Chapter Fifty-Six
Of Blood and War
Steel might win battles. Blood would decide the war.
The echo of Viktor’s vow still burned in his chest as he descended the stair at Storne’s side.
High-Captain Ivan Azroc waited below, pale hair gleaming, ghost-blue eyes narrowing at Viktor’s approach. He clasped Viktor’s hand with a short shake of the head.
“I knew you’d go far when I pinned your captain’s insignia. Never thought it’d be dragons that carried you there.”
“Neither did I,” Viktor said, the sound rougher than laughter but close enough to pass for it.
Ivan’s gaze lingered, sharpened by curiosity. “But marriage—?”
Viktor arched a brow toward Storne. “You told him already?”
Storne’s tone was flat as forged iron. “He’d hear it soon enough.”
Ivan let out a low, uneasy laugh. “Elváliev’s not going to like it…”
“We don’t intend to tell them,” Storne said. “Not yet.”
Ivan’s mouth thinned.
“Then he’d better rise fast. Until he’s Commander, the elves won’t take him seriously.”
Storne nodded slowly.
“When Amerei is crowned,” he said, “she may name him Prince Consort. But not before her coronation—and not without the elves’ support. First, we must legitimize her claim. I await Xavien’s answer to my request before the Senate tomorrow.”
Ivan’s expression hardened.
“Then we must be ready. Once the elves name her queen, war is declared.”
The words struck Viktor like a spear to the gut. But Storne only looked to Ivan, voice cutting.
“Tell High-Captain Seraphim what you told me.”
Ivan exhaled, leading them into a chamber crowded with maps and scrolls. He tapped the northern ridge with a compass.
“Two days past, a patrol reported shadows circling. Dragons. They wheeled in hunting patterns, never straying more than five miles.”
Viktor leaned over the map.
“The drought drives them,” he said. “Not war—not yet. Zeporah conjured them without thought of how to sustain them. Nothing grows in Oustinon, so the beasts are pushing south, following herds.”
Ivan nodded grimly.
“There’s a wild band of horses in those hills. Attractive bait. And dragons don’t distinguish man from beast.” His eyes flickered. “Even if that dragon is part man.”
The truth of it burned in Viktor’s chest. His hand curled into a fist. He looked sharply to Storne.
“I’ve told Ivan everything,” Storne said. “The three of us must move in one accord.”
Ivan circled a southern region of the map.
“I’ve drafted siege plans—cavalry, footsoldiers. The north will be yours, Viktor. We’ll flank you with ballistae, but if we don’t secure archers…” His voice dropped. “I don’t see how else we’ll bring them down.”
Archers. The one thing courage alone couldn’t conjure.
Viktor straightened.
“Amerei will convince the elf-king to lend us the Sagittarii.”
Storne’s eyes flickered with the faintest pride. Ivan gave a slow nod.
“Then stars above—we may yet have a chance.”
The mantle on Viktor’s shoulders felt heavier than the insignia pinned there. Ruakite blood burned in his veins, but even he knew fire alone could not win a war. He would need more than his own strength—he would need every ally, every blade.
Storne’s expression shifted—not cold, but weighted.
“You weren’t alone in the Vykenraven, Viktor,” he said, voice low. “And you won’t be alone in war.”
Viktor stilled. “Commander?”
“The voice you heard…”
Storne’s gaze cut away, as if the words themselves unsettled him.
“He told me last night, before leaving the estate.”
Viktor’s gaze locked with his, but the commander only glanced at Ivan.
“We call him The Midnight,” he explained. “Blind boy. Apprentice to Saecily. Keeps to himself, but I’ve known him to say things no child should know.”
Viktor’s chest tightened. Dask. That dream last night— “You think he knows more about the dragons?” he asked carefully.
Storne didn’t move.
“I think he knows more about you.”
The words struck with the weight of an axe.
“I need to speak with him,” Storne continued. “My father relied on the help of a seer. Perhaps The Midnight was meant for you.”
Viktor swallowed, but said nothing.
“For the boy’s sake, I hope I’m wrong,” Storne added. “My father’s seer through the Bloodforge faced a terrible death. And she who came after—” His voice roughened. “Eiliyah was so young—”
Viktor’s head snapped up.
“Eiliyah?”
The name punched the air from his lungs.
Storne’s chest rose fast. His voice softened, reverent despite himself.
“Eiliyah Ara—”
“Aradostylan.”
The name tore from Viktor’s mouth unbidden, searing his tongue.
Storne froze.
“You know her? How in the abyss would you—”
The world slammed still.
Seventeen years since his mother vanished. Seventeen years of silence and ash.
Now her name spoken aloud—weaved with The Midnight’s strange whispers, the boy’s age, the voice in the Vykenraven. Threads tightening around Viktor’s chest until he could hardly breathe.
Nothing—absolutely nothing—had been accident.
A broken laugh slipped from Viktor’s lips.
“Eiliyah Aradostylan…”
He lifted his gaze, storm breaking behind his eyes.
“…is my mother.”
Storne stared, stricken. His mouth opened, closed again.
“Dask,” he said at last. “I didn’t know…”
“Neither did I,” Viktor breathed.
Silence settled heavy as stone.
Ivan shifted, but no one spoke.
Finally Storne drew a sharp breath, forcing his tone back to steel.
“Assume in your plans that Amerei wins us the Sagittarii of Vykenra. Outfit them in mirrored shields. Archers will fire from cover, aiming high. The moment a dragon drops, swordsmen rush it. Fast. Coordinated. No mercy.”
“Understood, Commander.”
Viktor’s voice was steadier than he felt.
Storne tugged on his gloves, each motion clipped, jerking leather into place like the closing of an order. He handed Viktor the weight of command in words alone.
“Go draft the plans upstairs. You’ll find my father’s codex in the bottom drawer. Treat it well—it’s the only record of the Bloodforge untainted by elves.”
Viktor bowed once, hiding the tremor in his breath. “Yes, sir.”