Chapter Sixty-Five
Before the Garden
The realm could burn, the armies could fall—but she was waiting in the garden, and he was ready.
The sun slipped low, casting her molten glow over the jewel of Fyreglade. Castle towers gleamed, banners stirred, and even the air itself seemed to quiver with anticipation. Servants darted between cottages, whispering—asking if it was safe to emerge, if the hour had finally come.
Viktor’s gaze flicked toward Storne, who spoke as if the moment had already been declared. “The apothecary, at once.”
The servants brightened, smiles breaking wide.
At the archway gate atop the hill, Matteo stood waiting.
Storne rode ahead, calling, “Gather your men and mount up.”
Viktor huffed a laugh beneath his breath.
Matteo has no idea what waits at the bottom of this cliff.
He looked down the winding stone path, catching the glint of chariots and the thunder of boots below. A strange ache welled in him—distance. The kind born the moment a man stepped into what he was: a Ruakite.
Would he ever again be tasked as a simple soldier? Would he ever wield only sword and rank? His Endowment was never meant to war with men, yet the soldier’s life had shaped his every breath.
Half man.
Half myth.
And half irritated that nothing could ever be simple again.
Yet even his humanity reached for more. Somewhere upon this estate, his bride awaited him—the Princess of Casqadia. He remembered what Storne had told Ivan: in time, Amerei could name him Prince Consort.
The thought made his mouth curve crooked.
Him—an Aerdanian lad—sitting at tables with kings. The absurdity nearly outweighed the terror.
“Our mother smiles on this day,” The Midnight whispered.
Viktor exhaled, eyes brightening.
“Our mother…”
For one stolen moment, the truth of where she dwelled no longer mattered.
Someday, they would know. Together.
“Will you stay with me awhile?” he asked quietly. “You’re all the kin I have today.”
“Brother,” The Midnight laughed, bright as wind through snowfall. “I’m here.”
Viktor straightened in the saddle, scanning the air as though he might actually glimpse him lingering nearby.
“Can I come to you?”
“You shouldn’t.”
“Why?”
Silence, then:
“I’m with your bride.”
The words steadied Viktor, touched his heart like balm.
“Take care of her until I get there.”
“I will.”
Viktor swung down from Ruby, patting her neck as he led her toward the stable. At the gate, Gabriel leaned against a pillar—lazy as sin, sharp as glass.
“Where’d you run off to, High-Captain?” he jabbed.
“I should ask the same of you.” Viktor tilted his head. “Where’ve you been all day?”
Gabriel grinned. “I have something for you.”
He bowed as Storne passed, already leading Matteo toward the armory.
“You’d best be off to the apothecary,” Gabriel nudged Viktor. “Or it won’t matter where I’ve been.”
They climbed the stairs together.
“Although…” Gabriel stretched, casual as ever. “Can’t say I’d mind if your bed stayed cold as mine tonight.”
Viktor grunted, pushing open the massive iron door.
“You wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had.”
“I heard,” Gabriel said quietly. “About The Midnight.”
Viktor only nodded.
“Will you tell your father?” Gabriel asked.
Dask. He hadn’t even considered it.
How would Issachar react, knowing his other son lived? And would The Midnight even want it known?
“I’ll let the boy decide,” Viktor said at last.
The silence between them was answer enough.
“And your Endowment?” Gabriel pressed. “Not to mention the small fact you’re marrying a princess.”
Viktor sighed through his nose. “Always straight to the point, aren’t you?”
He raked a hand through his hair. The last time he’d left home, it was on a scouting mission for Zeporah. Now—everything had changed. Too much to capture in any letter.
“I’ll tell him when I see him again.”
…whenever that may be.
Gabriel followed him into his chamber, kicked out a chair, and lounged.
“You met with Ivan this morning?”
Viktor stripped off his tunic, tossing it aside with a scowl.
“You won’t grant me a moment’s peace, will you? Dask,” he muttered with a smirk, “you never fecking do.”
Gabriel raised both hands in mock innocence.
“The stage is set for the southern front,” Viktor explained, rifling through the wardrobe.
“Ballistae to the north, Sagittarii of Vykenra if we can win them. You’ll need to join them—Ruakite elves led them in the Bloodforge.”
Gabriel scoffed. “They’ll welcome me after I refused my father’s place?”
“They will,” Viktor said, grinning faintly. “If they want your power through their ranks.”
“Ashes and storm…”
Gabriel turned toward the window, brow knit tight.
“At what point do we stop playing sentries for Amerei and start defending the fort?”
