Chapter Thirty-Nine
What Others Dared Assume
One question shattered the silence—and left no one untouched.
The first hour of morning passed in silence, broken only by the scratch of Storne’s pen. Sleep had eluded him, but his work steadied his mind.
Misses Roland bustled past with a basket of linens, a short, plump she-elf with quick steps and quicker eyes. She called over her shoulder, almost fondly, “She never left his side. Not once, all through the night.”
Storne’s mouth tugged faintly—until the words settled.
She? His side?
The pen slipped from his fingers. He shoved back his chair, striding after her.
By the time he reached the hall, Misses Roland was already at Viktor’s door, nudging it open with her elbow.
“Wait.” Storne stepped in front of her, one hand on the latch.
She gave him a look, brows arched high. “Masten Storne. I’ve raised five children. Spare me the dramatics.”
“I’ll enter first.” His voice was steady, quiet enough to end the matter. “For her sake.”
Misses Roland pursed her lips, muttered something about newlyweds, and let him pass.
Storne opened the door.
Amerei lay curled on the floor beside the bed, her silken robe pulled close like a blanket, her hand still caught in his as if even sleep refused to separate them. Viktor slept soundly above her, his chest rising slow and even.
“Stars above…” Storne murmured, shoulders easing—and then stiffening, something unreadable flickering in his eyes before duty set his jaw again.
He crouched at her side, touching her arm, stirring her awake. His mouth curved, almost wry.
“You’re not Captain Feindoran.”
Amerei sat up quickly.
“I'm sorry, Father.”
She dragged the robe tighter across her chest. Viktor’s hand slipped from hers.
“I couldn’t leave him.”
Storne drew back, holding the door wide, waiting until she rose.
“You’ve got your mother’s spirit,” he said quietly. “Damn near careless in your caring.”
Before Amerei could answer, Misses Roland bustled back with her basket, pinched Amerei’s cheek, and grinned.
“Not a wink of sleep?” she chirped.
Then, lower, almost scandalized:
“Careful, dear—you’ll have him expecting that every night. And raven-haired little ones come quick enough with Eillish blood.”
Amerei flushed scarlet, words caught somewhere between laughter and mortification. Storne cleared his throat, the faintest arch to his brow. Misses Roland only hummed, unbothered, as she swept past with her basket.
* * *
The kitchen smelled of bread and boiled roots when Storne called them to table.
Amerei had gone to dress, leaving Viktor to Misses Roland’s bustling care.
The she-elf had dressed him in leather trousers and a loose linen shirt, then guided him by the arm as though he were a boy.
She plopped him into a chair, set a bowl and razor before Storne, and planted her fists on her hips.
“I’ve only ever raised elves. Here—” She tossed him a towel. “You do it. And clean yourself up while you’re at it!”
Storne caught the towel without flinching. “I’ll endure your horror a little longer, dear.”
She sniffed and shuffled away, muttering about bearded elves.
Viktor tried to sit tall, but his eyes fell, the weight of exhaustion pulling at him.
“With your permission, Commander, I’ll see to it later.”
Storne shook his head.
“No need.”
He dipped the razor into the steaming water, then wet Viktor’s face with careful fingers. He drew the blade over his jawline, steady as a surgeon.
Only when their gazes caught did the intimacy of the act unsettle them both. Commander and captain, father and soldier, bound by the same woman’s eyes.
Storne cleared his throat.
“You only need suffer the ride to Fyreglade,” he said, dragging the razor along Viktor’s skin. “I have a healer who can ease your wounds once we arrive. Can you manage that, Captain?”
Viktor swallowed. “Yes.”
Bootsteps scraped against the floor. Evander went to the window without a word, his shoulder braced against the frame, staring out at the pale light.
Gabriel followed, dragging out a chair and dropping into it hard enough to rattle the table.
He leaned back, arms crossed, eyes fixed anywhere but Storne.
The air thickened with their silence.
Storne’s eyes flicked to Evander. “Couldn’t sleep?”
Evander twisted in the chair, his forehead pressed hard to the pane. He caught Viktor’s gaze from over his shoulder and pulled his arms in tighter.
“It was a dragon that burned you, Viktor,” he said, barely above a whisper. “But it was only an invocation. What will we face when the real ones come?”
Storne looked down at Viktor’s bandages, then at the young elf.
“It will take time for your mind to heal from what you saw last night. I was about your age in my first entrapment in the Vykenraven. I still remember the visions.”
Evander’s brow furrowed, but he said nothing more.
Gabriel broke the silence with a grunt. “We shouldn’t have gone.”
Storne rinsed the blade, finished the last stroke along Viktor’s cheek, and set the razor aside. He flipped through a sheaf of notes spread across the table.
“Amerei has brought me the names of five nobles pledging fealty to her. Their support alone will bring coin enough to cripple Zeporah’s war chest. Where we cannot rouse soldiers by honor, we will buy their swords.”
Gabriel tilted his head, glaring.
“Buying favor? Is that what we’ve lowered ourselves to?”
“Yes,” Storne said without hesitation. “Men fight for pay as much as principle. And we’ll need both.”
Gabriel went quiet. He sat with his arms folded, shoulders hunched forward, his stare fixed on the table’s scarred wood. Viktor knew that look—and the scrape of Storne’s quill only seemed to grate against it.
Evander shifted, uneasy, but Gabriel didn’t look at him. He leaned forward instead, the chair groaning under his weight, elbows braced on the table. His stare cut through the clutter of papers, pinning Storne like a nail.
“So,” he said at last, voice hard as flint. “We’ve started a war then?”
A pause—deliberate.
“With Zeporah—or against her?”
Viktor’s eyes fell shut. Storne set down his pen.
The words landed heavy, clattering against the kitchen’s quiet. Even Evander flinched, turning from the window.
Slowly, Storne lifted his gaze, sharp as a drawn bow.
“With Zeporah?”
The name cracked the silence like steel unsheathing.
His eyes narrowed on Gabriel.
“Careful, Captain. I am still your commanding officer. Speak freely if you must—but speak wisely.”
Gabriel jerked his chin. “Then answer me plainly.”
Silence stretched—the kind that begged for a man to ruin it.
Gabriel leaned closer, voice cutting low:
“When was the last time you warmed her bed?”
The air went still, suffocating. Viktor’s jaw clenched—damn it, Gabriel—shame burning hot against his skin. Evander looked to the floor, shoulders taut, as though bracing for the blow. At last, Storne’s voice broke the silence, iron-hard.
“Ah.” His eyes cut to Viktor, then back to Gabriel. “So you finally speak aloud what others only dared assume.”
Gabriel shoved back his chair, fury rising, but Storne only tapped his ring against the wood.
“Outside with it, Captain. We’ll not disgrace Master and Misses Roland’s home with this.”
Boots scraped as they stood. Evander lingered half a breath, then turned away.
Viktor stayed where he was a moment longer, chest tight, watching the room empty as if the air itself were being pulled out through the door.