She stepped closer, braid catching the light, her gaze flicking from Viktor to Storne. Her pulse thundered, steel reflecting in her eyes.
“Are you one of them, Father?”
Her voice was steady, but her hands trembled at her sides.
Storne stilled.
“Perhaps because I am a half-elf,” he said, shadow stretching over them, “it never passed to me. And only time will tell if Evander or Captain Feindoran carry their fathers’ gifts.”
Gabriel shook his head at once. “My father was a minor courtier—cousin to the elf-king, yes, but a man who never lifted a blade.”
“You’re right,” Storne said evenly. “He wielded a bow.”
He exhaled, rough.
“Like many soldiers after the Bloodforge, your father tried to live as untroubled and hidden a life as fate would allow.”
Silence stretched.
Gabriel’s jaw worked, but he said nothing more.
It was Evander who broke it, voice sharp.
“So that’s why she married him…”
His eyes burned.
“Zeporah—she married my father because he was Ruakite. Not for her court. Not for me.”
His breath hitched as the thought tumbled out.
“My half-brother will be the one you want. And you’ll cast me aside.”
“Enough,” Storne rasped.
His tone carried no heat—only fact.
Before he could say more, Viktor stepped forward, the words tearing out of him.
“Will you risk their lives to prove it, Commander?”
Storne’s gaze did not waver.
Viktor’s voice steadied—low, unyielding.
“I won’t stand by and let you.”
Amerei stepped to his side, shoulders squared, fire burning in her eyes.
“Neither will I.”
Storne’s gaze hardened, relentless. He looked once to Gabriel, then Evander.
“I won’t have to,” he answered. “Elves were never meant to bear this power. It doesn’t move through them—it devours them. They must cast it away. So they loose it in arrow and sling, never blade. More suited for a bow than a sword.”
He stepped closer—close enough that Viktor felt the press of his will.
“But you… you can carry it.”
