Chapter Twenty-Seven
Sovereign and Shield
A commander’s test. A sovereign’s trust. A shield who would not break it.
The road broke off at the cliffs, where the sea carved white stone into towers and ledges polished like marble. Water spilled from the heights in silver veils, crashing into the pools below with a thunder that swallowed every other sound.
The Ivory Pillars stood apart from the world—untouched, eternal.
Mist slicked Viktor’s neck, cold enough to bite through the heat of his pulse. He and Gabriel rode up the narrow track, their horses’ hooves echoing against wet stone.
At the clearing ahead, a cart sagged beneath the weight of weapons, steel glinting in the morning light. Amerei stood beside it, her cloak drawn back, sea-spray clinging to her hair. She drew a sling from the cart and weighed it in her palm before tossing a look over her shoulder.
“Bring a bow,” she said to Gabriel.
Her hand closed around the haft of a twin-bladed axe. She lifted it with surprising strength, a smile curving her mouth
“And an axe.”
The sight of her struck Viktor hard.
Sunlight caught the gold in her hair, the spray turning her lashes to silver.
She looked nothing like the girl who had almost kissed him the night before—and yet everything about her stole his breath the same.
He wondered if she knew he still felt the warmth of her mouth on his—if she could feel it too, when her smile tilted just so.
Gabriel’s brows shot up, a grin spreading.
“Oh, this’ll be quite fun.”
He received the axe from her with exaggerated reverence, as though claiming a crown.
They crossed the field where Evander loosed fiery arrows at a mesa in the distance, each shot cracking bright against the rock. Storne stood beside him, arms folded, eyes sharp with approval.
“Better,” Storne called over the roar of the falls. “Again.”
Gabriel swung the axe Amerei had handed him, grinning like a boy at festival.
Storne clapped a hand to his shoulder. “You any good with a sling?”
Gabriel’s grin flashed. “I can manage.”
“Good. Evander needs practice.”
His gaze cut toward Viktor. “You—come with me.”
Gabriel scoffed, lowering the axe. “You’re leaving me with the kid?”
“There’s a barn a mile that way,” Storne said, pointing. “Try not to let him set it on fire.”
Evander laughed. Gabriel groaned.
Storne was already striding back toward the weapons cart. Viktor followed, Amerei at his side.
“You survived your meeting with Zeporah,” Storne said at last.
“Barely.”
Viktor’s voice came rough.
Storne rubbed a hand over his beard.
“She’s lost herself,” he murmured.
He looked back at Gabriel and Evander, then continued with renewed resolve.
“Every step from here must drive her back—bring us closer to the crown.”
Viktor slowed.
Amerei saw it then—the way his jaw tightened, his shoulders set.
The words pressed hard against his ribs.
“There’s something you need to know,” he confessed. “About what we’re really facing.”
Storne turned to him, gaze flicking between them.
“Tell her everything,” he said, ceding the space to Amerei.
“As if she were already your queen.”
Viktor’s chest tightened.
For a heartbeat, he wondered how to make the impossible sound real.
Then he bowed his head toward her.
“Lady Zrynon.”
A breath.
“Zeporah told me the dragons aren’t conjured beasts.”
His voice wavered—just barely.
“They’re born of covenants—men binding their souls for eternal life.”
He faltered.
“She didn’t say—”
Amerei’s sharp inhale cut him off.
Her eyes snapped to her father.
“You were right.”
Viktor turned.
The words tore out of him.
“You knew, Commander?”
The hard lines of Storne’s face darkened.
“Yes.”
The crash of water filled the silence.
Then Storne stepped closer.
“Amerei, I can guide Captain Seraphim. I can hone his blade, test his fire. But what he faces beyond rank…”
His gaze locked on Viktor’s.
“…depends upon his loyalty to you.”
He moved between them, drawing their hands near.
“For this moment, I speak to you both outside your titles.”
His voice lowered, almost reverent.
“As sovereign and shield.”
The words struck like steel to anvil, reverberating through Viktor’s chest.
He dared a glance at Amerei.
Her lashes lowered, her lips parted as though she felt it too—the vow, the weight, the truth binding them tighter than chains.
For a breath, neither spoke.
The waterfalls thundered, as if the cliffs themselves bore witness.
Viktor’s hand ached to reach for her, to seal what was already written without words.
But Storne’s grip held them fast—father, commander, keeper of their vow.
When he released them, the air seemed to shatter.
He drew a slow breath.
“There is more you must know,” he said. “I hold the spellbook Zeporah used to bind souls to dragons—the Tome of the Hollow Flame.”
Viktor’s head snapped up.
Amerei’s eyes widened, lit like lightning through the mist.
“My wife’s father confiscated it from the elves after the Bloodforge,” Storne continued.
“When Cassandra died, I sealed it in an onyx vault beneath Fyreglade. But one of my own betrayed me. Caelirion Gray transcribed its pages and delivered them to Zeporah. It multiplied her knowledge a thousandfold.”
He turned his head toward Viktor.
“The moment you told me she sent you into Oustinon, I knew—she was the one who called them out.”
