“But you did.”
Viktor laid a shard of black shale on the map.
“I did.”
Black powder flaked onto Storne’s gloves as he rolled the rock between his fingers. A sulfurous heat rose from it.
He closed his eyes.
“This is what Casqadia gets for putting an elven queen on a human throne. She thinks she knows what lies beyond the desert.”
He dropped the shale as if burned. Powder spilled across the territory of Aerdania.
Storne stared at it.
“She knows not the darkness she courts.”
He brushed the dust off the map and blew the rest away.
“Take your rock. I seek no reminder of that place.”
Viktor reached for it—
but Storne moved first.
A blur. Steel flashing. Chair scraping.
Viktor’s body reacted before thought could catch up: he lunged, overturned the table, caught the dagger mid-arc. The crash echoed through the tent as both men hit the ground.
Storne grunted as his head struck the earth.
Their arms locked, muscles straining for control.
Viktor rasped through clenched teeth, “What are you doing?”
“You fight like an elf.” The older man laughed beneath him, a flicker of admiration crossing his face. “Not many men can do that.”
Viktor stilled—suddenly aware he’d just tackled a superior officer to the floor.
He backed off, sheathed his knife.
“Do you know what would’ve happened if you struck that rock?”
“I do,” Storne said, still on the ground.
He rolled to his side, grabbed the shale.
“And now I know you do, too.”
Viktor exhaled rough, pulling him to his feet.
Storne smirked.
“And now I know why you asked Feindoran to admit you to this camp.”
Viktor bent to reset the table, brushing away the powder with his sleeve.
Storne’s voice quieted.
