Chapter Fifty-Nine
Storm and Vow
The storm and the vow were one, and both belonged to her.
Saecily touched Viktor’s shoulder, her voice cautious, steady.
“Viktor… I have something that can help you.”
He turned.
She reached high to the shelf until Storne’s hand joined hers, pulling down a vial. Its contents shimmered like stormlight, catching the dim glow of the cottage. She cradled it as though it might shatter, one hand at its base, the other firm on the cork.
“This will show you the past more clearly,” she explained. “Who you were… before you were even named.”
Viktor took it, his scarred hands unsteady as the light shifted within.
“You’ll drink it before sleep,” Saecily instructed—then shook her head. “But not tonight.”
“…Why not?”
He tilted the vial, watching the liquid slide, the glow shifting like lightning through glass.
“Because tonight, High-Captain… is your wedding night.”
Her lips curved, wry and knowing.
“And no one needs to walk with the ancestors while lying with his bride.”
She turned toward Storne.
“Masten—leave us.”
Storne grunted, clapped Viktor once on the shoulder, and said, “Return to my chambers when she lets you go.”
“Yes, Commander.”
Viktor bowed his head until the door shut behind him.
Saecily rummaged through her basket, then caught Viktor’s hand and pressed a small sachet into his palm.
“And this,” she said briskly, “is siring-cease. Chew it before tonight… unless you’re ready to sire an heir.”
Viktor frowned at the bundle, jaw flexing.
“Dask, elves think of everything.”
His mouth curved—not quite a smile.
“Back home, we don’t have such things.”
Saecily folded his fingers around it firmly.
“Well, you do now. And you’ll use it. For her sake as much as yours.”
Viktor tore the pouch open with his teeth and bit down on the herb. The bitterness scorched his tongue—anise, lemongrass, sharp and awful. He grimaced, swallowing hard.
“Good.” Saecily turned back to her basket. Her eyes glinted as she added, “Someone’s got to teach her.”
Viktor froze. “Teach her?”
Saecily arched a brow.
“Amerei once told me she thought bedding a man was like… breaking a horse.”
He nearly choked.
“Storm take me. A horse?”
His hand dragged over his face.
“Stars help her.”
Saecily’s mouth curved sly.
“Stars help you.”
Still grinning, she led him to a quiet, book-lined corner at the back of the cottage. A table waited—parchment, quill, and ink laid out in order.
“If you can set it all aside,” Saecily said softly, “I ask you to write your vows.”
Viktor lowered into the chair, still tasting the bitterness of the siring-cease. His jaw tightened, mind whirling.
He buried his face in his hands—she thinks it’s like riding a horse. He cursed under his breath, then straightened, storm burning low in his blood.
The quill lay heavy in his grasp when he reached for it, ink pooling dark at its tip. Something simple. Something sacred. He bent to the page—storm and vow and her name already written inside him.
“Amerei…”
Her name left him in a whisper, as if she were standing there before him.
“You don’t see it yet—” his voice caught, a reverent ache— “I’m the one undone.”
His hand steadied, ink sweeping across the parchment.
“You are the vow I’ve been waiting all my life to make.”