A shadow crossed his face—anger or grief, Viktor didn’t know.
“You must understand, Viktor,” he said, “the cost of fighting an enemy both man and beast may exceed your loyalty to anyone.”
The words had barely fallen when Viktor answered, voice rough with certainty.
“I am loyal to you, Lady Zrynon.”
Their eyes met—his promise laid bare, unyielding.
She began to speak, but Storne was already moving, breaking the moment with the rasp of steel.
“Let’s make certain of that,” he said, drawing a sword from the cart. “Before you awaken to Vykenraven.”
Amerei’s breath went shallow.
“Real swords, Father?”
He strode toward the pool at the base of the falls, water churning silver around the stones.
“This test calls for real danger.”
Spray clung to Viktor’s skin as he followed, sword heavy in his hand.
Amerei climbed a nearby boulder, mist haloing her like flame.
Storne dragged the flat of his blade through the cascade, droplets hissing on steel. He looked back at Viktor from over his shoulder.
“With control, you can move fire even through water.”
Viktor raised his sword.
Flames licked the edge as he split the stream with a single sweep. The water parted around him, heat and spray colliding in a burst of steam.
“Good,” Storne said.
“Now—assume your stance.”
Viktor lifted his blade. Fire whispered along its edge.
The memory struck hard.
The race. The cliff.
Viktor rising from the water with fire in his heart and steel in his hand.
Those were practiced blades then. The swords now, lethal.
Storne circled him, water streaming from his shoulders.
Viktor nodded once.
Steel met steel beneath the roar of the falls.
Viktor matched him strike for strike—disciplined, precise, relentless.
But Storne’s blows pressed harder, sharper, testing not his skill but his temper. Twice their blades locked, and twice Storne twisted dirty—heel to knee, shoulder to chest.
Viktor staggered, fury flaring, but held his ground.
“You’ll never face honor in Zeporah’s court,” Storne snarled. “Do you hesitate when your enemy cheats?”
Another clash.
Sparks burst where flame kissed steel.
Storne drove forward, feinted left—then thrust his unguarded hand into the path of Viktor’s swing.
Time broke.
Viktor saw the arc, the helpless flesh, the certainty of ruin. Instinct surged—wind and fire snapping down his arm, halting the strike a breath from Storne’s wrist.
“I could’ve taken your hand!” Viktor ground out.
Storne looked from the trembling blade to Viktor’s eyes.
“But you didn’t.”
Viktor’s stare burned beneath a brow knit tight. He forced the sword down, breath ragged.
Without a word, Storne turned back to the cart and drew another weapon—a slimmer blade.
“Amerei.”
No.
Viktor’s gut twisted at her name.
Storne only waved her forward.
“I put a sword in her hand when she was still a child,” he said. “She can wield it well enough. But she is not like the men you spar.”
Light flashed along the blade’s fine edge.
“Her strike will be the one you fail to read.”
Amerei stepped down into the pool, boots splashing through the shallows. She took the sword from her father, testing its weight with a sure flick of her wrist.
“Captain Seraphim is ordered to engage,” Storne rasped. “If you’ll accept this contest, Amerei?”
She lifted her head, sunlight torching her crown. Then she looked at Viktor.
The thunder faded. The spray. Even Storne’s shadow.
Only her gaze remained.
Her lips shaped the words without sound, but he felt them in his bones.
“I trust you.”
The ache in his chest deepened. Vow and dread collided until he could barely breathe.
She didn’t step back.
She raised her blade.
The first clash jolted through his arm—her strength surprising him, her fire unmistakable.
Their eyes locked across the steel, the falls roaring around them.
She swung harder, beautiful and defiant. He slipped past and tapped the flat of his blade to her shoulder, a grin tugging before he could stop it.
Her eyes flashed.
Another lunge—cleaner, faster.
He brushed the edge of her cloak.
“Better.”
The air between them crackled—breathless, dangerous—
until a hard strike crashed between their blades, breaking them apart.
Storne pressed in, his strikes brutal, each one driving Viktor back a pace.
Steel rang, sparks feathering across wet stone.
Amerei was there again, darting in, fierce and unrelenting. Viktor blocked her swing, twisted, tapped her shoulder once more—smiling until Storne’s next blow wiped it away.
The rhythm broke—her eagerness, Storne’s brutality, Viktor’s restraint colliding in every strike.
Then pain ripped through him.
Storne’s blade cut across his thigh, hot and sharp.
Viktor staggered, teeth bared, answering with a vicious swing meant for the commander—
but Storne pivoted, knocking Amerei’s sword from her hand.
Viktor’s blade kept going, a terrible arc toward her chest.
His Endowment roared—wind and fire surging.
The strike halted a hair’s breadth from her, the waterfall behind her splitting apart under the force.
The world held its breath.
Amerei’s chest rose against the blade, her eyes lifting to his.
Neither flinched. Neither looked away.
Viktor lowered the sword, the tremor in his arm betraying what his face could not.
Storne stepped forward, laying a hand on Amerei’s shoulder—a silent claim of blood and bond.
Then he looked back at Viktor.
“You’re ready.”