“Do not be afraid, child. What you saw is not madness, but meaning.”
Viktor shook his head.
“Meaning? That thing would have torn me apart. There was no thought behind its fire. Only hunger.”
Her smile curved, patient and sharp.
“Hunger, yes. Flame, yes. But not emptiness.”
She tilted her head, studying him.
“You think them beasts because you saw only their scales. But scales are only a shroud.”
Viktor let the stone tremble in his hand.
“Then what are they?”
His voice cracked, fear thick enough to hide the steel beneath.
Her hand lingered over his.
“They are bound men, Captain. Souls shackled to strength older than you can fathom. Preserved by blood not their own. What you call ruin…” her eyes glittered, “…was a miracle.”
For an instant, Viktor forgot the part he was meant to play. The stone bit into his palm, sharper than he realized. His heartbeat thundered, traitorous against his ribs.
Men.
Not beasts.
Men bound in dragon skin.
Fear clawed up his throat—then he swallowed it down, shoulders locking stiff. The mask of a soldier held.
Zeporah’s eyes lingered on him, keen, as if she’d tasted that crack in his armor. She leaned forward, fingers brushing the air just short of his sleeve.
“Let us keep this between us, Captain,” she murmured. “No need to spread fear that others cannot shoulder.”
Then, almost sweetly:
“But you, perhaps, shoulder too much already. A father alone in Westport. A house waiting. Have you not thought of going home?”
Viktor said nothing, every muscle still drawn taut.
Zeporah tilted her head, studying the silence, savoring it.
“No?” she pressed, her voice a sweet poison.
He could almost feel her clawing for Amerei’s name, for the shape of what she meant to him. His fists tightened, every instinct screaming to mask it, to bury it where even he could not find it.
He lifted his gaze, finally steady.
“I have thought of it, my lady. My father’s hearth waits for me, as any son’s should. I’d gladly return…”
He allowed a faint, weary smile, just enough to sell the lie.
“Give me a few more days in Rhidian. A port like this hums with talk—ships from Tyra, merchants out of Elváliev. I might hear something worth carrying back through your gates.”
Zeporah considered him, eyes narrowing as if weighing each word against the beat of his pulse.
