Viktor stopped at the foot of the steps, breath unsteady, right hand clutching Amerei’s. His father’s voice broke across the distance.
“Tory?”
For a heartbeat, Issachar only gripped the porch post, his cane trembling in his other hand.
Then the restraint shattered.
With a breath torn raw from his chest, he lurched forward, the cane clattering to the boards as he half-limped, half-ran down the steps.
Viktor’s knees nearly buckled as his father reached him, arms wrapping hard around him, crushing him close as if sheer force could anchor him to the earth. The smell of salt and sea and home filled the moment, Issachar’s tears soaking his son’s hair.
“My boy,” he wept. “My Tory.”
Viktor could only hold him, his face pressed into his father’s shoulder, breath catching with the force of it. He hadn’t felt so young in years. Not since before the fire, before the sword, before war had carved him hollow.
At last Issachar leaned back, his hands rough against his son’s face, studying him as though trying to memorize every mark. His eyes traced the shortened hair, the scar cut across his brow, the steel gauntlet binding his hand. His breath shuddered out.
“I thought you’d lost it,” he said, touching the metal with reverence instead of fear. “I thought I’d lost you.”
Viktor’s mouth curved, tired but unbroken.
“Still here, Father.”
Issachar closed his eyes, then drew him into another fierce embrace.
“Still here.”
He would not let go until Viktor leaned back in his arms, and only then did he guide him up the steps, one hand firm at his back. Inside, the hearth was already burning, the wolfhound pacing at their heels, whining as though he understood the miracle come home.
They ate soup at the table, bread broken between them. Issachar kept staring at his son, pride brimming behind his eyes. But soon the firelight softened into laughter. Stories spilled—of the march, of Fyreglade, of the old comrades who had limped home.
Gabriel leaned back in his chair, raising his cup with a lopsided grin.
“You’ll be glad to know, Issachar, I mean to keep my word. Next time I walk through your door, it’ll be with a wife at my side.”
Issachar laughed, shaking his head.
“About time, boy. I was starting to think you’d be chasing these two all your days.”
Laughter stirred around the table, warm and brief. Then the wolfhound barked at the door, claws scratching the wood. A low knock followed.
The room stilled.
Issachar rose with effort, cane in hand this time, and crossed to the door.
He pulled it open—
and froze.
A figure stood framed in the torchlight.
Dark hair, cloaked, blind eyes pale as glass.
Issachar’s breath left him.
The cane rattled against the floorboards.
His lips parted, but no sound came.
