“Evander.”
The laugh died.
Her chin lifted, but her eyes betrayed the first flicker of unease.
Storne went on.
“He draws a bow as if born to it,” he pressed. “Matches any man I’ve trained. Rivals his father.”
Zeporah turned suddenly, silk snapping as she closed the distance. She stopped just shy of his chest, fury hidden beneath a too-bright smile. Shadows threaded her gaze.
“Your magic has darkened them,” Storne said softly. “Your eyes.”
An infuriating grin played on his lips.
“What color were they before? I never noticed.”
Her hand darted for the dagger at his belt, but he caught her wrist—steel flashing as he drew a second blade. He crossed both at the small of her back, pinning her close. She hissed, breath hot against his throat.
“You’ve found him,” she breathed. “You’ve found your father’s successor.”
The air between them bristled—two predators circling closer to the kill.
“The Ruakites only rise when great evil threatens the realm,” he said, low and inescapable.
Zeporah’s laugh cracked through the chamber, sharp as glass.
“And you think I have opened such a door?”
“I know you’ve courted those who can.”
Her smile thinned.
“Tread lightly, Commander,” she whispered, harsh.
Then, darker:
“I am your queen.”
Storne sharpened his gaze.
“You’re my queen only if you guard our people,” he answered, the restraint in his voice fraying. “But if you’ve sold them to Tyra…”
His jaw tightened, fury caged.
“They have three times our men, Zeporah. You would deliver us to slaughter.”
Zeporah tore from his grasp, silk whispering as she crossed to the basin. She spread her hands over the stone, leaning forward as if reading the water.
“I have secured our fortune despite them,” she said, each word like a blade unsheathed. “And if it comes to it—” she turned, eyes dark with power “—to spitethem.”
Storne’s pulse hammered. Flashes in his mind.
The vault beneath his house. The spellbook he was entrusted to keep.
He stepped closer, voice low, dangerous.
“Then the missing pages of the Tome have already served you well.”
