“Dask, you’re a saint,” Gabriel muttered, sipping through painful winces.
Curiosity tugged Amerei closer.
“What is this?”
“Emberbrew,” Viktor said, unable to hide his grin. “Ambrosia of the backcountry.”
She braved a sip, her nose wrinkling at once.
“Oh, Captain Seraphim…”
She handed it back with a delicate shiver.
“I must not be human enough to appreciate it.”
His smile lingered as he took it—exactly as he’d expected.
“We should ride for Rhidian early,” he said, voice firming. “If I can speak at the captains’ council, they might listen. Sevrak must be ready if the dragon returns.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Gabriel offered, ducking low to haul Evander upright.
He slung one of the elf’s arms across his shoulders, nodding once to Amerei.
“We’ll take this one to his tent.”
Viktor caught Evander’s other arm, and together they stumbled him out into the camp’s gray light. They shouldered him to his cot and let him collapse in a graceless heap.
Gabriel tugged the blanket halfway over him before straightening, his eyes already narrowing on Viktor.
“I counted three cots in that tent this morning,” he said quietly.
“Where exactly did you sleep?”
Viktor stiffened, turned away. Silence was easier than a lie.
“Dask, Viktor.” Gabriel’s voice cut sharper now, low but urgent. “What are you doing?”
Viktor didn’t answer.
He only slipped back toward his own tent, breath quickening as if he’d been caught running. The canvas flap fell shut behind him, darkness pressing close.
What am I doing?
His rank, his name, his place in the army—all that he would risk was everything he had and everything he was becoming.
The basin rattled as he knocked into it, sparks threatening at his fingertips until he clenched them out. The chaos inside him felt heavier than war.
Gabriel’s voice cut from outside. “Let’s go. The council waits.”
Viktor forced his breath to silence and followed.
The captains gathered beneath the monolith, the sky pressing low with cloud. At their head stood Ivan Azroc, half his hair shorn away to bare a scar that curved clean across the back of his skull.
“Viktor,” he called at once, recognition sure in his voice.
“High-Captain.”
Viktor bowed, half-amused—he hadn’t seen his old commander since the Trials at Irongate.
