Chapter Twenty-Three
The Other Seraphim Twin
She read him like a book—then turned the page to something darker.
The halls of Castle Rhidian hushed with the lateness of the hour, the air damp with salt and stone.
Torches guttered low, shadows stretching long across marble walls as Viktor and Gabriel followed the guard toward the queen’s wing.
Past the tenth bell—too late for courtesy calls, far too late to be waiting on Zeporah’s threshold.
“Best think of your reason quick,” Viktor urged, voice pitched low. “A message from the elf-king. Something courtly. Something she can’t see through.”
Gabriel huffed a laugh. “You’ve a high opinion of my improvisation.”
“You’re Draekenra,” Viktor muttered back. “That’ll do half the work for you.”
The guard rapped twice against the carved door. Before his knuckles fell a third time, a voice drifted from within—smooth, imperious, certain.
“Let them in.”
Viktor and Gabriel exchanged a glance.
She’d seen them coming.
The doors groaned open, spilling torchlight into a chamber more perfumed than regal. Incense coiled in heavy ribbons from braziers, clinging sweet and bitter to the back of Viktor’s throat.
No court, no counsel—only the queen herself, draped in deep green silk. Bare shoulders caught the firelight; her dark hair fell loose to her waist as if the hour excused her of crowns.
Viktor drew a slow breath, steadying against the strangeness of it—queen and predator, both.
Her gaze cut past him without pause, fastening on Gabriel as if Viktor were nothing more than the shadow trailing him. Her eyes widened, hunger glinting sharp.
“You,” she whispered, rapt. “You’re Draekenra.”
It wasn’t a question.
Viktor bowed low.
“Your Majesty, may I present Lord Gabriel Feindoran—sent from King Yethule’s court.”
Gabriel began with the poise of a courtier.
“Your Majesty, I bring word from Vykenra. The king’s health falters again, and if he can withstand—”
She cut him off with a raised hand, eyes narrowing as though he were some glittering thing she meant to pocket.
“Your voice,” she breathed. “I could close my eyes and believe I’d been carried to Elváliev. The way your vowels bend—” a soft sound slipped from her throat, shameless, “it’s… intoxicating.”
Gabriel’s hands flexed against his thighs, caught between courtesy and revulsion. He inclined his head, but her gaze lingered, trailing down the line of him in slow, claiming indulgence.
“Go on,” she urged.
His tone came tighter, clipped.
“If the king can withstand the voyage, he means to sail south. To the isles. The warmth may ease him.”
Zeporah sank into the settee, a smile curling with something like pity—only sharper.
“Perhaps he would be warmer still if his children did not circle his deathbed like carrion.”
Viktor’s throat closed. Gabriel stiffened.
But Zeporah only flicked her wrist, as if brushing away her own cruelty.
“Not the crown prince, of course. Xavien…” His name left her like steam off water, breathlessly indulgent. “He has my utmost admiration.”
Her smile held too long, her gaze still clinging to Gabriel as if she could drink him in by will alone. Then, with sudden softness, she said, “Goodnight, Lord Feindoran.”
Gabriel nodded once, the movement crisp, and turned half a step toward the door.
Her voice followed, sweeter still.
“I said goodnight.”
Gabriel bent low this time, tension in his chest as tight as bowstring.
“Goodnight, my lady.”
Her lashes lowered, satisfaction curving her lips, and at last she let him go.
The door shut behind him, and Zeporah exhaled, almost a sigh.
“Where did you find that one, Captain Seraphim? As if the gods had carved him just to torment the rest of us.”
Viktor fought the twitch at the corner of his mouth.
“From the elf-king’s own court,” he said evenly. “Draekenran through and through. They say even his horse stands taller than most men.”
Zeporah’s smile curved, slow and obscene.
“I’ve no doubt his horse is… impressive.”
Viktor strangled his lips into stillness. Dask—if he let himself laugh, he’d never stop. His posture firmed, voice settling into soldier’s calm.
“If it please you, my lady—I carry word from Oustinon.” He steadied his stance. “It will differ from what I told your son.”
Her brows lifted, interest sharpening.
He reached into his pack, drew out the stone, and set it on the low table beside her. Its surface caught the moonlight, dull yet strangely alive.
Zeporah leaned forward, breath catching.
“You did it…”
Viktor tilted his head, feigning ignorance.
“Did what, my lady? What is this?”
Her voice gathered strength, rising like a priestess calling to her own reflection.
“The Bloodforge…” she began.
“Dark magic spilled from the seas. Beasts came crawling out of the deep, fire in their breath, ruin in their wings. And it was the elves who stood against them—who bore the burden and saved us all.”
Viktor’s jaw clenched, remembering Storne’s stories, his father’s hands in the ash. It was the Ruakite who bled the beasts back into the deep.
Zeporah’s gaze snapped—sudden, ruthless.
“What did you see?”
Viktor shifted, letting his gaze fall to the stone in his hand as if weighing whether to speak at all.
“You’ll think me mad.”
Zeporah’s lashes fluttered, coaxing.
“Madness and prophecy are often cousins,” she mused. Then, sharper: “Speak.”
Viktor’s grip whitened around the stone.
He could feel the sweat cool beneath his armor, the ghost of Amerei’s scent clinging to his sleeve—Focus, soldier.
The words dragged through his teeth as though it cost him to speak them.
