Coup.
Evander’s jaw set. “He’s starting a war.”
“No,” Gabriel countered. “If the people can blame a few bad actors, maybe they’ll rise up to root out corruption. Give them a villain, and maybe they’ll stop looking at each other.”
Viktor didn’t move, didn’t blink—his gaze stayed fastened on Amerei. His hand shifted beneath the table, brushing hers where it rested in the shadows. The touch was fleeting, almost careless, but it sent a charge through the silence.
“This doesn’t happen without you,” he said, voice low. “One word from you, and the ship never leaves the harbor.”
For a moment, the din of the tavern seemed to fade. Viktor’s ice-bright eyes spoke more than his words ever could. He would stand between her father and all he was about to set in motion—and she knew it. Her pulse hammered in her throat, but her voice came steady.
“Sevrak cannot face dragons without those weapons.”
She drew a breath, felt the weight of it settle in her chest, and spoke again—clearer, braver.
“Let them take the ship.”
The words fell like a stone dropped in deep water.
Viktor nodded once.
Evander blew out a breath.
Gabriel tipped his mug toward her.
“So be it,” he said. “Wicked queen may yet find herself outplayed.”
Silence lingered, heavy, until Evander suddenly straightened. His hand hovered near his sword, his voice rough.
“We’ve been seen. Amerei and I. Eyes were on us in the streets.”
“What kind of eyes?”
“The wrong kind,” he said, scanning the room, remembering the cherry tree.
The tavern door slammed open, wind and salt curling through the smoke like warning. Storne walked in—pipe in his teeth, coat damp with sea air, every stride deliberate. He reached their table without hurry, sliding into a chair as though he’d been expected all along. His tone was casual, dangerous.
“You want them to forget you were here?” he rasped. “Then make sure they remember you were somewhere else. Castle Rhidian.”
Gabriel let out a low whistle. “Sounds like you’ve had practice.”
“In that castle?” Storne’s mouth curved, dangerous and amused. “The stories I could tell. Setting something on fire never fails to help.”
Evander’s jaw worked, mutinous. “So we’re thieves now. Traitors.”
Storne leaned back, pipe smoke curling between them.
“Not thieves. Strategists. We’re not stealing their cargo, only relocating it. The distinction matters.”
Amerei’s hand folded over his on the table. “Be careful, Father.”
Storne’s eyes flicked to hers—softening.
His reply came in Elvish, low and intimate:
“Talor son, amira.”
(All is well, darling.)
