Chapter Fourteen
Zeporah
Queens ruled with crowns. She ruled with secrets.
Within the high walls of Castle Rhidian, mist curled in ribbons above the scrying basin—lightless and shifting, as if the water itself breathed.
Zeporah leaned over the dark surface, her reflection warping with every ripple. Her voice was a murmur—soft, dangerous.
“And now you’re here…”
She turned, silk whispering as she looked over her bare shoulder.
Storne stood in the doorway, the torchlight behind him cutting him in half—commander in shadow, consort in memory.
The chamber smelled faintly of charred sage—what the priests burned to ward off old magic, though the scent had long since turned sour.
“Welcome, Masten,” Zeporah purred.
The gown clung like a second skin, green as forest dusk. Her hair fell unbound, long brown wisps tumbling down her back.
“You watched me ride in,” Storne said, his tone flat, measured.
Zeporah’s smile deepened—the curve of a knife drawn from its sheath.
“That’s not all I can do.”
She drifted closer, fingertips trailing the line of his arm.
“I feel you when you dream of me.”
Then, lower—almost breathless:
“When you miss me.”
He jerked from her touch, but her gaze caught the tear in his tunic, the faint scar beneath.
“You’ve not been home in some time,” she said softly, tilting her head.
“I have no need of hearth or walls,” he replied, voice rough as gravel. “There are taverns enough with warm beds and warmer women. And Amerei spends her days here anyway. No husband. No family yet.”
Zeporah’s smile was slow, indulgent, as though she’d been waiting for the opening.
“Then let us remedy that.”
Her dark eyes flicked to his.
“A marriage could be arranged. She would serve well in Dunfel—at my son’s side.”
Her mouth curved, lips full and teasing.
“Link her with his steward.”
Storne huffed a laugh.
“Isn’t a steward a bit beneath her station?”
“She’s hardly privileged to choose,” Zeporah countered smoothly, circling him like a serpent tasting the air. Her hand rose, grazing the chain at her throat—the emeralds catching firelight.
Storne’s jaw flexed.
“You wear Cassandra’s jewels now?”
Her smile cut daringly, bright and cruel.
“Better on my skin than locked in a box.”
His breath hitched, memory pressing close.
“She wore that the night we were married.”
Zeporah shrugged one shoulder. “This?”
She swept her hair aside, the necklace glinting against her skin, neckline dipping lower with the motion. Her voice dripped silk.
“You always did miss playing Casqadia’s consort.”
Storne went rigid.
For a moment, he thought his composure might crack beneath the weight of her game. Then he leaned in, lips brushing her ear, his words a quiet blade.
“I only miss my wife.”
She tilted her head, the faintest twitch betraying her.
“You’ve come all this way only to glower at me? How tedious, Masten.”
Her hand ghosted across her collarbone, a slow trail toward the pendant nestled there.
Cassandra’s pendant.
For a breath, he saw Cassandra again—her laughter against stone vines, the balcony they once dared together.
Zeporah’s hand snapped him back—nails grazing the muscle of his arm.
“Why are you here,” she murmured, “truly?”
Storne’s answer cut through the chamber like an arrow loosed.
“Raif Tassen,” he said at once. “Tell me again how he died.”
Zeporah’s smile faltered.
The water behind her rippled as if stirred by her pulse.
“His fool’s heart burst,” she said flatly. “The Endowment burned him out. Divine power wasted on a cur of a man.”
Storne’s mouth twitched.
“You speak sweetly of your dead husband.”
Her eyes glittered, venom bright behind her beauty.
“Better a dog than a traitor.”
Storne didn’t flinch.
He leaned closer, his whisper grazing her skin once more.
“Do you think he passed his gift to his son?”
A laugh escaped her, sharp and brittle.
“Tristan is a boy still,” she said. “You’ve grown desperate if you come hunting after children.”
Storne’s gaze didn’t waver.
“Not him.”
A pause—deliberate.
“Evander.”
The laugh died.
Her chin lifted, but her eyes betrayed the first flicker of unease.
Storne went on.
“He draws a bow as if born to it,” he pressed. “Matches any man I’ve trained. Rivals his father.”
Zeporah turned suddenly, silk snapping as she closed the distance. She stopped just shy of his chest, fury hidden beneath a too-bright smile. Shadows threaded her gaze.
“Your magic has darkened them,” Storne said softly. “Your eyes.”
An infuriating grin played on his lips.
“What color were they before? I never noticed.”
Her hand darted for the dagger at his belt, but he caught her wrist—steel flashing as he drew a second blade. He crossed both at the small of her back, pinning her close. She hissed, breath hot against his throat.
“You’ve found him,” she breathed. “You’ve found your father’s successor.”
The air between them bristled—two predators circling closer to the kill.
“The Ruakites only rise when great evil threatens the realm,” he said, low and inescapable.
Zeporah’s laugh cracked through the chamber, sharp as glass.
“And you think I have opened such a door?”
“I know you’ve courted those who can.”
Her smile thinned.
“Tread lightly, Commander,” she whispered, harsh.
Then, darker:
“I am your queen.”
Storne sharpened his gaze.
“You’re my queen only if you guard our people,” he answered, the restraint in his voice fraying. “But if you’ve sold them to Tyra…”
His jaw tightened, fury caged.
“They have three times our men, Zeporah. You would deliver us to slaughter.”
Zeporah tore from his grasp, silk whispering as she crossed to the basin. She spread her hands over the stone, leaning forward as if reading the water.
“I have secured our fortune despite them,” she said, each word like a blade unsheathed. “And if it comes to it—” she turned, eyes dark with power “—to spite them.”
Storne’s pulse hammered. Flashes in his mind.
The vault beneath his house. The spellbook he was entrusted to keep.
He stepped closer, voice low, dangerous.
“Then the missing pages of the Tome have already served you well.”
Her hand stilled above the basin—but only for a breath.
“Pages are nothing without will,” she murmured, sliding a ring of black stone from her finger and setting it among the runes. They flared—hungry.
“And mine is not so easily bound.”
His teeth clenched, but he refused the bait.
“Where is Gray?”
A flicker crossed her face—too quick to be doubt, not quite triumph.
“We couldn’t overcome our differences,” she said at last, tone airy and cruel. “Lord Gray proved… ungovernable. His son Leolis has taken swiftly to the art in his stead.”
Storne’s blood chilled.
“You set his son in his place?”
Zeporah’s lips curved as the stones around the basin began to lift, spinning in a slow, widening orbit. The air thickened, vibrating with the hum of power—so strong the torchlight bent toward her.
“A serpent sheds one skin for another, Masten. The fangs remain.”
The glow brightened, washing her face in unearthly light.
Storne’s breath caught despite himself.
“What have you done?”
Zeporah smiled—a thing too still, too knowing.
“You first.”
The mist stilled, waiting between them—queen and commander, predator and prey, neither certain which they were anymore.
“Who is it?”