Chapter Sixty-One
Gate of Fire
She was a gate of fire, ready to open—yet war demanded him first.
Amerei loosened the sash of her robe and let it fall from her shoulders, pooling at her feet. One hand found the wall for balance as she stepped carefully into the waiting tub. Heat rose to meet her, wrapping her like a velvet cloak, rising to her chest, her knees, her breath.
From beyond the door came the hush of footsteps. Then light flickered through the dim as Juliet and Sylvie entered, each bearing a candle whose flames trembled like watchful stars.
Juliet knelt behind her, steady as ever, sweeping Amerei’s hair back with a mother’s care.
“Your children…” her voice was quiet, solemn, “…will be more human than elven. But our traditions must not die on this night.”
Sylvie dipped a pitcher into the bath, water lapping soft against Amerei’s skin, and passed it to Juliet. From her apron she drew a small linen sachet, its fragrance already rising.
“Rosenfire,” she murmured. “The same your mother used on her wedding night.”
She loosened the bag and scattered its petals into the steaming water. Their warmth unfurled into the air, filling the chamber with the hush of rosebuds.
Juliet poured the water slow over Amerei’s head, each rivulet tracing down her skin like a blessing. Sylvie followed with a vial of oil, the sheen of it gliding through Amerei’s hair. Juliet twisted the golden strands tenderly, laying them over her shoulder.
A sigh slipped from Amerei’s lips, her body softening into the water at last.
Sylvie uncorked each vial on the silver tray, and Juliet named them as they spilled into the water:
“Laurel, for endurance.
Lavender, for calm.
Salt, for tears made strength.
Moonblossom” —her laugh softened, wistful— “for him.”
Steam curled upward.
Amerei leaned closer, lips parted as if to speak, but the words trembled at the edge of her throat. At last, a breath-thin question slipped free.
“Will it hurt?”
…as though shaping the fear aloud might bind it true.
Juliet bent to press a kiss to her crown.
“Remember what I told you, darling. You are not a vessel to be filled. You are a gate—of fire, of grace. You do not brace against him. You meet him.”
Amerei exhaled, the words sinking into her like the water’s heat, loosening the last of her tension.
“When the hour comes,” Juliet whispered, her voice as soft as the rising steam, “breathe. He will press into you. It may ache, but the ache will fade.”
Gentle fingers brushed her brow.
“Let him in. Let him love you.”
Let him love you.
The phrase sank deeper than the bathwater, deeper than the warmth on her skin. For one breathless moment Amerei let herself imagine it—the weight of Viktor’s hands steady at her waist, his mouth breaking against her name, his breath tangled with hers like prayer.
Viktor’s kiss was fire beneath embers—soft at the surface, searing beneath. Every time her lips touched his, something in her reached for the storm inside him—and longed to be struck.
He would be gentle. He always was, even when hunger drove him near to breaking. He waited when she trembled. He held her as if he would never let go.
“Breathe with him,” Juliet whispered, pouring warm water over her shoulders. “You are safe.”
Safe.
The word unfurled in Amerei’s chest like light.
Her fear had never truly been of him. It was of being seen—of being known. Of trusting he would stay. Of believing he meant every vow.
“I will break the gates of Elysium to be with you.”
He had suffered so much in the Vykenraven. War loomed like a storm on the horizon. Yet when he looked at her, nothing else existed.
In his eyes, she was more than a princess, more than a commander’s daughter. She had known it the moment she first saw him in the forest, when his breath caught as though he’d glimpsed something rare.
And when her hands brushed his, mending the net by the riverbank, he had not pulled away. He had stayed—bravely breaking every oath he had sworn to keep.
He loved her, even if she was his undoing. He loved her.
And she believed it now—utterly, wholly—as if she had surfaced after drowning and filled her lungs with the first true breath of her life.
No fear remained. Only the pull to draw him close, to hold him fast, to never let him go.
Her spine lifted above the water, her pulse quickening until it ached. She was ready—to be brave, to be seen, to be known. Ready to open herself. Ready to belong wholly to him.
Sylvie lifted a towel, the linen open like an embrace. Amerei rose, taking Juliet’s hand as Sylvie wrapped her in its heavy warmth. A smaller towel pressed to her hair, drawing the last beads of water from her temples.
Juliet unhooked a robe of deep purple silk from the wall, slipping it over Amerei’s shoulder.
“Come,” she said, her grin soft and secret. “See what I’ve brought from home.”
Amerei’s lips curved into a smile, luminous. It was no longer the smile of a girl, but of a woman reaching toward the life—and the man—she had chosen.
