A Vow of Blood (The Endowment #1)
Chapter One
Eclipse
The first shadow swept across the desert.
Viktor saw it.
He ran harder.
Salt cracked beneath his boots. Water flashed on either side of the strait like a thousand unsheathed blades. The eclipse dragged its darkness closer, mile by mile. Every stride carried him farther from Oustinon—and closer to the fate he’d never outrun.
If he didn’t reach Fort Sevrak by dusk, none of it would matter.
At last, stone rose out of the wasteland—a fortress carved into the rock, its banners barely stirring in the stillness. Sevrak’s watch-fires licked faint against the coming dark.
Viktor slowed, lungs burning, and pulled his cloak tighter.
No calls. No shouts.
What he carried belonged to Commander Storne’s ears alone.
A breeze tumbled down the mountain.
For the first time in hours, birds sang.
Viktor eased his stride, eyes lifting to the sky as the light thinned.
The gatekeeper waited beside the iron doors.
“You don’t belong out here,” he said.
Then, lower:
“When are you going to give this up, Captain?”
Viktor didn’t answer. He handed over a sealed parchment.
The gatekeeper sighed, waved to his partner.
Chains clanked. The iron doors groaned open.
Viktor clapped the man’s shoulder.
“Arm yourself tonight.”
“Always.”
“Like you’d face a lion,” Viktor warned.
He turned to go. The gatekeeper caught his sleeve.
“What do you know?”
Then it happened—
the eclipse swallowed the last light.
A brilliant halo flared around the darkened moon.
Gasps rang out.
A meteor streaked across the sky, then another.
The world hushed.
The gatekeeper’s hand fell away.
Viktor passed through under the rock and into camp.
Soldiers gaped skyward.
Cheers rose. Fires lit. Painted tattoos of sun and moon glowed on skin.
Behind him, the world held its breath.
But Viktor walked on.
Inside his tent, he unbound his hair, stripped off his runners, and replaced them with boots. He reached for his red-and-black mantle and slung it over his shoulders like armor.
“Seraphim!” a voice called from behind the dividing wall.
Viktor grabbed his pack and strode into the next chamber. A handful of officers looked up.
An elf half a head taller than him stepped forward with a grin.
“Scouts aren’t due back ‘til dawn, yet here comes Viktor Seraphim at the eleventh hour.”
A bulkier soldier crossed his arms with a scowl.
“It offends your rank for you to run, Seraphim.”
Gabriel slung an arm around Viktor’s shoulder without missing a step.
“It offends your face for you to speak, Oran.”
“Burned like a forge fire!” Laughter cracked from the back of the tent.
Gabriel nudged Viktor. “Did you miss the eclipse?”
Viktor’s tone stayed even. “I saw enough.”
“Remarkable, yes?”
“Otherworldly,” he murmured—half in awe, half in warning.
Just then, a bearded elf entered, his mantle rich and finely embroidered. Gold-trimmed rapier. Leather gloves. Ringed hand.
The men quieted without command.
With a glance, he dismissed the others.
“Captain Feindoran,” he said to Gabriel. “Fetch your scout.”
“I’m here, Commander.” Viktor bowed.
The bearded elf looked him over, unimpressed.
Gabriel stepped in. “Captain Seraphim runs for his unit—”
“By reprimand?”
“Voluntarily,” Gabriel said. “He’s faster than any in the camp. Man or elf.”
The commander ignored him.
“Captain Seraphim may speak for himself.”
His eyes swept Viktor—indents from braids, wind-burned skin, eyes carved by discipline.
“When were you due back?” he asked.
“Sunrise, sir.”
“Where are the others now?”
“Briar’s Keep,” Viktor said, voice low and unflinching. “Far as I was told.”
The commander pulled off a glove, set a ring on the table.
His gaze lingered.
“You beat the rest of your scouts by half a day.”
He didn’t smile, but something in his posture shifted—a flicker of respect he didn’t try to hide.
“What have you to report?”
Gabriel gestured. “Commander, may I formally introduce—”
“No need. Sit down.”
Viktor knew the name anyway: Commander Masten Storne—war hero of the north.
Storne spread a map across the table.
Viktor watched. Sharp beard. Pointed ears.
A half-elf?
He waited.
“What have you to report?” Storne repeated.
Viktor dropped the pack into his lap, leather creaking under his hands.
“Casqadia’s northwest cannot be irrigated. The queen anticipates famine. She requests troops—fearing unrest.”
“Granted.”
“The Kryonites move north. She fears they’ll tap the buried rivers—old veins of water sealed beneath the stone.”
“So she drills first?”
Viktor allowed half a smile. “Yes.”
“She’s clever,” the commander said. “Formidable.”
He nodded once. “Go on.”
Viktor opened the pack, hesitating.
Outside, drums pounded. Firelight danced on the canvas walls.
He cleared his throat.
“The Kryonites move farther north…”
“You’ve said that.”
Viktor touched the map, dragging a finger along the northern border.
