Chapter Seventy-Eight
And He Was Gone
To love him was to trust he’d come back. Even from ashes. Even from war.
Amerei awoke to silence.
The wrong kind of silence.
The bedsheets were crumpled on his side. His belt splayed open on the mattress. Knives glinted in the moonlight.
She pulled the blankets to her chest and sat upright.
“Viktor?”
He stood at the window. Boots in hand. Hair already tied back. Eyes fixed on the world below.
“Something’s wrong,” he said, dread roughening his voice.
Amerei threw aside the blanket and climbed out of bed. He didn’t look at her. Just opened an arm to hold her close, as though bracing her for the blow.
Gathered on the stone path below were three scouts.
All pacing. All gasping for air. One—was he weeping?
“Stay here,” Viktor ordered, voice low but commanding, already dragging on his boots.
Amerei reached behind him for her robe on the wall.
“I’m coming with you.”
“It could be dangerous, Amerei,” he said, buckling his belt with hands that moved fast but deliberate—protective instinct in every motion.
She tied her sash, then caught his arm.
“Then I won’t leave your side.”
He hesitated. His brows furrowed tight, eyes shadowed with a fear he tried to bury.
“Don’t,” he said, voice raw, “leave my side.”
She squeezed his hand.
As they neared the threshold, they heard stirring in the castle. Doors thrown open. Boots thundering stairs. A cry broke from the foyer.
Viktor went first, shoving open the door.
Heard from down the hall:
“Glaston, gone. Briar’s Keep, gone. Silver Hills still burning.”
He staggered for half a step, shock blanching his face at the names—
villages from his homeland.
His lungs seized, chest hollowing.
Then, jaw locked hard, he lengthened his stride.
Amerei never let go of his hand.
They could hear Gabriel from inside Storne’s chamber.
“Aerdania swears allegiance to no one. Why would she summon dragons there?”
Footsteps pounded above. A woman sobbed somewhere below.
Storne’s door was open.
“Viktor—”
The commander’s voice cracked in a way Amerei had never heard.
Viktor halted, dread weighing on him like a blade at his throat. The air felt thick, heavy with the certainty that what came next would cut him open.
“What,” he said, so low it rasped, “happened?”
“Sit down, Viktor.”
“No.”
He stepped into the room, each movement taut with fear barely leashed.
“Tell me what’s going on.”
Gabriel dragged his hands down his face, curses spilling through his fingers.
Amerei stood behind Viktor, holding his arms, anchoring him the only way she could.
Storne edged toward his chair, then collapsed into it. He leaned over his desk, palm flattening against a folded letter.
“The villages of north Aerdania,” he began, “were attacked without warning. They came at first light yesterday. Dropping boulders. Setting homes ablaze. Killing anything that moved.”
Amerei tightened her grip on Viktor.
Storne stared at the letter, like he didn’t want to read it again. Like he didn’t need to.
“Halyon’s already deployed troops to Silver Hills, but it could be days before the elves send aid.”
Amerei pressed closer.
She could feel Viktor’s body harden, every muscle locking, his pulse hammering in his wrists.
He flinched when he finally said the name:
“Westport.”
Gabriel looked at Amerei. Eyes wide. Words withheld.
Storne fell silent.
Viktor broke.
“Westport, Storne. Tell me.”
The commander shook his head.
“We don’t know yet, Viktor.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
Viktor surged forward, voice cracking like it might break apart.
And Amerei’s hands hovered where he’d been.
Storne held up the letter.
“Scouts got word out as quickly as they could, Viktor. I’ll send my own—”
“No.”
Viktor snapped, indignation blazing through the grief.
“They won’t be fast enough.”
Storne met Amerei’s gaze.
He knew before she did.
“I’m going.”
Viktor turned on his heel, eyes heavy with desperation.
“High-Captain,” Storne ordered. “You will not.”
“My father is there.”
Viktor’s voice broke, raw and jagged.
“Alone. Sick—”
Then, louder, torn from his chest:
“And you’re telling me he could be dead.”
Storne stood, grief in his brow, iron in his stare.
“You are ordered to stay on this estate.”
Viktor pulled back, chest rising like a man drowning.
“Not if the queen permits me to go.”
He didn’t even look at Amerei.
Maybe he couldn’t. Not yet.
He brushed past her, out the door. His footsteps hammered the hall like war drums.