She followed her grandmother into the next room, legs folding beneath her as she sat on the bed’s edge. Behind her, Sylvie moved like quiet grace, opening the wardrobe, draping fabric like starlight across the chamber.
“One of my ladies is a dressmaker,” Juliet said softly. “She has sewn gowns for every height of elven nobility. I had her make this for you when you turned sixteen.” Her hand lingered on the dress. “It has been waiting for you ever since.”
The fabric caught the glow of the orbs above—silken, luminous, pure as moonlight. White as breath on snow.
Thin straps crowned the shoulders, delicate as starlight. Beads shimmered along each seam, every stitch glimmering like constellations. The bodice curved with quiet boldness, sculpted to the shape of her, dipping low at her hips as if to whisper of the woman she had become.
It was elegant.
It was daring.
It was hers.
Amerei’s breath caught. “It’s—”
“Made for you,” Juliet murmured, bringing the gown closer and laying it gently across the bed, as if unveiling more than fabric—as if unveiling Amerei herself.
Amerei touched the gown delicately, her fingertips lingering on the cool silk.
“I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Juliet’s smile flickered into a wink.
“Neither has he.”
Heat crept into Amerei’s cheeks. She let her hand fall to the bodice, tracing the dip of the seam, and for a heartbeat she imagined Viktor’s hand there instead—steady, reverent, claiming her as if she were both crown and ruin. Her breath stilled.
“It’s beautiful, Líri,” she whispered, brushing her fingers lightly over Juliet’s sleeve, needing the anchor.
Juliet tipped her chin up to look at her, a glint of mischief in her eyes.
“Then let’s make sure the boy weeps.”
Amerei’s lips curved as though she could already see it: his ice-bright eyes lifting, that first sharp breath, the way silence would break on his lips when he saw her.
A knock came at the door.
The vision shattered, spilling into reality.
Sylvie bowed as she returned. “High-Captain Seraphim is here.”
Amerei froze, helpless eyes darting to Juliet—who already wore a frown.
“Líri…” Amerei pleaded, her voice barely steady.
“Let him come. We can—” she sprang to her feet, fishing a scarf from the basket “—put this over his eyes.”
Juliet narrowed her stare.
“He doesn’t need eyes to see. He can feel every inch of this room.”
“He won’t,” Amerei said gently, holding the scarf out like an offering. “Not if you ask him not to.”
Please, Líri.
Juliet sighed, taking the scarf from Amerei and handing it to Sylvie.
“Put this on him. He goes no farther than the study.”
“Yes, my lady.” Sylvie slipped through the archway.
Amerei moved to follow, but Juliet caught her shoulder.
“Let me see him first.”
Amerei stepped back, though her heart leaned forward.
Then he came.
A soft, helpless sound escaped her lips as Viktor entered. He was still in his black uniform, the mantle thrown over one shoulder like a lion’s mane. The silken purple blindfold cut a striking line across his face, tied firm and proud.
Sylvie guided him to the center of the room. He whispered something that made her laugh as she stepped away, their ease together spilling between them like a secret.
Amerei’s pulse quickened. Every nerve in her body ached to go to him.
Juliet moved first, circling him like a hawk.
“High-Captain Seraphim.”
Her tone was cool, assessing.
“You’re taller than I expected.”
“My lady.” Viktor bowed, the motion graceful even blindfolded. A smile touched his mouth—and it didn’t falter.
Juliet tilted her head.
“Tell me—why do you wear your hair so long?”
“To protect me when I run—”
“You run?”
“Yes, my lady… as a scout.”
Juliet narrowed her gaze, studying him as though weighing his soul.
“Unusual use of your Endowment.”
“I only learned of it a few days ago.”
“No…”
Her eyes flicked to Amerei, then back.
She lowered her voice.
“When did it first come to you?”
Viktor drew a slow breath.
Truth left him with the exhale.
“Ten years ago.”
By the stars…
Juliet turned to Amerei.
“A Ruakite lives in silence—until fate demands the flame. Your betrothed has suffered long, Amerei, but suffering has not broken him. He is stronger than he knows.”
The pull between them surged. Amerei felt it in her chest, in her blood, the ache to step into him, to claim the fire she knew was hers.
But still she waited. Juliet’s blessing mattered.
She was the bridge between their worlds—the only mother Amerei had known, the only woman before her to have loved a Ruakite.
Juliet lifted her chin toward Viktor.
“Send fire.”
He raised his hands, palms opening like an offering. Flame leapt to life, flickering between them.
