“Who told you I’d made the journey into Oustinon?”
“Queen Zeporah.”
Storne sat again, elbows on the table.
“I respect your honesty, Viktor. The Casqadian queen does too, it seems.”
Then, almost correcting himself:
“Respect? No. She exploits virtue. But still—you answer me truthfully. And the others who’ve seen what we’ve seen are…”
“Dead.”
Storne nodded.
He eyed the pack again.
“Why are you really here?”
The bell rang—a sharp, sudden peal that cut through the canvas like a blade.
Storne turned at once.
Gabriel entered, breathless.
He slowed at the sight of the wreckage, then bowed.
“Forgive me—Commander.”
Viktor bowed once to Storne, said nothing. He needed air.
He pushed past Gabriel, out into the dusk.
Fires cracked in the distance. The hush of the eclipse still lingered.
A group of young elves waved him over from their fire.
He hesitated.
Then walked toward them.
The eldest offered him a bowl of soup, which he accepted with a grateful nod.
Elvish food was richer—spiced with herbs he couldn’t name, yet somehow remembered.
He drank quietly for a moment.
The youngest nudged the one beside him.
“Ask him,” he whispered.
“You ask him.”
The eldest rolled his eyes, then turned to Viktor.
“Can all humans do that?”
Viktor blinked. “Do what?”