Viktor shot him a glare—fair warning.
Gabriel held up a hand. “Sorry. I won’t pretend to know your plight.”
Viktor braced a palm against the wardrobe, head bowed.
How long before war called him again? Where would Amerei be sent? Not Fyreglade—not this unguarded jewel. Leolis had proved its walls too porous. Where then could she go?
He growled low, slamming the wardrobe doors.
“The feck am I supposed to wear?”
“For the wedding?” Gabriel blinked.
“Yes. My uniform?”
“You think I’d know?”
“More likely than I would, Lord Feindoran.”
“Come now,” Gabriel teased. “No time for cursing.”
Viktor buried his face in his hands.
“An elf is meant to braid my hair.”
“That’s it. I’m out.”
“Dask—don’t leave me.”
Of course, that was when someone knocked.
Gabriel opened the door.
Juliet entered, a silver-trimmed tunic draped over her arm.
“I thought you might need my help,” she said, smiling up at Viktor.
Her gaze rose slowly to Gabriel. “You are very tall.”
He bowed. “My lady.”
Viktor received the tunic with a reluctant nod. “Thank you.”
Juliet studied him with a grandmother’s scrutiny.
“Bathe. Rid your face of—” she tapped her jaw, unimpressed. “It’s enough I must look at my own son’s beard…”
Viktor laughed under his breath, half-amused, half-defeated.
“I’ll return to braid your hair,” she said, already starting for the door.
“Do well,” she added. “My granddaughter looks like a celestial goddess.”
“Of that I’m sure,” Viktor muttered—too loud.
The door clicked shut.
He tore off his boots, grumbling, “Dask, I’d better hurry.”
“Here.” Gabriel gathered his scabbards and belt.
“Thank you.”
Viktor strode straight to the bath.
The lye smelled of cypress. She’ll like that, he thought.
He unbraided his hair, washed the dust of war from it, shaved his jaw clean. At the copper mirror he called the Endowment, drawing water from his hair until it hung dry.
“Ready,” he said, lacing his black leather trousers.
Gabriel rose. “I’ll fetch Juliet.”
He hurried out.
Viktor smoothed the silver-edged tunic.
“They don’t make these back home,” he said, as though the shirt had personally offended him. Still, he slipped it on.
Juliet returned, motioning him to sit. “Tell me, where is home?”
“Westport,” he said shortly, though his eyes softened. “Aerdania.”
Gabriel reappeared, perching again on the bed.
“I know that village,” Juliet hummed, weaving strands at his temple.
“I see it—you and your twin, climbing the hanging oaks like little devils.”
Viktor’s eyes shot to Gabriel.
His voice cracked.
“Did Amerei tell you I had a twin?”
“No,” Juliet said softly. “Your mother did, before you were born.”
Viktor’s throat tightened.
“They’re both gone, my lady. Momma and Adamar.”
Juliet’s hands stilled. She laid them gently on his shoulders. His breath hitched, caught between grief and grace.
“My darling,” she whispered gently at his ear. “You never should have lost so much.”
Her touch steadied his chin.
“Your mother’s smile—Viktor, you have her eyes. And your brother… he was born first, yes? Named for your grandfather.”
Viktor’s voice dropped low.
“He beat me to the light by minutes. Never let me forget he was older.”
“Then I shan’t either,” she winked, tying off the braid.
He drew a long, slow breath. Juliet saw his mother’s face in his, and he could feel the weight of that truth. Her hands—hands that might once have felt him kick within his mother’s belly—smoothed his hair one last time.
She kissed his crown. “Off with you now. You’re ready.”
Viktor smiled faintly, watching her leave.
“Let’s go,” he said to Gabriel.
But Gabriel lifted a hand. “I have something for you.”
He slipped two chains into Viktor’s palm. Onyx-dark rings fell—sapphire and amber glinting in the firelight.
“You forged—” Viktor faltered, eyes wide.
Gabriel’s smile was quiet, proud.
“I set them on chains so you can wear them close. Until the world knows.”
The rings gleamed like sunlight shattered on sea. Viktor traced the larger band with his thumb, heart pounding.
“You’re a better friend than I deserve,” he said gruffly, meeting Gabriel’s eyes.
“Layaran, o valen.”
(Thank you, brother.)
Gabriel tipped his head toward the door.
“Best get you to the apothecary—before the princess comes to her senses.”
“Right.”
The word left Viktor in a hurry, laughter chasing it.
His bride was waiting for him in the garden.
And at last, he was ready.