Chapter Forty-Two
Forward, Commander
Forward was more than a command. It was all of them, together.
Amerei shouldered past Gabriel, her braid snapping like a whip as she strode into the courtyard. Sunlight caught on her boots and the fine dust rising with every step. Horses stamped and snorted, tack gleaming gold. The morning itself seemed to be waiting.
Storne stood beside his stallion, Evander fussing with the straps, the rest of the men readying for the long ride ahead.
Amerei turned sharply, cloak swirling, and planted herself in front of Gabriel. The elf loomed nearly a foot taller, but she lifted her chin, eyes glittering with dangerous amusement.
“You know, Captain Feindoran,” she said lightly, “your reputation’s traveled farther than you think.”
He swallowed, eyes everywhere.
She only move closer.
“Word is you left quite the impression on not one, but two of King Yethule’s nieces.”
A beat of stillness. Then a few of the men froze, half-smothered laughter tugging at their mouths.
Gabriel held his breath.
Amerei tilted her head, voice gone sweet and sharp.
“Apparently Vykenra is abuzz with curiosity as to how such a large elf can wield such a small weapon.”
Laughter broke like thunder. Evander barked one outright. Matteo choked on his own breath. Even Storne’s lips twitched before he hid it in a cough.
Gabriel’s face darkened scarlet, his towering frame stiffened by his heartbeat.
From the shadowed wall, Viktor’s mouth curved slow and dangerous. Pain still dragged at his body, but the sight of her—brazen, merciless, his Amerei—sent something feral through him. For an instant, the ache and burns vanished—my shameless girl.
And she wasn’t finished yet.
Gabriel cleared his throat, voice low. “Lady Zrynon, I—”
Amerei cut him off with a smile far too friendly.
“Better the bastard children of an Aerdanian than the inbred children of an elven noble.”
The courtyard cracked with chaos—Evander doubling over, soldiers snickering behind gloved hands, laughter rippling through the ranks. Gabriel’s jaw snapped shut, fury flashing under his skin.
Viktor couldn’t help it—the corner of his mouth lifted, a quiet spark catching in his chest. Dask, I love her.
Storne exhaled through his nose, a faint, dangerous smile tugging at his mouth.
“Oh, Amerei. Suddenly, I am both excited and terrified to unleash you on the elven court.”
The words stopped Gabriel mid-step, every line of him going rigid. His throat worked, but no sound came.
Evander’s brows shot up, delight flickering.
“There it is,” he murmured.
He stumbled forward, the reins falling slack in his fingers.
“So it’s true—you mean to put her before the court?”
Storne didn’t answer right away. He only adjusted his gloves, gaze sweeping over them all, daring another question.
Viktor, silent at the edge, felt the whispers ripple through the company but held his tongue. Backcountry men had no business in courts, elven or otherwise.
Storne’s gaze cut to Gabriel, cold as drawn steel.
“You asked if we’ve started a war. We have. Our first strike will be to set Amerei before the Senate of Elváliev as Casqadia’s rightful heir.”
His shoulders set, his voice firmed.
“Prince Xavien has promised she will be heard.”
The name fell like a spark into oil.
Silence.
Evander’s hand stilled on his reins. Matteo’s head snapped up. Gabriel froze, eyes narrowing.
Something old and uneasy hummed beneath the torches—unspoken, but understood by all who heard it.
Amerei caught it instantly. Her gaze moved from one face to the next… then to Viktor. His brow furrowed as he studied her, sensing the unseen storm gathering behind that name—one he did not yet understand.
Storne slid the last strap into place and straightened, hand firm on the pommel.
“Bloodline will not be enough. The elves must see Zeporah’s corruption—and they must see Amerei stand against it.”
Evander stroked the muzzle of his horse, then paused, realization dawning.
“Then you’re no longer Lady Zrynon,” he said, turning sharp toward Amerei. “You can’t be, not if you stand against Zeporah.” He searched her face. “If we’re reminding the world who you are—who are you?”
Storne stepped forward. He drew a long breath, voice deepening with ceremony.
“She is Amerei, daughter of Cassandra, daughter of Phaedra, daughter of Julian, son of Titus.”
