Chapter Eighty-One
The Crossroads
The queen stood beside her husband—unashamed—together the only hope from the ashes.
The trees thinned as the road bent toward stone.
There was no smoke. No fire. Just the hollow stillness left in their wake.
Ash drifted in uneven layers, clinging to roots and broken carts, softening jagged remains. The air was brittle with char, each inhale scraping the throat, each exhale tasting of ruin. Splintered beams creaked faintly in the distance, the valley groaning like a wounded beast.
The hill rose ahead, its face scorched and shadowed. At its base, the elders stood waiting.
No one spoke. No one bowed.
They watched the riders approach, their eyes heavy, their shoulders aching. As if they had been standing there for hours. Or days.
Amerei’s gaze was fixed, not on the damage but on the people. Someone had to bear the torch of hope. It had to be her. It had to be now.
In front of her, Viktor said nothing.
He had known these roads. These knolls. This was not how he had imagined returning.
And above them, just out of sight, lay what was left of Silver Hills.
He traced three fingers over his brow, the sign of his people.
The elders nodded in acceptance.
He dismounted, still watching, guiding Amerei off the horse. His chest tightened when she took his hand.
“Amerei—”
“Trust me.”
She waved for Gabriel to follow.
The village elders first looked at Gabriel—a strange elf in the Aerdanian capital—then to Amerei and Viktor.
Amerei drew in a slow breath, the weight of the moment pressing sharp beneath her ribs. She hadn’t planned to speak like royalty. But here, before the people Zeporah’s crown had abandoned, she knew—
They needed a queen.
“Peace be with you,” she began, her voice a balm against the ruin. “I have seen your loss, and I will not look away. Casqadia stands with Aerdania. Your hills, your waters, your fire live also in me—and in my vow, I will not forsake you.”
The elders never turned from her. Each one deepened their stare.
The woman among them called, “We needn’t wait for help that’s never coming. Casqadia forgot Aerdania long ago.”
A bearded man spoke next. “Her rural villages send help already—beneath the gaze of the wicked queen.”
Amerei stepped forward, confidence touching the corners of her lips.
“Zeporah’s hand shall be cut off in a fortnight. I am she who will restore your faith in Casqadia.”
The elders didn’t speak. They didn’t even move. Upon their faces, ash and grief. Upon the stillness, fear.
“Who are you?” the woman said lowly.
Amerei held tighter to Viktor’s hand, the strength of his arm her anchor.
“I am heiress to Casqadia’s crown. Once forgotten, now restored.”
She drew in a breath, truth rising from her exhale.
“Queen Amerei Zrynon Storne Seraphim. Friend of Aerdania, eternal.”
Viktor looked at her.
He hadn’t expected the name.
Not spoken aloud. Not there. Not then.
His name.
The name of his father.
The name he thought she’d never say.
But she stood before the ruins of his people—unshaking, unblinking—and claimed it like a sword drawn in the light.
The woman’s lips parted in a broken gasp. She drew three fingers over her brow. “Seraphim…”
Before Amerei could say a word, Viktor raised his voice.
“Vek Seraphim. Vek dran. Kira velk.”
(I am Seraphim. I am yours. She is mine.)
The sound cut through the air like stone splitting beneath fire.
One of the elders inhaled sharply.
Another murmured, “He speaks the old tongue.”
The bearded man drew his cloak tighter to his chest. His every word was as sharp as the rapiers at his side.
“Dar vek tornak?”
(Who is your father?)
Viktor answered, “Issachar.”
The man studied him a moment, his eyes narrowing.
“I am Tarnic. This is Marith.”
He gestured to the woman. Then he nodded once.
“Come, Vek’torn Issachar. Korr sal ven’dara.”
(Come, son of Issachar. Bring the lightbound queen.)
He looked to Gabriel, the slightest smirk upon his lips.
“…vek taldros ven’kurn.”
(…and the walking tree.)
Gabriel didn’t need Viktor to translate. He just tucked his arms behind his back and followed. Happy to have been accepted by a people who feared his kind.
Amerei spoke to all as they walked up the hillside.
