The door shut behind him, and Zeporah exhaled, almost a sigh.
“Where did you find that one, Captain Seraphim? As if the gods had carved him just to torment the rest of us.”
Viktor fought the twitch at the corner of his mouth.
“From the elf-king’s own court,” he said evenly. “Draekenran through and through. They say even his horse stands taller than most men.”
Zeporah’s smile curved, slow and obscene.
“I’ve no doubthis horseis… impressive.”
Viktor strangled his lips into stillness. Dask—if he let himself laugh, he’d never stop. His posture firmed, voice settling into soldier’s calm.
“If it please you, my lady—I carry word from Oustinon.” He steadied his stance. “It will differ from what I told your son.”
Her brows lifted, interest sharpening.
He reached into his pack, drew out the stone, and set it on the low table beside her. Its surface caught the moonlight, dull yet strangely alive.
Zeporah leaned forward, breath catching.
“You did it…”
Viktor tilted his head, feigning ignorance.
“Did what, my lady? What is this?”
Her voice gathered strength, rising like a priestess calling to her own reflection.
“The Bloodforge…” she began.
“Dark magic spilled from the seas. Beasts came crawling out of the deep, fire in their breath, ruin in their wings. And it was the elves who stood against them—who bore the burden and saved us all.”
Viktor’s jaw clenched, remembering Storne’s stories, his father’s hands in the ash. It was the Ruakite who bled the beasts back into the deep.
Zeporah’s gaze snapped—sudden, ruthless.
“What did you see?”
Viktor shifted, letting his gaze fall to the stone in his hand as if weighing whether to speak at all.
“You’ll think me mad.”
Zeporah’s lashes fluttered, coaxing.
“Madness and prophecy are often cousins,” she mused. Then, sharper: “Speak.”
Viktor’s grip whitened around the stone.
He could feel the sweat cool beneath his armor, the ghost of Amerei’s scent clinging to his sleeve—Focus, soldier.
The words dragged through his teeth as though it cost him to speak them. “In Oustinon… I saw one. A dragon.” His voice dropped, hoarse. “It was monstrous. Its wings blotted the sky, its roar split the desert itself. Fire everywhere—everything it touched turned to ash. No reason. No restraint. Just ruin.”
He lifted his eyes, letting them shine with terror.
“How do we fight that? How do we even stand before it?”
Zeporah leaned forward, bracelets rattling against the table as she reached out—fingers grazing his knuckles with mock-comfort. Her perfume pressed in thick as her voice softened.
