Chapter Fifty-Seven
What Cannot Wait
The day stretched long with waiting:
for word from Elváliev, for nightfall, for the boy called The Midnight.
Viktor closed Storne’s chamber door behind him, the quiet almost too heavy after the war council’s clamor. The room still smelled of pipe smoke and iron ink.
He paused at the mirror above the desk. A flash of copper caught his eye—his own reflection staring back, sharper than he remembered.
Only days ago he’d been one soldier among hundreds. Now he was High-Captain. Sworn to a princess. Branded by fire and gifted by myth.
He hardly recognized the man in the mirror—and yet the world would.
The thought hollowed him and filled him all at once.
The scout who had crossed Oustinon, who had once known nothing but silence and orders, now stood at the edge of legend.
He dragged his gaze downward, past the map pinned with markers, to the desk. At Storne’s command, he pulled open the bottom drawer. The codex waited inside, its leather cracked with age. He carefully laid it on the desk and opened the brittle pages inked in a hand older than his own bloodline.
Formations. Notes on dragons. The last record of the Bloodforge untouched by elven hands. Now it’s mine to wield.
The quill scratched fast, black lines spreading like veins across parchment—archers repositioned, mirrored shields tallied, timings re-set to meet the tide of wings.
Then, in careful strokes, he added a name: Lieutenant Evander Tassen.
For a long moment he stared at the ink drying. A promise written.
Further in, he found the record of the Ruakite archers—their precise arcs, the chants they’d sung in unison.
“Elves,” Viktor murmured. “Gabriel and Evander should wield bows.”
He traced a diagram with one finger and stopped.
The arrows hadn’t simply flown—they had sailed—
like missiles.
We need the Sagittarii of Vykenra.
A knock broke his focus.
“High-Captain?”
He knew that voice instantly.
“Come in, Evander.”
The young elf slipped in, awkward in the doorway.
“I don’t even know how I’m supposed to address you now.”
“Same as before,” Viktor said with a short laugh. “Sit down.”
Evander dragged a chair forward, hesitation in every motion. Then he spoke in a rush.
“It’s about the handfast.”
Viktor stilled, brow furrowing.
“Did Amerei send you?”
“No.”
Evander shook his head, rubbing his palms against his thighs.
Viktor set down his pen. He knew that look—the painful stare of a man surrendering what he once held dear. He nodded once—brother to brother—and Evander began.
“I’ve… known Amerei a long time. Since we were twelve.”
Viktor said nothing, just waited.
“When we were fifteen,” Evander went on, “I asked the queen to make me her man-at-arms.” A humorless laugh escaped him. “And she said yes. I couldn’t believe it. After that, I went everywhere with her—every visit to this house, to Fort Sevrak, to Irongate. I never left her side.”
He paused, voice softening.
“When she can’t sleep, she reads. Never finishes her tea—always lets it go cold.” His mouth curved despite himself. “Sometimes she sings. Not loudly. Just under her breath, when she thinks no one hears. It’s… beautiful.”
Viktor smiled faintly.
Evander swallowed.
“Every year, on the day her mother died, she walks to the sea alone. Just sits there for hours, talking to her like she’s still listening.”
His shoulders lifted in a helpless shrug.
“I just… thought you should know.”
The ink beside Evander’s name blurred as Viktor blinked hard. He looked up, voice low but steady.
“Thank you. For standing by her. For loving her in the ways I couldn’t. You’re the brother she never had—and nothing will change that.”
Evander exhaled, half-laugh, half-relief. Viktor tapped the codex.
“Your name’s here now. We live or die together. What you’ve given her, I’ll carry.”
A smile ghosted across Evander’s face. He stood, clasping Viktor’s arm.
“Then don’t you dare hurt her.”
Viktor’s grin was gruff but warm.
“Do you threaten a High-Captain?”
“Yes,” Evander said flatly.
Viktor pulled him into a quick, rough hug.
“We’ve come a long way since you jumped me at Hythe’s Gap.”
Evander snorted.
“I should’ve known she was going to bring you home. Like all the other stray animals she snuck into the castle.”
“Get out of here, Lieutenant,” Viktor laughed, shoving him toward the door.
A voice cut from the hall before Evander could reply.
“The Midnight has arrived. Apothecary, now.”
Storne’s shadow moved past the doorway without pausing.
Viktor gathered his mantle, rolling his shoulders beneath the weight of command, the weight of the name The Midnight.
A gentle sound caught him just as he entered the corridor.
“Viktor…”
He turned.
Amerei stood in her doorway, robe loose, hair falling into her eyes. Her voice was silk and tremor.
Duty clawed at him—Storne’s orders, The Midnight’s arrival, the promise of answers—but her voice stopped him cold. One word from her and the heaviness of war bent to the gentleness of her eyes.
He strode to her, brushing stray strands from her face.
“I was told I’m not allowed to bother you,” he murmured, grin tugging at his lips.
Her eyes gleamed. “Then you’d better have a good reason.”
She rose onto her toes, pulling him into a kiss that stripped every thought of war from his mind.
For a heartbeat he let himself drown in her warmth, her whisper breaking against his lips: “You still want to do this, don’t you?”
“Amerei.” His laugh came rough, unsteady. “I’ve run across deserts, fought until my hands bled—but nothing has undone me like waiting for tonight.”
Her smile deepened, her next kiss slower, pulling him down with her.
He broke it—barely—his hands still lingering at her waist.
“I’m sorry. I have to go.”
Her brow knit. “Oh?”
“Your father sent for me. The Midnight has just arrived.”
A shadow crossed her face, her hands falling from his mantle. “So soon?”
“I’ll find you after,” he promised, brushing his thumb across her cheek even as he drew back.
“See that you do,” she whispered, the faintest ache behind the words.
He should have kissed her goodbye, sealed the promise with his lips—but the burden of command dragged him onward.
He turned, mantle snapping as he strode away.
Her silence followed him down the corridor—louder than any footsteps ever could.