Viktor caught it, scowling. “Costumes?”
Gabriel’s grin tilted, already fastening his cloak.
“There’s a reason I’ve never brought you home to one of our elven romps.”
Viktor shook his head, already dipping the razor in the basin.
Once Viktor had dressed, they left the room together, Gabriel still humming with amusement while Viktor dragged a hand over his freshly shaven jaw. The skin felt strange without the rough edge of stubble—too clean, too foreign—as if he were preparing for a performance instead of war.
The scent of bread and smoke clung to the stairwell as they descended into the tavern.
Storne was already waiting at the back table, posture rigid, a map half-spread before him. His gaze flicked up as they approached, but before a word could pass his lips, the door swung open.
Amerei stepped in with Evander at her shoulder.
The sight of her in the dim light stopped Viktor mid-step—hair braided back, travel cloak sharp across her shoulders. Evander’s jaw was set, his hand never straying far from the hilt at his hip.
Storne’s brow furrowed, surprise breaking the edge of his composure.
“Amerei?”
She didn’t waste a breath.
“We have a problem.”
Evander laid a folded parchment on the table.
“Zeporah invokes Vykenraven—tonight.”
The air in the tavern thinned.
Storne’s hand hovered over the page, but his eyes stayed fixed on Amerei.
“Who’s invited?”
Evander pushed the list toward him.
Storne scanned it once, then tilted the parchment up at Viktor.
“You don’t know what this is, do you?”
Viktor shook his head.
Storne’s eyes swept the table, settling on each of them in turn.
“Prove your loyalty. All of you. Say not a word while I speak with my daughter.”
Gabriel leaned back with a soldier’s shrug. Evander stiffened but obeyed. Viktor lowered himself more slowly, gaze lingering on her.
Amerei sat across from her father, chin high, golden hair catching the morning light like a crown she had not yet claimed. For a breath Viktor could only watch her—the memory of last night’s sleepless vow pressing hot in his chest.
Even if she does not love me… I was made to fight for her.
He forced his hands flat against his knees, schooling his face into obedience.
He didn’t need Storne’s command.
His heart, his loyalty—already hers.
