Chapter Thirteen
All That He Would Risk
Every step toward her carried him farther from his rank—yet closer to his destiny.
Viktor stirred awake to pale light filtering through canvas, the hush of rain still soft against the earth. Amerei was gone from his side—her warmth, her perfume still lingering on the cot.
He heard the faint rustle of her movements behind the curtain, the whisper of cloth as she readied herself for Rhidian. Gabriel and Evander lay sprawled in wine-sodden sleep, the scent of it heavy in the tent.
But Viktor’s chest ached—as if he were still trapped in his dream.
The Aetherheart tree.
It called to him again. Its branches black against a sky he could not place, its roots sunk deep into soil that felt like the marrow of his bones. He had dreamed it before, but now the memory bled clearer, sharper.
No dream at all.
He was eight. Small and shivering as he watched from the threshold of their cottage. His father leaned against the door, his voice breaking as he begged.
And her—his mother. Black hair like his own, eyes a mirror of his.
Blood ran down her leg, dark as the mud pooling under her boots. She clutched the bundle to her chest—his brother, only hours old—and mounted in a rush. One goodbye, only to his father, and then the horse carried her into the dark.
She never looked back.
Viktor had spent years trying not to wonder if she had meant to.
He jerked upright, chest heaving, rain against canvas echoing like the bloodbeat in his ears. He pressed a palm over his eyes, as if he could keep it buried there.
I was never meant to remember.
And yet—the tree still waited.
The softest touch came at his arm.
He lowered his hand.
Amerei knelt beside him, hair half-braided, the rest falling loose over her satin robe. Concern shadowed her emerald eyes.
“You’re pale,” she whispered. “Too much wine?”
He found a wry smile, though his heart was still hammering.
“Call it that.”
She studied him, as if she might press, but Gabriel’s groan broke the quiet. Evander grumbled and turned on his cot, face buried in his arm. Both looked miserable, undone by the night before.
Viktor let the corner of his mouth lift.
“Stay put. I’ll be back.”
Her brow arched. “You’re coming back?”
He met her gaze, steadier now.
“If you’ll let me.”
A smile ghosted her lips, quick and daring.
“You may.”
By the time he returned, the sharp, earthy scent of emberbrew curled through the tent—smoke and spice chasing out the ghosts of his dream.
Evander groaned louder. “Make it stop.”
Amerei’s laugh—light, unexpected—broke through the haze.
Viktor set the cups down, offering one to Gabriel, who seized it like salvation.
“Dask, you’re a saint,” Gabriel muttered, sipping through painful winces.
Curiosity tugged Amerei closer.
“What is this?”
“Emberbrew,” Viktor said, unable to hide his grin. “Ambrosia of the backcountry.”
She braved a sip, her nose wrinkling at once.
“Oh, Captain Seraphim…”
She handed it back with a delicate shiver.
“I must not be human enough to appreciate it.”
His smile lingered as he took it—exactly as he’d expected.
“We should ride for Rhidian early,” he said, voice firming. “If I can speak at the captains’ council, they might listen. Sevrak must be ready if the dragon returns.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Gabriel offered, ducking low to haul Evander upright.
He slung one of the elf’s arms across his shoulders, nodding once to Amerei.
“We’ll take this one to his tent.”
Viktor caught Evander’s other arm, and together they stumbled him out into the camp’s gray light. They shouldered him to his cot and let him collapse in a graceless heap.
Gabriel tugged the blanket halfway over him before straightening, his eyes already narrowing on Viktor.
“I counted three cots in that tent this morning,” he said quietly.
“Where exactly did you sleep?”
Viktor stiffened, turned away. Silence was easier than a lie.
“Dask, Viktor.” Gabriel’s voice cut sharper now, low but urgent. “What are you doing?”
Viktor didn’t answer.
He only slipped back toward his own tent, breath quickening as if he’d been caught running. The canvas flap fell shut behind him, darkness pressing close.
What am I doing?
His rank, his name, his place in the army—all that he would risk was everything he had and everything he was becoming.
The basin rattled as he knocked into it, sparks threatening at his fingertips until he clenched them out. The chaos inside him felt heavier than war.
Gabriel’s voice cut from outside. “Let’s go. The council waits.”
Viktor forced his breath to silence and followed.
The captains gathered beneath the monolith, the sky pressing low with cloud. At their head stood Ivan Azroc, half his hair shorn away to bare a scar that curved clean across the back of his skull.
“Viktor,” he called at once, recognition sure in his voice.
“High-Captain.”
Viktor bowed, half-amused—he hadn’t seen his old commander since the Trials at Irongate.
Ivan’s voice carried steady across the circle.
“Commander Storne has ridden for Rhidian. Until he returns, we hold Sevrak as if the desert itself were marching against us.”
His pale eyes swept the men, sharp but measured.
“No one ventures north. No fires of green wood. No smoke to mark us from above.”
“And for dask’s sake,” Gabriel added. “No fireworks.”
A ripple of murmurs spread, the weight of the order setting into their bones.
Viktor stepped forward, the baying of his pulse loud in his ears.
“Precaution won’t be enough. If dragons return—and they will—we don’t have the men to hold this fort. We need reinforcements.”
A captain scoffed, but Ivan only inclined his head, voice still even.
“From where? Elváliev bleeds already. Gearíya sends few. What realm still answers the call?”
“Casqadia,” Viktor said at once.
The name cut through the air like a blade.
“If her armies stand with us, Sevrak might live.”
Silence pressed tight.
Ivan’s scar pulled as his jaw shifted.
“Casqadia follows Zeporah. And if the whispers are true, it was she who stirred the beast that struck Glaston.”
His voice cut low.
“Why would she ride to put out a fire she lit herself?”
The words landed heavy, the shadow of the usurper stretching long.
No one answered.
The valley wind hissed through the grass, but Viktor’s gaze had already strayed toward the command ring, where Amerei would be—hidden, unbowed, the rightful queen of the realm Zeporah threatened to drag into ruin.
And somewhere inside, she was fastening her cloak for the road.
He would see her there.
It was time to ride to Rhidian.