“Room,” Evander said shortly, laying coin flat against the wood.
The barkeep weighed it with a glance, then nodded toward a narrow stairwell behind the casks.
They took it two steps at a time, the clamor dimming to a hush as they climbed past shuttered floors until the fourth opened—a quiet hallway smelling of dust and brine.
Amerei pushed open the first door, pulse still alive with the alley’s danger, words tumbling.
“I can’t believe you did that—”
Her voice cut off.
Gabriel was already there, stretched out across one of the beds like he owned it. He sprang up, caught them both by the arms, and pulled them inside.
“What she means,” Evander muttered, still breathless, “is we nearly received an elvish welcome party.”
Gabriel flopped back onto the mattress with a groan. “Been there.”
Amerei pulled off the sailor’s tunic, eyes darting. “Where’s Captain Seraphim?”
Gabriel tipped his head toward the wall. “Next door—with your father.”
Before he could say more, a sharp whistle cut the night. All three rushed to the window.
Down below, a lone figure stood in the lamplight, hand raised.
The sea wind caught his cloak, tossing it in black waves, his hair damp with mist, eyes bright as cut frost. For a moment, he looked carved from the night itself—part shadow, part flame. When he lifted his hand again, the lantern nearest him flickered once… then stilled, as if even the fire obeyed.
Amerei’s heart leapt.
Every nerve in her body seemed to recognize him before her mind could name why.
He didn’t call out—didn’t have to. The sound of the sea answered for him, low and thunder-soft.
Viktor was waiting.
And the night, it seemed, was waiting too.
Chapter Twenty-One
Let Them Take the Ship
One ship. One choice. The fate of Casqadia in her answer.
The tavern roared around them—mugs clattering, sailors bellowing songs off-key, smoke curling thick as fog. Yet in the farthest corner, half-veiled by shadow, a single table held its silence.
Amerei sat tucked against the wall, her dark cloak pooling around her, face hidden from the crowd. Evander and Gabriel flanked her like sentries, their mugs untouched. Viktor slid into the bench across from her, the distance between them suddenly too narrow and too wide all at once.
Her gaze lifted, catching his through the haze. The noise dulled—the press of bodies, the clatter of mugs—until even the smoke seemed to still between them.
Gabriel broke the spell with a low, pointed question.
“What was that all about?”
The weight of the night settled on Viktor’s shoulders. He leaned forward, voice pitched for their table alone—the kind of calm that meant danger was near. His eyes didn’t leave Amerei’s, though his words were for all of them.
“What do you know of the queen’s dealings with Tyra?” he asked. “Specifically—munitions.”
Her brow knit. “What kind?”