“In Oustinon… I saw one. A dragon.” His voice dropped, hoarse.
“It was monstrous. Its wings blotted the sky, its roar split the desert itself. Fire everywhere—everything it touched turned to ash. No reason. No restraint. Just ruin.”
He lifted his eyes, letting them shine with terror.
“How do we fight that? How do we even stand before it?”
Zeporah leaned forward, bracelets rattling against the table as she reached out—fingers grazing his knuckles with mock-comfort. Her perfume pressed in thick as her voice softened.
“Do not be afraid, child. What you saw is not madness, but meaning.”
Viktor shook his head.
“Meaning? That thing would have torn me apart. There was no thought behind its fire. Only hunger.”
Her smile curved, patient and sharp.
“Hunger, yes. Flame, yes. But not emptiness.”
She tilted her head, studying him.
“You think them beasts because you saw only their scales. But scales are only a shroud.”
Viktor let the stone tremble in his hand.
“Then what are they?”
His voice cracked, fear thick enough to hide the steel beneath.
Her hand lingered over his.
“They are bound men, Captain. Souls shackled to strength older than you can fathom. Preserved by blood not their own. What you call ruin…” her eyes glittered, “…was a miracle.”
For an instant, Viktor forgot the part he was meant to play. The stone bit into his palm, sharper than he realized. His heartbeat thundered, traitorous against his ribs.
Men.
Not beasts.
Men bound in dragon skin.
Fear clawed up his throat—then he swallowed it down, shoulders locking stiff. The mask of a soldier held.
Zeporah’s eyes lingered on him, keen, as if she’d tasted that crack in his armor. She leaned forward, fingers brushing the air just short of his sleeve.
“Let us keep this between us, Captain,” she murmured. “No need to spread fear that others cannot shoulder.”
Then, almost sweetly:
“But you, perhaps, shoulder too much already. A father alone in Westport. A house waiting. Have you not thought of going home?”
Viktor said nothing, every muscle still drawn taut.
Zeporah tilted her head, studying the silence, savoring it.
“No?” she pressed, her voice a sweet poison.
He could almost feel her clawing for Amerei’s name, for the shape of what she meant to him. His fists tightened, every instinct screaming to mask it, to bury it where even he could not find it.
He lifted his gaze, finally steady.
“I have thought of it, my lady. My father’s hearth waits for me, as any son’s should. I’d gladly return…”
He allowed a faint, weary smile, just enough to sell the lie.
“Give me a few more days in Rhidian. A port like this hums with talk—ships from Tyra, merchants out of Elváliev. I might hear something worth carrying back through your gates.”
Zeporah considered him, eyes narrowing as if weighing each word against the beat of his pulse.
At last, she reclined back into her cushions, a smile tugging her lips as though she had peeled back enough—for now.
“Very well, Captain. A few more days then. Listen well, and bring me what the wind whispers.”
She lifted her goblet in lazy dismissal
“Go.”
Viktor bowed, careful and controlled, every inch the soldier she expected. He turned on his heel and walked the length of her chamber, past the braziers and the watching guards, spine iron-straight.
Only when the doors sealed behind him did the mask fracture. His lungs seized, breath rushing out as though he’d been holding it for hours. He braced a hand against the cold stone, willing the panic back into its cage.
The hush shattered.
Then came the ruckus—boots scuffing, voices raised, the sharp clatter of a bench overturned.
A shout rang from down the hall—brazen and outrageous.
“Your mother was better on her knees than you are on your feet!”
“Keep talking, cave troll,” Evander snarled back, “and it’ll be you flat on your back.”
Viktor dragged a hand over his face, pulse still hammering.
“Dask—”
He started toward the chaos.
“Gabriel.”
* * *
Zeporah watched Viktor’s shadow vanish through the doors. She moved with practiced ease back to her scrying table, laying her hands along the rim of the blackened bowl. A chant slid from her tongue, twisting strange syllables until it ended with a hiss.
“…Seraphim.”
The surface rippled, and a rich dark voice answered from within.
“The other Seraphim twin? He lives.”
Zeporah’s sigh shivered with fury.
“He crossed into Oustinon, unseen and unfelt.”
Her eyes flashed, sin-dark.
“I wanted a clean kill.”
The water shuddered beneath her rage.
“Patience…” the voice soothed, slow and deep. “A soul like his can be sifted yet. There is more to reap from him on this side.”
Her hands clenched white around the rim.
“There are Ruakites among us. My stepson is one—I am almost certain.”
“You should have foreseen it,” the voice purred, taunting. “His father’s bloodline is strong.”
Her composure cracked, words breaking sharp.
“It was supposed to be my son!”
Laughter rippled from the basin, dark and indulgent.
“Always your son. Always the elves,” the voice mocked. “You hunt the wrong quarry. It is the human Ruakite who matters.”
Zeporah’s fingers dug into the stone, the pool trembling beneath her grip. The voice softened, coiling around her like smoke.
“Use Captain Seraphim to pay your debt with Tyra. And when he has served… take him quietly. The easiest prey dies in his sleep.”
Blood rose at the corner of her lip where she’d bitten down. Rage rattled her chest. She forced the words out, each one a blade.
“I want Viktor Seraphim.”
Her voice cut low.
“I paid dearly for his brother’s soul.”
The basin stilled, the reflection of her eyes burning red in the dark water.
Soon.