Amerei looked to Storne, but he was already nodding to Gabriel.
“Convince him to stay,” Storne commanded.
Not as a captain. Not as a soldier.
As the only one who might still reach Viktor.
“Yes, sir.”
Gabriel hurried out.
Amerei didn’t hesitate. She ran—barefoot, eyes burning.
“Gabriel,” she called.
But he didn’t stop.
Not until he reached their chamber door.
He clutched the knob, looked back at her. Knit his brow. Exhaled hard.
She didn’t know why—but she caught his hand.
And Gabriel didn’t let go.
“Viktor,” he called softly, the word carrying both plea and command, as he pushed open the door.
There.
Across the room.
High-Captain Viktor Seraphim.
Husband to the Queen of Casqadia.
Ruakite—Endowed.
Stripped of his mantle.
Tying on his scouting armor.
“Viktor,” Gabriel said again, louder this time.
Amerei clutched his hand tighter.
Viktor kicked off his boots. Forced on his runners. Yanked their binds tight across his feet.
“If I leave now, I’ll make Hythe’s Gap by dawn.”
“Viktor—”
“Halyon by first hour.”
“Viktor—”
“Westport by noon.”
“Viktor, listen to me—”
“I can’t,” he snapped, voice fraying at the edges.
“I have to—”
“Silen’ar, Tory!”
(Enough, Tory!)
Gabriel’s voice thundered through the room, cracking with fury and desperation.
Amerei’s chest clenched.
She looked up at him—but his eyes were locked on Viktor.
“Saryn o’re, Tory,” he said, voice firm, the weight of command.
(Look at her, Tory.)
He pulled Amerei closer to his side.
“Look at her and tell her. Tell her you’re going to leave her in the middle of the night. To run alone to a land that’s just been decimated.”
“I have to go—”
“Don’t tell me,” Gabriel ground out, guiding Amerei forward.
He placed his hands gently on her shoulders.
“Tell her.”
Viktor finally looked at her.
His eyes already rimmed red with grief. Breath sharp, shallow.
This man—he let her in.
Let her kiss the scars no one else saw.
Let his head rest on her chest, as if her heartbeat was the only sound that could quiet him.
She tried to hold onto that image.
Him—unguarded, trusting, hers.
But the silence had already taken his place.
And no matter how tightly she clung to it, it was only memory now.
Now he stood before her.
Hands still gripping the laces of his cuirass.
Feet bound and ready.
He dared not break the silence.
So she did.
She tore from Gabriel.
And Viktor shattered.
“Amerei…”
She gathered him into her arms.
His leather armor felt foreign against her skin—like holding a stranger she still knew by heart.
“I won’t stop you,” she whispered. “But I don’t understand.”
“I’ll come back,” he vowed.
His tears fell hot into her hair.
“I just need to find him. To know that he’s safe.”
She pulled back just enough to see his face. Her hands framed his jaw, brow pressed to his.
“Let me—”
But her words faltered.
She looked into his eyes and saw it—he had already gone.
And yet, as if she could still reach him, her lips trembled.
“I cannot bear to be apart from you.”
“Then I’ll run faster than I’ve ever dared.”
He closed his eyes and kissed her, fierce, desperate.
She didn’t ask him to promise again.
She didn’t ask him to stay.
She loved him—dask, she loved him—more than she feared letting him go.
“Take me with you,” Gabriel stepped into the light. “We’ll ride out at dawn.”
“Horses will slow me down,” Viktor cut in, already pulling away.
He looked at Amerei.
“I’ll come back to you. I swear it.”
He caught her face in both hands, desperate and shaking, as if he could burn the memory of her into his palms before he let go.
“Do you trust me?”
She had asked him that very thing before they left for Castle Amethyst.
Before she walked away with Xavien.
Before she entered the Senate Hall on the prince’s arm.
But Viktor wasn’t asking to court another woman.
Viktor was asking to go home.
“I trust you,” she said at last, heart shattering beneath her ribs.
“My love. My Tory.”
He smiled—barely. Just enough.
“Your Tory.”
He kissed her, relentless and searing.
And it felt final.
She stilled as she watched him walk away. Past the door to the bath where they’d made love.
He paused at the threshold of their bedroom.
“I love you, Amerei.”
The silence returned, heavy and absolute.
Then he was gone.