Chapter Seven
Then I Will
Her vow became his own, burning as fiercely as the fire in his hands.
The bay moved gentle beneath him, her hooves whispering over stone as morning broke across the ridges. Sunlight pooled gold along the camp’s walls, brushing the mare’s mane to fire and turning smoke from cookfires into rising veils. Birds stirred in the pines.
The world looked unchanged, yet every shadow seemed to hold its breath—
as if it, too, waited to see who he would become.
“I will show you who you are.”
Amerei—a princess.
Zeporah, a usurper.
And himself, no longer only a soldier but something Storne had named with fire and fate.
Each truth pressed heavier than armor, threatening to bow him in the saddle.
Heat crept unbidden into his palm. Memory rose with it, bright as a blade unsheathed.
He was younger then—hardly more than a boy—walking the ridge above Westport with his twin brother, Adamar, at his side.
The wolf came out of the brush, all fangs and hunger.
Viktor had nothing but a blade too small for its hide.
Fear seized him—
fear of losing Adamar, fear of being helpless—
and then it happened.
Fire leapt from his hand, blinding and wild, a roar that drove the beast into the dark.
When the flames died, silence claimed the ridge.
Adamar’s cough rattled the air. His eyes were wide, wet with terror.
“Where did the wolf go, Viktor?”
Viktor had lied. Swore they’d imagined it.
Buried the truth as deep as he could.
He was only a soldier—nothing more.
No one could ever know.
Yet here he was, morning brightening around him, Storne’s words burning in his chest—fate dragging every secret into the open.
The bay carried him on, unhurried, until the lanterns guttered low and the stables rose before him.
Amerei was just leading Obsidian inside when Viktor slid down from his horse. Morning spilled across the beams, catching on the braid that swept like gold over her shoulder.
Her riding leathers clung close—cut for elegance as much as command—yet there was a quiet grace in the way she moved, softer now, as though his presence allowed it.
Her gaze lingered on the mare at Viktor’s side, lips curving faintly.
“A beautiful blood bay,” she said, voice low with admiration.
“A perfect lady,” Viktor murmured, brushing the mare’s neck with a faint smile.
Amerei’s eyes softened, but her tone held quiet authority as she turned to the stablehand.
“Dress her in black and red—Aerdania’s colors.”
Then, meeting Viktor’s gaze—brighter now:
“She’s yours.”
She watched him a moment too long, as if she knew what the gesture cost him—how rarely he’d ever been given anything at all.
He bowed his head.
“I would refuse her… but it seems I’ll need her. Your father plans on keeping me here.”
“He’s certainly pleased with you,” she answered gently, as though weighing each word. “Curious of you.”
The corner of her smile warmed, and Viktor felt the truth beneath it—that she was, too.
The stablehand moved off, leaving them in the hush of straw and morning light.
Viktor lingered—too close now—his voice a breath between them.
“Why didn’t you tell me who you are?”
At first she said nothing, only lifted her hand and set it into his, her palm cupping his as though she’d chosen him in that instant.
Their hearts beat quick, the silence trembling with it.
“Come with me,” she whispered.
Hand in hand, they slipped from the stables, past the palisade, into the quiet shimmer of the riverbank—
Their hands fell apart as they reached the water’s edge.
Amerei paced the bank, sunlight scattering her reflection in the current.
Viktor leaned against a broad rock, unable to look anywhere but at her—
the way the morning lit her eyes to emerald,
the way command seemed to fall from her shoulders here,
leaving something softer.
Truer.
His fingers found a torn fishing net left upon the stone. Without thought, he drew his knife and set to it, mending knots with the ease of an old rhythm.
Amerei’s voice carried low over the water.
“Captain Seraphim.”
Her gaze lingered on the river.
“I’ve made my peace with it. If the world were different, I would never challenge Zeporah. The people already believe she is theirs.”
Viktor’s knife stilled.
“Maybe they never had a choice,” he said at last.
Then, rougher:
“Hard to follow a queen who won’t stand where they can see her.”
He braided the cord tight, casting the frayed strands aside.
Amerei’s lips curved faintly.
“Our net mender left last week.”
Viktor huffed a quiet laugh.
“Elves—always specializing. If I left it to chance, you’d all be tangled in riverweed before nightfall.”
His gaze lifted from beneath his brow, almost daring.
“He who should mend the nets is he who can.”
She who should be queen is she who truly is.
Amerei’s breath caught, as if she’d understood his meaning.
She knelt beside him then, boots sinking in the shallows, braid falling forward as she reached for the net.
Thread by thread, the two of them drew the tangle into order, unaware they were mending something greater than the net itself.
The brush of her shoulder against his made his chest ache.
Dask, she was nearer than he deserved.
He spoke low, almost as if the river itself mustn’t overhear.
“Is that what all these soldiers are for? To help you take the throne by force?”
Her fingers slowed on the cord, her voice quiet.
“My father fears a day will come when Zeporah must rise to defend our people. And if she will not…”
Her gaze flicked to him, fierce and vulnerable both.
“…then I will.”
Something in him stilled, struck by her certainty.
For a breath neither moved.
Then their eyes fell—
only to find their hands already twined together through the braid.
Viktor let out a breath, turning jest to promise.
“If you mean to face usurper queens and dragons, you’ll need more men. More archers. More cavalry. And perhaps a few more skilled with a sling.”
Amerei’s smile broke like sunlight through leaves.
“And one who runs at the speed of a horse.”
The air between them quickened, hushed—the river carrying their silence downstream.
Then Amerei’s head turned, some sense pulling her back toward camp.
She gave his hand a quick, warm squeeze before slipping free.
“Come. Before we’re missed.”
She rose, water dripping from the net’s braid, sunlight haloing her shoulders.
Viktor followed, the warmth of her touch still burning in his palm—her vow searing into him until it was his own:
“…then I will.”