Ruakite would rise.
Chapter One Hundred Twenty-One
The Knock at the Door
A father’s grief was about to become undone.
Casqadia waited.
But Castle Rhidian was not yet safe.
Ivan was still in the south, hunting dissidents, dragging Zeporah’s loyalists from their holes. No one knew which of the nobles could be trusted—and until they did, Amerei could not take her throne.
So the road bent north instead, to Westport.
To Dunes Way.
To home.
Viktor leaned against Amerei in the carriage, her arms around him, his strength returning though his frame was still lean. One of her hands rested against his heart, the other threaded tight through his. She kissed his cheek, brushing her lips over the roughness of his scar.
“What are you thinking about?” she whispered, struck by the gleam in his eye.
His mouth curved, half-grin, half-mischief.
“When I set foot in Rhidian,” he said. “I’ll bring her Grand Hall down. Stone by stone. Finish what I started.”
She smoothed his shortened hair back, smiling as the strands brushed against her neck.
“Then we’ll rebuild it together,” she murmured. “New banners, new throne, new Casqadia rising.”
Her gaze wandered as though she could already see it: the castle on the sea, bright with sails, ocean spray at its walls, the harbor alive with light instead of shadow.
“A man born of the sea will feel at home in Rhidian.”
She kissed his face once more.
“As if it had always been yours.”
His grin deepened, that spark of mischief cutting through the weariness.
“Then I suppose I’ll have to let them call me their king.”
He looked up at her, their smiles brushing into each other until their lips met in a quiet kiss. When he drew back, his voice softened into a vow.
“So long as I’m still yours first.”
The carriage jolted to a halt at the edge of Dunes Way, where the road gave way to sand. Viktor let Gabriel steady him as he climbed down, Amerei close at his side. They walked the last stretch together, the sea wind tugging at their cloaks, the wolfhound’s bark carrying faint from the hill above.
The steps of the house rose before them, weathered cedar and stone, the porch washed in late light. And there, waiting, stood Issachar.
He had heard his son lived. Jaems had told him weeks ago. But hearing and seeing were not the same. His shoulders shook, his hands braced against the post, as if even now he didn’t dare believe until his eyes gave proof.
