Chapter Twenty-One
Let Them Take the Ship
One ship. One choice. The fate of Casqadia in her answer.
The tavern roared around them—mugs clattering, sailors bellowing songs off-key, smoke curling thick as fog. Yet in the farthest corner, half-veiled by shadow, a single table held its silence.
Amerei sat tucked against the wall, her dark cloak pooling around her, face hidden from the crowd. Evander and Gabriel flanked her like sentries, their mugs untouched. Viktor slid into the bench across from her, the distance between them suddenly too narrow and too wide all at once.
Her gaze lifted, catching his through the haze. The noise dulled—the press of bodies, the clatter of mugs—until even the smoke seemed to still between them.
Gabriel broke the spell with a low, pointed question.
“What was that all about?”
The weight of the night settled on Viktor’s shoulders. He leaned forward, voice pitched for their table alone—the kind of calm that meant danger was near. His eyes didn’t leave Amerei’s, though his words were for all of them.
“What do you know of the queen’s dealings with Tyra?” he asked. “Specifically—munitions.”
Her brow knit. “What kind?”
“Ballistae,” he said. “Crossbows strong enough to spear the hull of a ship. Zeporah’s been moving them into Rhidian by night. Every bit purchased from Tyra.”
Gabriel’s hand stilled around his mug.
“Why would she do that? That’s a direct slight against Elváliev.”
Amerei answered without pause.
“Because Zeporah never makes an alliance she hasn’t already marked for ruin. She’s done it before—the tradesmen last year, the Halyon border years before that. Even Aerdania’s seaport still lives under her shadow.”
Gabriel’s jaw hardened, the lamplight catching sharp across his cheek.
“She’s preparing for something big.”
“Dragons,” Evander said at once, the word weighted.
Viktor inclined his head.
“Storne believes she called them out of Oustinon herself.”
Gabriel leaned forward, incredulous.
“Why summon them only to try to destroy them?”
Amerei’s eyes darkened, voice a whisper that seemed to cling to the smoke above their table. “Because she fears what she’s awakened.”
Gabriel let out a short, disbelieving breath, and seized his mug. “I’m going to need this.”
Amerei dragged a finger over the rim of her glass, gaze distant.
“Why not turn to the elves? Elváliev still keeps relics—plans, templates. The Bloodforge gave them more than enough to work from.”
“Unless,” Gabriel cut in, “she doesn’t want Elváliev prepared.”
Evander’s hand tightened on the table edge. “She wants another war?”
“No.” Amerei shook her head slowly. “She wants the glory without the cost. At Elváliev’s expense.
” Her voice cooled, her words deliberate.
“Zeporah doesn’t care if she can master the monsters she’s unleashed.
She’ll either crown herself queen of an age of dragons…
” She lifted her cup, eyes hard. “…or play savior when the world burns.”
Viktor leaned back, the shadows swallowing half his face.
“Storne doesn’t mean to wait and find out. He wants names—nobles in Elváliev already close to Zeporah. If she falls, they must fall with her.”
Gabriel’s mouth twisted.
“Most wear loyalty like a mask, but three… three are rotten to the bone. No one will question it if they’re named.”
He dragged a bit of charcoal across the scarred wood of the table, scrawling quick strokes—three names that bled into the grain.
“These ones. All guilty of worse than treason.”
Evander bent over the marks, voice edged with disbelief.
“And what, we pin the queen’s dealings on them? Call them conspirators?”
Viktor’s eyes stayed on Amerei.
“A shipment comes at midnight. Ballistae. Storne’s men will seize it before it ever reaches Vykenra. But it has to look like Zeporah planned it with allies in Elváliev.”
The word hung heavy between them.
Coup.
Evander’s jaw set. “He’s starting a war.”
“No,” Gabriel countered. “If the people can blame a few bad actors, maybe they’ll rise up to root out corruption. Give them a villain, and maybe they’ll stop looking at each other.”
Viktor didn’t move, didn’t blink—his gaze stayed fastened on Amerei. His hand shifted beneath the table, brushing hers where it rested in the shadows. The touch was fleeting, almost careless, but it sent a charge through the silence.
“This doesn’t happen without you,” he said, voice low. “One word from you, and the ship never leaves the harbor.”
For a moment, the din of the tavern seemed to fade. Viktor’s ice-bright eyes spoke more than his words ever could. He would stand between her father and all he was about to set in motion—and she knew it. Her pulse hammered in her throat, but her voice came steady.
“Sevrak cannot face dragons without those weapons.”
She drew a breath, felt the weight of it settle in her chest, and spoke again—clearer, braver.
“Let them take the ship.”
The words fell like a stone dropped in deep water.
Viktor nodded once.
Evander blew out a breath.
Gabriel tipped his mug toward her.
“So be it,” he said. “Wicked queen may yet find herself outplayed.”
Silence lingered, heavy, until Evander suddenly straightened. His hand hovered near his sword, his voice rough.
“We’ve been seen. Amerei and I. Eyes were on us in the streets.”
“What kind of eyes?”
“The wrong kind,” he said, scanning the room, remembering the cherry tree.
The tavern door slammed open, wind and salt curling through the smoke like warning. Storne walked in—pipe in his teeth, coat damp with sea air, every stride deliberate. He reached their table without hurry, sliding into a chair as though he’d been expected all along. His tone was casual, dangerous.
“You want them to forget you were here?” he rasped. “Then make sure they remember you were somewhere else. Castle Rhidian.”
Gabriel let out a low whistle. “Sounds like you’ve had practice.”
“In that castle?” Storne’s mouth curved, dangerous and amused. “The stories I could tell. Setting something on fire never fails to help.”
Evander’s jaw worked, mutinous. “So we’re thieves now. Traitors.”
Storne leaned back, pipe smoke curling between them.
“Not thieves. Strategists. We’re not stealing their cargo, only relocating it. The distinction matters.”
Amerei’s hand folded over his on the table. “Be careful, Father.”
Storne’s eyes flicked to hers—softening.
His reply came in Elvish, low and intimate:
“Talor son, amira.”
(All is well, darling.)
The sound of it unraveled her. No matter how sharp his tongue or steady his mask, he was still her father—and still her weakness.
Evander whispered something under his breath, but no one answered him.
Viktor pushed back his chair at last, rising to his feet.
“I’ll need to fetch something from upstairs before we move.”
Amerei’s gaze lingered after him, eyes glinting with something unspoken—caught between reason and instinct, between staying in the shadows…
…or following him into the dark.