Chapter Thirty-Two
What the Queen Saw
The queen saw steel, and she saw love—and she clapped for the ruin it would bring.
One breath steadied him—
Viktor crossed the threshold.
Columns rose like black serpents, draped in silks that shimmered with torchlight. Tapestries of the Bloodforge lined the walls—steel, fire, rivers of red. Music throbbed through the cavernous hall, drums pounding like a march to war.
The herald’s voice sliced through the roar.
“Evander, son of Raif, of the noble House of Zrynon, of Rhidian.”
Evander stepped forward to a hiss of whispers. The she-elf on his arm—eyes bright with mischief—waited for Zeporah’s lazy flick of approval, then rose on her toes and kissed him full on the mouth.
Laughter broke like surf.
Evander’s ears went scarlet. He pressed on, spine straight.
“Gabriel, son of Cillian, of the noble House of Feindoran, of Vykenra.”
Zeporah leaned forward, wings shifting.
“Ah,” she purred, voice rippling through the chamber, “a masterpiece of the gods—the Draekenran line at its finest.”
Applause shimmered after him. Gabriel took it with a knife-thin smile.
A pause.
Then the herald frowned at his parchment and called slower:
“Captain Viktor Seraphim… of Aerdania.”
A ripple of confusion. Soft laughter.
Viktor’s feet felt heavier than armor. He drew a breath and stepped into the light—flame and shadow cutting across him with each stride.
“Captain Seraphim…” Zeporah’s tone slid like oil over onyx. “Come. Stand before me.”
He halted at the base of her dais. Her dark eyes narrowed.
“You have traveled the whole of Andórmanor, have you not?”
“I have.”
Her lips curled, wicked.
“Is there no woman good enough for you in all the realm? No she-elf worthy of your name?”
Viktor held her gaze, giving nothing.
Zeporah turned to the court, delight bright as a wound.
“Well then—who among you will impress the unconquerable Captain Seraphim tonight?”
Laughter rippled through the gallery. Voices called his name—daring, mocking.
He slipped back into the press of bodies. Gabriel found his flank, both scanning the hall: daggers at belts, swords at hips, goblets heavy with dark wine. Everything tonight could become a weapon.
“Where is she?” Viktor whispered, hoarse.
The herald answered him.
“Lady Amerei Zrynon—betrothed of Ryvka Zelarhan, armorbearer to the Regent of Dunfel.”
From the stairwell’s shadow, she emerged.
Viktor’s pulse crashed hot.
The gown was red—clinging at the breast, spilling down her hips, moving with her like flame answering its master.
Her hair fell in golden waves over bare shoulders, catching at her collarbone, begging his hand to follow.
Jewels glimmered at her wrists, her throat, even the hollow of her navel—but none of it mattered.
It was her.
And dask, he wanted her. To touch, to taste, to steal her from every eye in this cursed hall. The sight of her burned through him, a need so sharp it bordered pain.
Mine.
The word struck like lightning. He could no more stop it than he could breathe without her.
Zeporah’s voice sliced through the heat.
“A fine match, yes? Lady Zrynon will be a jewel to Dunfel. Our loss is his gain.”
Laughter rose, cruel and bright.
Viktor shifted forward before Gabriel’s hand caught his arm.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he hissed.
Viktor shook him off, eyes fixed on Amerei.
At Zeporah’s signal, a servant knelt with two golden goblets. Ryvka Zelarhan seized one, guzzling deep. Amerei’s hand hovered—until the servant pressed the stem into her palm.
“Drink,” Zeporah urged, smile sharp as glass.
Ryvka swallowed, foam slicking his chin. He raised the goblet to the crowd, basking. Amerei only tilted hers, gaze steady on him.
“Tell us, Lord Zelarhan,” Zeporah coaxed, “are you pleased with the bride I’ve chosen?”
He bowed low, lips wet with wine. “Gracious queen, you honor me. Her beauty more than makes up for her humanity.”
Gasps struck the air like arrows.
Amerei’s chin lifted, voice pure steel.
“Careful, sir,” she warned. “You insult the very people who welcome you to this land.”
Zeporah leaned forward, eyes glittering—feeding on the spark.
Ryvka’s smirk widened.
“Casqadia thrives beneath a most illustrious elven queen.”
He flicked a wrist to Zeporah.
“I insult no one.”
He turned to the crowd, raising his cup, head tilting toward Amerei.
“So brave, this one,” he taunted.
“She’ll gag on her pride come our wedding night.”
Viktor’s vision flashed white, fury flooding his veins. His fingers found the knife’s hilt—one breath more and the hall would burn.
Yet Amerei’s gaze seared hotter than his anger. She exhaled once—sharp, deliberate—then flung her goblet to the floor. Crimson wine exploded across the marble like spilled blood.
The hall erupted.
Viktor shoved forward as bodies parted.
Ryvka laughed, then lunged, fisting Amerei’s hair, crushing his mouth to hers.
Her muffled scream tore through the din.
Viktor’s muscles locked. The world narrowed.
Amerei wrenched free, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Her gaze found Viktor’s—commanding, pleading. Don’t. Stay. Wait.
Ryvka turned to Zeporah, smug.
“My queen, I do not shrink from the humanity in her.”
A beat.
“I savor it.”
He yanked her wrist again—
But she moved first.
Viktor felt the shift before he saw it.
Her hand flashed to his dagger, steel slicing the air.
She drove forward, the blade biting at Ryvka’s throat.
Gasps froze the hall.
Her chest heaved, breath ragged, arm steady as stone. A bead of blood welled at the edge of steel.
Viktor’s pulse thundered, every instinct screaming to reach her.
The silence broke with the slow clap of jeweled hands. Zeporah rose slightly, wings rustling.
“Marvelous,” she cooed.
She swept her hand out with a flourish.
“But do give Captain Seraphim back his knife, Lady Zrynon.”
Amerei’s blade didn’t waver until fear flickered in Ryvka’s eyes. Only then did she shove him back, scraping his throat as he stumbled.
The court held its breath as she turned—slow, measured—and set the dagger into Viktor’s waiting hand. Their eyes caught, held—burned.
That was when Zeporah saw it.
Her smile sharpened, the pause long enough to brand the moment into memory. Then she clapped, each strike ringing like thunder.
“Let it begin,” she declared, voice bright as blades of ice.
“The Vykenraven.”