Chapter Eighty-Three
Dunes Way
“I will live. I will not die.”
They arrived.
A path that wound through hills of sand. Knee-high grasses. Trees bending in the sea-wind.
Gabriel led them, knowing the way by heart. He tied his horse to the hanging oak at the bottom of the hill, near a trough filled with rainwater.
“I hear the ocean,” Amerei murmured, turning west.
Afternoon sun kissed her brow. The salt air tangled her hair.
“Just beyond those trees,” Viktor said, pointing.
His father’s house rose on the hill above, watching the sea. Beneath it, a forest of oaks bowed low. Untouched. Untamed.
He held her hand as they walked the path. Stones weathered by waves, sand in every crevice, fragments of shell scattered underfoot.
Issachar’s house stood strong against the wind, cedar planks silvered by salt and time.
Its red clay tiles sloped gently, sunbaked and weatherworn.
The porch posts darkened with age, smoothed where hands had leaned for decades.
A wooden plaque arched above the door, driftwood carved with a single word: Seraphim.
Viktor touched the letters, his fingers tracing each groove.
Home.
The door creaked open.
“Father?” he called inside.
The kitchen table, hand-carved and sturdy, sat waiting, letters stacked in the corner.
A low fire smoldered in the hearth, an iron kettle swinging above it, fragrant with spice and salt.
Shelves crowded with jars of herbs and dried fish lined the walls.
The air carried warmth—woodsmoke, brine, barley.
Gabriel quietly closed the door.
Viktor crossed to the window and glimpsed the sea.
“Father?”
A folded net lay on the bench. He threaded it through his fingers.
“He must be down at the—”
A voice from the door: “Tory?”
Issachar stood there, cane beneath his arm. His skin was warmer than Viktor’s, his hair cropped silver to beard.
“Father…”
It wasn’t in the face—it was in the bearing, Issachar stepping forward and Viktor meeting him in kind. They embraced, and Amerei saw the likeness plain as day: two sons of Seraphim, rooted and enduring, as sturdy as the oaks that raised them.
“You’re home,” Issachar murmured, gripping Viktor’s arms.
He turned to Gabriel.
“And I see that one followed you out here.”
“He can’t get rid of me.”
Gabriel grinned, clasping Issachar’s arm, and was pulled into an embrace.
Issachar’s eyes found Amerei next, his smile playful.
“My dear, you must be lost to follow these two through the backcountry.”
She offered her hand, grinning. He took it, tugging her gently closer.
“If you’ve been kidnapped,” he whispered, “tell me. I’ve friends in Windmere who’d have them flogged.”
“Father,” Viktor began with a half-laugh, wrapping his arm around Amerei. “This is Amerei.”
Issachar’s gaze lingered on Viktor’s hand at her waist.
Both father and son drew in breath.
“My wife,” Viktor said at last.
Issachar’s brows rose as his gaze settled on Amerei.
“And you said yes?”
She smiled, and his gruff nod softened just enough.
“Then welcome home, daughter.”
He gestured her toward the table.
“Come, sit. Tell me everything.”
Gabriel dropped into a chair, head against the wall.
“For dask’s sake—not everything.”
Issachar eased into his seat.
“Ah,” he said, voice low but carrying. “Working fast to give me a grandchild already?”
Viktor smirked at Amerei, Gabriel groaning beside them.
“Here we go again…” he muttered.
Viktor only shook his head before moving to the kettle in the hearth.
“Try it,” Issachar called. “Tell me if it’s ready.”
Viktor dipped the spoon and tasted—stonefish stew, barley roasted, sea cabbage and black onion simmered in salt-ale, rich and warm. He nodded once. “Ready.”
He ladled bowls and set them on the table.
Issachar’s gaze lingered on Amerei.
“My dear—you are half-elven.”
“I am,” she said with a grin.
“Who are your parents?”
Gabriel nearly choked on his broth. Viktor reached, but Gabriel waved him off, rasping, “Just… wrong pipe.”
Amerei turned her bowl, her eyes steady, her voice carrying a quiet strength.
“My mother was Cassandra. My father, Masten Storne. I am their only child.”
Viktor froze.
Silence, sudden as tide gone out.
“Masten Storne of…”
“Elváliev.”
