Chapter Ten
Ruakite
Prophecy did not whisper his name. It thundered across the desert.
Storne’s voice rolled across the valley, unshaken by flame.
“There it is.”
Gabriel fell silent. Amerei stood frozen, breath caught between wonder and dread.
Viktor’s grip tightened on the burning blade, frost and fire warring in his chest.
At last Storne moved—slow, circling him with the weight of judgment.
“Fate chose you, Captain Seraphim.”
The words landed like a brand.
Chosen.
Claimed.
“You carry the Endowment.”
Storne did not raise his voice.
“Fire first, always fire. But it does not end there.”
His gaze cut sharp as steel.
“Wind. Storms. Healing. Bonds no mortal should bear.”
The fire climbed higher.
Chosen? No—cursed.
“You’ve never heard the word,” Storne said, reading the denial in Viktor’s face.
“Ruakite.
That is what you are.
Few each generation. Fewer still among men.
My father was the last. Until you.”
A rustle swept the ridge.
Evander stiffened, stricken. “My father—”
“—was Ruakite,” Storne finished for him. Then to Gabriel: “So was yours.”
Evander flinched, shoulders jerking as if struck.
Gabriel only stared—hollowed out by the weight of it.
But Storne’s gaze held only Viktor.
“Rare, for a man. Rarer still, when no father’s blood passed it down.”
His voice fell low.
“And yet, here you stand. With fire in your hands.”
The words burned deeper than the flame itself.
With a trembling motion Viktor crushed the fire to nothing, sparks lashing out between his fingers. The steel fell to his side, steam ghosting into the mountain air.
Wind swept across the lake, carrying silence so taut it seemed the world itself had paused to listen.
Amerei moved first.
She stepped closer, braid catching the light, her gaze flicking from Viktor to Storne. Her pulse thundered, steel reflecting in her eyes.
“Are you one of them, Father?”
Her voice was steady, but her hands trembled at her sides.
Storne stilled.
“Perhaps because I am a half-elf,” he said, shadow stretching over them, “it never passed to me. And only time will tell if Evander or Captain Feindoran carry their fathers’ gifts.”
Gabriel shook his head at once. “My father was a minor courtier—cousin to the elf-king, yes, but a man who never lifted a blade.”
“You’re right,” Storne said evenly. “He wielded a bow.”
He exhaled, rough.
“Like many soldiers after the Bloodforge, your father tried to live as untroubled and hidden a life as fate would allow.”
Silence stretched.
Gabriel’s jaw worked, but he said nothing more.
It was Evander who broke it, voice sharp.
“So that’s why she married him…”
His eyes burned.
“Zeporah—she married my father because he was Ruakite. Not for her court. Not for me.”
His breath hitched as the thought tumbled out.
“My half-brother will be the one you want. And you’ll cast me aside.”
“Enough,” Storne rasped.
His tone carried no heat—only fact.
Before he could say more, Viktor stepped forward, the words tearing out of him.
“Will you risk their lives to prove it, Commander?”
Storne’s gaze did not waver.
Viktor’s voice steadied—low, unyielding.
“I won’t stand by and let you.”
Amerei stepped to his side, shoulders squared, fire burning in her eyes.
“Neither will I.”
Storne’s gaze hardened, relentless. He looked once to Gabriel, then Evander.
“I won’t have to,” he answered. “Elves were never meant to bear this power. It doesn’t move through them—it devours them. They must cast it away. So they loose it in arrow and sling, never blade. More suited for a bow than a sword.”
He stepped closer—close enough that Viktor felt the press of his will.
“But you… you can carry it.”
His voice softened to something almost reverent.
“I know this world, Captain Seraphim. Let me help you.”
Viktor’s jaw locked, but his eyes found Amerei’s.
For a heartbeat, the whole ridge drew taut between them.
Fate.
Danger.
Longing.
All bound in that single glance.
He broke it with a rasp of breath.
“You’re not ready to fight dragons, Commander,” he said.
“Your men are not ready. I am not ready.”
Storne’s brow furrowed, but Viktor pressed on, voice cutting like a blade unsheathed.
“You rally them to march against Zeporah, when what you may need is her army beside you. Against what’s coming.”
Even as he said it, he wondered when he had begun to speak like a commander.
Amerei’s chin lifted, her voice steady with quiet power.
“We’ll go to Rhidian and see if the queen will reason with us.”
Her gaze swept the circle.
“I’ve seen a dragon with my own eyes. Captain Seraphim is right—we are not ready.”
Dawn pressed in around them, the wind biting through the cliffs, a raven’s cry sounding somewhere beyond the lake.
Storne exhaled—sharp, clipped.
He swung into the saddle of his waiting mount.
“Then I’ll leave for Casqadia today.”
He jerked his chin toward Amerei.
“Begin your journey in the morning. Divert at Fowler’s Ridge.”
His gaze fell to her hand. To her fingers hovering beside Viktor’s.
“Zeporah cannot know you’ve met this captain.”
Then his eyes shifted to Gabriel.
“You’re coming, too.”
Gabriel’s brows ticked upward.
“We need an officer who can lie convincingly.”
Gabriel laughed dryly. “So I’m to be a scout.”
“You will be,” Storne said, the curve of his mouth betraying him. “If we can find armor in your size.”
Amerei’s smile broke against her palm. Gabriel only shook his head.
Finally, Storne’s gaze cut back to Viktor.
“Entreat the queen as if you never came here. Report what you saw in Oustinon. Tell her everything.”
He tugged once on the reins.
“And pray she listens to reason.”
Without another word, he turned his horse and rode from the ridge—leaving silence in his wake.