He paused—a heartbeat of reverence—before finishing.
“Her name is Princess Amerei Aleksandra Zrynon.”
Amerei caught his hand and pressed it to her lips.
“Zrynon Storne,” she corrected softly, eyes never leaving his.
For an instant, the commander’s iron mask cracked, her words settling into his bones.
“If I am to reclaim the throne,” she said, “it will be by my mother’s blood—and my father’s determination.” She lifted her chin. “Let this be my first proclamation.”
Storne closed the distance and pulled her in, holding her tight, as if the years of silence between them could be burned away in a single embrace. His hand lingered at the back of her head, his breath rough against her hair.
When he let her go, she turned—and her eyes found Viktor’s, fire blazing there. Pride rose sharp in his chest, but beneath it, a hollow ache: she was already more than his, and one day the world might try to take her.
Evander swung into his saddle, smirking faintly. “I know I won’t slip and call you ‘Lady Zrynon’ anymore. Not that I ever did.”
Storne crossed his arms and tipped his head toward him.
“There is the matter of your name, Evander.”
Evander blinked. “My name?”
Storne shrugged.
“You are no longer of the House of Zrynon.”
At that, Amerei stepped forward, her voice bright with inspiration.
“I give you back the name of your birth,” she declared. “Evander Tassen, son of Raif.”
Evander’s lips parted, tasting the sound. “Evander Tassen…”
Storne clapped him on the shoulder, rough but not unkind.
“Then it’s done. Let’s thank our hosts and be on the road to Fyreglade.”
As if summoned, the door banged open, and out burst Misses Roland, apron dusted with flour, eyes bright as coals. She caught Storne in her sights, voice low but sharp enough to carry.
“Masten Storne, would their children be halflings, I wonder?” she asked, blissfully resuming their breakfast conversation. “She’s half-elf, half-man. He’s human. If you breed a mule to a mule, then breed their offspring back to a horse, would it still be a mule?”
Storne froze mid-step. He glanced helplessly at Amerei, then at Viktor, and a weary smile ghosted across his face.
“Better halflings than half of the soldiers I’ve trained,” he said, just loud enough for her.
Misses Roland harrumphed but fell silent, clearly satisfied.
Storne straightened, voice ringing command-sharp.
“Our thanks, Master Roland. Misses. You’ve given us more than we could ask.”
Amerei darted forward, pressing a quick kiss to each of their cheeks, whispering gratitude before running for Viktor’s horse.
The men moved to haul Viktor toward a spare mount, but Amerei’s voice cut through the morning.
“Wait! Ruby.”
She laid her hand to the mare’s cheek.
“She’ll kneel. I know she will.”
And as if the horse herself understood, Ruby bent low, dropping onto one knee in the dirt. The men exchanged startled glances.
Amerei turned, eyes bright and triumphant. Viktor only managed a huff of breath, part pain, part laugh, before stepping across the saddle instead of being lifted.
Snickers circled the yard.
Storne’s brow arched, dry as stone.
“You named your horse Ruby?”
Viktor winced as he settled, then let a smirk slip through.
“Your daughter named my horse Ruby.”
Amerei bit down a grin. The men busied themselves with the reins.
Storne’s gaze swept the yard, sharp as a drawn sword.
“Enough,” he said, swinging into the saddle.
His gaze locked on Evander.
“Henceforth you ride as my lieutenant. We’ll bind it proper at Fyreglade.”
A jerk of his chin.
“Now, mount up.”
Evander blinked, stunned, then straightened, pride catching light in his eyes. Amerei saw it and smiled, a fleeting warmth before the column began to form and the road beckoned.
“Company, forward,” Storne commanded.
For the first time, Evander’s voice rang out—carrying the awe of belonging: “Forward, Commander!”
Viktor heard it, something stirring deep in his chest—a soldier’s memory of his first call to march. He caught Evander’s eye and gave a nod, a quiet brother’s oath between them.
Wind brushed through Amerei’s braid, sunlight glinting off Viktor’s bandages like a vow reborn.
And together, they rode into the morning.