“Send the wind to find your betrothed,” she ordered.
“Ten paces to my right.”
Juliet smiled, stepping toward the window.
“Stir the sky,” she said. “Drop lightning on the eastern cliff.”
Líri?
Viktor hesitated.
His lips parted, but no words followed.
Juliet’s tone gentled. “You are indeed new to this.” She touched his arm. “I look forward to watching you grow.”
She turned at that, hand to the doorknob, and added, “Have an elf braid your hair before the handfast. You make a fair effort—but it must be tighter on the sides.”
“I will, my lady.”
She inclined her head, pulling the door open. “The blindfold stays on.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Amerei answered quickly.
She waited until the door shut fully, silence settling around them—
She flew into Viktor’s arms.
His lips claimed hers in a single breath, heat surging through her as he pulled her against him. He smelled of leather, of cypress and cedar, of flame. The familiar wildness of him wrapped around her, steadying her as much as it unraveled her.
Her hands fisted in his braids, strands falling like midnight across her fingers. She wanted to pull harder, to feel the weight of him resist her, to know the strength that could crush armies yet bent so carefully for her.
She pressed her mouth to his jaw, to the curve of his throat. His stubble rasped against her lips, startling and thrilling all at once. He was so solid—so real—that she almost laughed for the ache of it.
“I thought you’d never come,” she breathed, the words catching on his skin.
“I’m here.”
The silken robe scrunched beneath his hands as he drew her closer. His warmth wrapped around her like a cloak, his heartbeat steady beneath his woolen mantle.
“Dask, you smell so good,” he whispered.
She giggled, helpless, the sound rising like a secret she’d never shared with anyone else.
Moonblossom. Líri was right.
“I’m sorry I left so suddenly,” he said, reaching blindly for her cheek, his touch careful, almost trembling.
“You’ve nothing to be sorry for.” She caught his hand, pressed it to her mouth, and kissed his palm. “Father told me.”
His breath faltered, lips parting, though no sound came.
“I see it now…” She threaded her fingers through his hair again, slower this time, like memorizing him. “The Midnight looks just like his older brother.”
Viktor sighed into a smile, and for the first time she felt the storm inside him ease.
“You must be starved,” she murmured.
She didn’t know why she said it, only that caring for him felt as necessary as air—like loving him had already rewoven the rhythm of her heart.
“Evander brought me food, if you’d like some?”
“Thank you, love.” He kissed her temple. “Saecily made a barley and wild mushroom soup. She’s a dear woman.”
“She is.”
But the warmth in his tone cooled, dropping to a hush meant only for her.
“Are you nervous for our handfast?”
“Terribly,” she confessed, her laugh thin and trembling.
“Are you?”
“A little.” His head tilted toward the door, shoulders taut as if he weighed the whole world pressing against it. “About one thing, maybe.”
Her brows knit. “What is it?”
He hesitated—too long. Too careful.
She flattened both palms to his chest, feeling the thunder of his heartbeat beneath her hands.
“Viktor?”
His laugh broke out rough.
“Are we alone?”
“You know we are.”
“Dask, love—” His jaw flexed, as though the words resisted him.
“What is it?” she pressed, her heart skittering at his unease.
She might have spared him. She knew exactly where his question was leading. But the way he smiled beneath that blindfold—the dampness on his brow, the ache of restraint in his voice—made him utterly endearing.
He cleared his throat, voice rougher than he intended.
“Dask, I’m about to make a fool of myself… but I can’t keep it in any longer.”
“Viktor, my love,” she teased, lips curving, “just say it.”
He huffed, jaw tight beneath the blindfold.
“Does it fall to me as your husband… to teach you?”
“To teach me?”
“To ri—dask! Not ride. Not that.”
He groaned, tilting his head back against nothing, every muscle tense.
“Storms, Amerei, you’ll ruin me.”
She laughed softly into his throat, adoring the rawness in him.
“Líri spared you long ago.”
His grip on her waist tightened, half-frustrated, half-desperate.
“You might have said so.”
“You didn’t ask.”
“I—”
His mouth closed on the rest, lips pressed to silence, hunger burning through every line of him.
Footsteps stirred beyond the door.
“They’ve come to take me away,” he said, the words laced with feral reluctance.
Her fingers curled into his tunic.
“And if I don’t let you go?”
His voice fractured, a promise more dangerous than tender.
“Then—”
He turned his head sharply.
“Leolis approaches Fyreglade!” Evander’s shout split the hall.
Viktor ripped the blindfold from his eyes—
and ran for war.