Ivan’s voice carried steady across the circle.
“Commander Storne has ridden for Rhidian. Until he returns, we hold Sevrak as if the desert itself were marching against us.”
His pale eyes swept the men, sharp but measured.
“No one ventures north. No fires of green wood. No smoke to mark us from above.”
“And for dask’s sake,” Gabriel added. “No fireworks.”
A ripple of murmurs spread, the weight of the order setting into their bones.
Viktor stepped forward, the baying of his pulse loud in his ears.
“Precaution won’t be enough. If dragons return—and they will—we don’t have the men to hold this fort. We need reinforcements.”
A captain scoffed, but Ivan only inclined his head, voice still even.
“From where? Elváliev bleeds already. Gearíya sends few. What realm still answers the call?”
“Casqadia,” Viktor said at once.
The name cut through the air like a blade.
“If her armies stand with us, Sevrak might live.”
Silence pressed tight.
Ivan’s scar pulled as his jaw shifted.
“Casqadia follows Zeporah. And if the whispers are true, it was she who stirred the beast that struck Glaston.”
His voice cut low.
“Why would she ride to put out a fire she lit herself?”
The words landed heavy, the shadow of the usurper stretching long.
No one answered.
The valley wind hissed through the grass, but Viktor’s gaze had already strayed toward the command ring, where Amereiwould be—hidden, unbowed, the rightful queen of the realm Zeporah threatened to drag into ruin.
And somewhere inside, she was fastening her cloak for the road.
He would see her there.
It was time to ride to Rhidian.
Chapter Fourteen
Zeporah
Queens ruled with crowns. She ruled with secrets.
Within the high walls of Castle Rhidian, mist curled in ribbons above the scrying basin—lightless and shifting, as if the water itself breathed.
Zeporah leaned over the dark surface, her reflection warping with every ripple. Her voice was a murmur—soft, dangerous.
“And now you’re here…”
