Viktor turned away, flame curling to life in his hand as he strode behind with Gabriel, the fire’s glow flickering over his knuckles. Each step pressed heavier, the blind man’s words echoing like a curse.
Gabriel’s voice cut the silence.
“Rhidian. Just a guess, wasn’t it?”
Viktor stared into the flame, shoulders taut.
“I haven’t always been forthright with you, Gabriel.”
The words grated out, slow, reluctant.
“That man… he spoke as if he knew me. And the dog—I know it was the same one I freed in the desert. How could it have come this far?”
Gabriel let out a sharp exhale that could have been a laugh.
“Viktor… you’re lighting our path with firefrom your fingertips.”
The truth scraped raw in Viktor’s chest. He glanced down at the flame, the heat of it answering something deep, something unquiet.
“I already miss when we were just soldiers.”
“I do, too.”
Gabriel slowed a step, making sure they lagged far enough behind the others. Then, with a flick of his wrist, fire leapt to his hand—sharp and steady.
His eyes met Viktor’s, no grin this time, only truth laid bare in the glow.
“You’re not the only one who’s been keeping secrets.”
Chapter Sixteen
The Settler’s Den
Every coup begins with a whisper—and a lie well told.
The harbor reeked of tar and brine, lanterns burning low against the mist that rolled off the sea. Storne kept to the shadows, sailor’s coat pulled tight, hair bound back covering his ears, pipe clamped between his teeth though he hadn’t lit it. Every groan of rope and creak of timber seemed to mark his steps.
Zeporah can waste time with mirrors and whispers.
I cannot.
He pressed a shoulder against a piling, watching ships sway at their moorings—each one a vessel that might yet tip the balance of war.
“You’re not fooling anyone, constable,” a voice rasped.
Storne turned.
A plump old sailor sat on an overturned crate, mending a net with a bone needle, belly spilling over his belt. His eyes gleamed sharp in the lantern light.
Storne allowed a ghost of a smile. “Am I so obvious, friend?”
The sailor snorted. “You’ll find nothing here but the finest outfit in all Rhidian for white-tailed lemons. All under legal weight, of course.”
“Of course,” Storne said easily, pipe stem shifting between his teeth. “But I’ve no jurisdiction here. I hail from Rynesport.”
The sailor paused mid-stitch, eyes narrowing.
“Then why skulk about our slips, constable?”