“They’re nomads. I’m told the drought drives them farther than ever before—beyond the fissures—”
“Captain Feindoran, leave us.”
Gabriel looked to Viktor, paused, then obeyed.
“Seraphim.”
Viktor bowed as he passed.
The tent felt eerily still in his absence.
Storne turned.
“Sit. Tell me who sent you beyond Kryon.”
Viktor didn’t sit.
“I was sent as a scout. Do you wish me to speak as such—or from my rank?”
“For this moment,” the commander leaned forward, “you’ll speak to the only man in this unit who’s crossed into Oustinon.”
Oustinon.
Jagged cliffs. Bottomless gorges. Meteors like fireflies.
Smoke-choked skies.
A blasted land of ash and violence.
No crops. No trees. No mercy.
Storne studied Viktor—not for what he said, but for what he’d survived.
He eyed the pack in Viktor’s hands.
“Who sent you up there?”
“Zeporah’s son.”
“He didn’t,” the commander said at once. “She did.”
He tapped Casqadia. “The queen.”
Viktor let out a breath.
“I told him I couldn’t get past the fissures. That the winds howled through them like knives. That I couldn’t make it alone.”
“But you did.”
Viktor laid a shard of black shale on the map.
“I did.”
Black powder flaked onto Storne’s gloves as he rolled the rock between his fingers. A sulfurous heat rose from it.
He closed his eyes.
“This is what Casqadia gets for putting an elven queen on a human throne. She thinks she knows what lies beyond the desert.”
He dropped the shale as if burned. Powder spilled across the territory of Aerdania.
Storne stared at it.
“She knows not the darkness she courts.”
He brushed the dust off the map and blew the rest away.
“Take your rock. I seek no reminder of that place.”
Viktor reached for it—
but Storne moved first.
A blur. Steel flashing. Chair scraping.
Viktor’s body reacted before thought could catch up: he lunged, overturned the table, caught the dagger mid-arc. The crash echoed through the tent as both men hit the ground.
Storne grunted as his head struck the earth.
Their arms locked, muscles straining for control.
Viktor rasped through clenched teeth, “What are you doing?”
“You fight like an elf.” The older man laughed beneath him, a flicker of admiration crossing his face. “Not many men can do that.”
Viktor stilled—suddenly aware he’d just tackled a superior officer to the floor.
He backed off, sheathed his knife.
“Do you know what would’ve happened if you struck that rock?”
“I do,” Storne said, still on the ground.
He rolled to his side, grabbed the shale.
“And now I know you do, too.”
Viktor exhaled rough, pulling him to his feet.
Storne smirked.
“And now I know why you asked Feindoran to admit you to this camp.”
Viktor bent to reset the table, brushing away the powder with his sleeve.
Storne’s voice quieted.
“Who told you I’d made the journey into Oustinon?”
“Queen Zeporah.”
Storne sat again, elbows on the table.
“I respect your honesty, Viktor. The Casqadian queen does too, it seems.”
Then, almost correcting himself:
“Respect? No. She exploits virtue. But still—you answer me truthfully. And the others who’ve seen what we’ve seen are…”
“Dead.”
Storne nodded.
He eyed the pack again.
“Why are you really here?”
The bell rang—a sharp, sudden peal that cut through the canvas like a blade.
Storne turned at once.
Gabriel entered, breathless.
He slowed at the sight of the wreckage, then bowed.
“Forgive me—Commander.”
Viktor bowed once to Storne, said nothing. He needed air.
He pushed past Gabriel, out into the dusk.
Fires cracked in the distance. The hush of the eclipse still lingered.
A group of young elves waved him over from their fire.
He hesitated.
Then walked toward them.
The eldest offered him a bowl of soup, which he accepted with a grateful nod.
Elvish food was richer—spiced with herbs he couldn’t name, yet somehow remembered.
He drank quietly for a moment.
The youngest nudged the one beside him.
“Ask him,” he whispered.
“You ask him.”
The eldest rolled his eyes, then turned to Viktor.
“Can all humans do that?”
Viktor blinked. “Do what?”
The boy pointed to his hand.
Only then did he realize—he’d been absently coaxing a small flame to dance between his fingers.
Dask. They saw that?
He coughed, dousing it in a fist.
“Of course,” he said, a smirk flickering like the edge of flame. “Something they drill into us young back home—helps on night patrol.”
He leaned in, voice low.
“You’ve tried it, haven’t you?”
The boys exchanged wide-eyed glances.
“Where are you from?” one finally asked.
“Aerdania,” Viktor said, handing back the bowl.
“I’ve never seen Aerdania,” another piped up. “I’ve never left Elváliev… Well, I guess I have now.”
He motioned toward the cliffs. “That still looks like home, though.”
A smile tugged at Viktor’s mouth.
“I’ve seen most of Andórmanor—its forests, its rivers, its cliffs, even deserts like this one.”
He traced a slow line in the sand, eyes distant.
“But nothing touches home. Aerdania’s small, aye, but it’s ours. Only port on the western coast. Casqadia’s good to us—most days.”
The boys leaned in.