The boy pointed to his hand.
Only then did he realize—he’d been absently coaxing a small flame to dance between his fingers.
Dask. They saw that?
He coughed, dousing it in a fist.
“Of course,” he said, a smirk flickering like the edge of flame. “Something they drill into us young back home—helps on night patrol.”
He leaned in, voice low.
“You’ve tried it, haven’t you?”
The boys exchanged wide-eyed glances.
“Where are you from?” one finally asked.
“Aerdania,” Viktor said, handing back the bowl.
“I’ve never seen Aerdania,” another piped up. “I’ve never left Elváliev… Well, I guess I have now.”
He motioned toward the cliffs. “That still looks like home, though.”
A smile tugged at Viktor’s mouth.
“I’ve seen most of Andórmanor—its forests, its rivers, its cliffs, even deserts like this one.”
He traced a slow line in the sand, eyes distant.
“But nothing touches home. Aerdania’s small, aye, but it’s ours. Only port on the western coast. Casqadia’s good to us—most days.”
The boys leaned in.
“I was raised just inland from the beach. The forests there are like yours—tangled and alive. My brother and I used to race through them pretending we were scouts in the Kryon flats.”
His shoulders eased.
“And wouldn’t you know, I ran the flats just this morning. Not pretending anymore.”
The boys laughed.
They looked up as Gabriel reappeared from the dark, clapping Viktor on the shoulder before sinking beside him.
“Any minute now I’ll be sent packing with my men,” he muttered, dragging a hand over his face. “Three-day patrol, and now this…”
The boys rose, calling out in turn:
“Goodnight, Captain Seraphim. Goodnight, Captain Feindoran.”
Viktor and Gabriel nodded.
Their absence revealed the deepening quiet in the camp. Even the fire before them had settled into smoldering coals.
Viktor pulled his mantle tighter against the desert chill. The night air bit at his damp skin.
“You going to tell me what happened?” he asked, voice low.
Gabriel smirked.