“Cassandra of—”
“Casqadia.”
Issachar held his breath.
“Cassandra of Casqadia.”
His gaze lingered on Amerei a moment longer, as if seeing her anew, then shifted back to Viktor. “Tory… a word.” To Amerei: “Forgive us.”
He pushed back from the table.
Viktor followed him through the front door.
Outside, the wind swept off the cliffs, tugging Issachar’s cloak, the sea below restless with foam. He leaned heavy on his cane, gaze lost in the horizon, as if searching for an answer there.
Viktor pulled the door closed.
And his father spoke, voice carved from the gale.
“You always did chase storms.”
“This one found me,” Viktor answered, the sea-wind threading through his words.
Issachar turned slowly, eyes gray as weathered stone.
“She’s the Princess of Casqadia?”
Viktor inclined his head.
“The elves just crowned her queen.”
Issachar’s stare held him.
“And you? You’re still my son?”
The words cut deep, stirring something long forgotten inside Viktor. He looked out to the tide, clouds sagging low, and knew—if his father lost him now, it would not be for her crown.
“Father…”
His throat tightened.
“Did Momma ever tell you of her gift?”
Issachar stilled, the gray in his gaze lifting.
“You are a seer, too?”
Viktor’s chest tightened. He knew.
“No, Father.”
He fixed on the dark sweep of waves.
“I am not a seer.”
Issachar’s arms dropped, fists tight at his sides. Silence gathered like stormclouds, fear simmering beneath the weight of grief.
Viktor closed his eyes—and the Endowment surged. When he opened them, fire rimmed blue.
“You are a Ruakite,” Issachar said immediately.
He stood unmoving, cedar firm beneath his feet, but his jaw clenched hard.
The fire behind Viktor’s eyes gentled. Issachar’s voice cut in, gruff and edged with challenge.
“You saved the princess, and she loved you for it?”
Viktor gave a single nod.
“And you love her?”
“I’d die for her.”
“Good,” Issachar snapped. “Because you might.”
His eyes lingered on Viktor a moment longer. Then he exhaled hard, rough as surf breaking.
“Eiliyah said it would be one of you. I told myself it was Adamar—that when he died, the realm lost its guardian. But we were safe.”
His gaze cut back to Viktor.
“We’re not safe, are we, Tory?”
Viktor shook his head. The words tasted like ash.
“Glaston was destroyed by dragons. Summoned by sorcerers on Ashakar.”
Issachar’s eyes flared hotter.
“And fate asks my boy to fight them.”
He flung his cane forward, taking a step as if against a tide.
“As if my wife and child were not enough.”
“Father—”
Viktor knew he wasn’t speaking of Adamar. He meant the son who left his arms the morning of his birth. The Midnight. Viktor could not tell him—not yet.
“Three months ago you left for Rhidian,” Issachar growled. “Just another message.” His voice cracked, rage and sorrow tangled. “Just another damn message—”
“I didn’t ask for this.”
“Neither did I.”
His eyes closed, arms shaking, his hand clenching the cane like stone.
“I cannot bury another son,” he said, voice breaking beneath the weight.
Viktor closed the distance.
“You won’t.”
He seized him, grip fierce.
“I swore it to her. And I swear it to you: I will rend Elysium before I let the darkness win. I will live, come what may. I will not die.”
For a long moment, Issachar didn’t move beneath Viktor’s hold. Then with a deep breath, his shoulders eased, some of the fire dimming.
“You sound like her,” he whispered. “Your mother… no storm could shake her.”
He caught Viktor’s wrist, holding fast.
“I will trust you. Just—”
The word fractured.
He swallowed hard.
“Don’t make me outlive you.”
The porch creaked, and Amerei appeared, her cloak caught in the wind, Gabriel at her side. She stepped forward, voice unwavering.
“I’ll bring him back,” she vowed. Then, softer: “And when I do…” Her smile flickered. “Your house will be filled with raven-haired halflings. Or did we decide they wouldn’t be halflings, Tory?”
Issachar blinked—then laughed, a sound rich and unburdened, one Viktor had not heard in years. He wiped at his eyes, breath roughening into a mutter. “Well then. I’d best see to the floorboards.”
Wind rattled the eaves, laughter carrying in the cedar beams.
Issachar’s house was alive again.