“I will dispatch the crown prince of Elváliev at once.”
“We welcome the help of the elves,” Marith said softly. “Thank you for your kindness.”
They drew closer to the crest of the hill. Every breath held. Every step laden.
Viktor’s fingers found Amerei’s ring. He held her hand tighter.
“I’m here, Tory,” she whispered. Only he could hear.
The valley opened.
The hill across the way, scarred with ash. Deep, black gouges cut into the grassy face.
Then they saw the city—Aerdania’s only true city—gutted, ripped from the safety of the knolls surrounding.
Silver Hills.
There was no cry of gulls. No smoke on the wind.
Only emptiness, the kind that haunted places where song and laughter used to live.
They stepped to the edge and stopped.
What had once been the market square was now a scatter of broken stone and crooked signposts.
Roofs were gone, but some walls still stood, cracked and leaning, as if still protecting something.
The fountain at the center was blackened, but still whole.
Water trickled weakly from its spout—as if it, too, refused to stop.
There were no bodies.
But there were shadows of lives.
And somehow—
that felt worse.
Viktor stood still. As if he were waiting for something. Anything.
Tarnic murmured, “They came without warning. Before first light. Before anyone could fight. Could run.”
Amerei closed her eyes, tears breaking down her cheeks—a child’s red cloak lay folded on a stoop, untouched by wind.
Viktor looked up at the sky. Smoke clung to the clouds. Hazy streams of sunlight.
His mind churned, tormented. How had it come to this? Where were the voices crying warning, the shadows that should have stirred? He searched the sky for answers and found none—only smoke-dimmed light and the bitter taste of blame searing his tongue.
The Midnight, gifted to see, knew too late.
And he, Endowed to fight, didn’t know at all.
His eyes slammed shut, chest swelling beneath his leather cuirass.
Heat rose under his armor, fire stoked by grief. Wind curled tight around him, as if bracing for war. His words came slowly. As if he were stepping out in the void.
“I will avenge our people.”
He opened his eyes.
“I am Vek drakar ven’dros.”
(I am the one who walks into fire… and lives.)
“Ruakite.”
A hush fell over the elders.
One by one they turned to look at him.
His Endowment burned beneath his heart. Rising with every breath.
He saw it.
The ambush.
The way the dragons split the sky.
Suddenly, the valley was a battlefield. Viktor—flanked by ballistae. The Sagittarii of Vykenra behind him. Dragons would come, two at a time. One for him. One for the archers. His sword, the wind, the fire. Tearing wings. Shredding scales.
No dragon would cross the threshold of the desert.
He swore it.
Not one.
“You are a Ruakite, Vek-torn Issachar?”
Viktor’s eyes glowed, ice-blue fire.
Marith grasped his hand.
“Come,” she called with urgency. “You must come. The wounded need you.”
He let go of Amerei and followed the woman down the hillside. Once they’d reached the horses, she took Ruby by the reins.
“Make haste to Westport.” Her weary eyes widened. “You can heal them, Vek-torn Issachar.” She folded the reins into his hand. “You must.”
Viktor glanced back at Amerei, his hands finding the pack across his chest. A jar of lachlaren from Saecily, a smaller jar from the Kryonites. Would he have enough?
Amerei nodded and he answered, “I will go.”
The woman touched his arm and pointed, “The monks prepared a place on the east end of the monastery. You’ll find them there.”
Amerei mounted Obsidian, guiding him onto the path. Gabriel followed close behind.
“Whatever he needs,” she murmured, “we will do.”
“Of course.”
The elders gathered around Viktor as he pulled himself into the saddle.
“Hurry, Ruakite,” one said.
Another: “Go with strength. Go with fire.”
He urged Ruby onto the path, leaving the elders on the hill.
He clutched the jars to his chest. Their glass was cool, the contents pressing solid against the clay. Not just medicine—judgment of how many he could save, how many he could not. The weight crushed against him.
“I won’t have enough to heal them all,” he whispered to The Midnight.
The seer’s voice dropped deathly low.
“You do not yet realize how few survived.”