Chapter Eighty-Five
Tory Seraphim
The crowd saw only their champion—none saw the letter he sent into the night.
Torches lined Dunes Way as far as the eye could see, swaying in the night wind. Villagers clustered together, whispers rising and falling, their eyes fixed on Issachar’s house.
“I had the strangest knock at my door,” Issachar said, glancing at Viktor. “Children—half the street’s worth—asking to see Tory Seraphim.”
Gabriel’s grin was faint. “Word spreads fast in the backcountry.”
Viktor thought of Silver Hills—how Amerei had called him her husband before the elders, how he, a Ruakite, had vowed vengeance. Now that vow had gone ahead of him.
He touched Amerei’s shoulder, reaching up to a high shelf. Inside a worn book lay a gold coin. He pressed it into his father’s palm.
“Send the dog to the courier. We’ve got a lot of supper guests.”
Gabriel laughed. “That dog isn’t dead yet?”
“Telemachus,” Issachar said sharply, “is in fine health.”
He scribbled a note for the courier, limping to the door.
“In fact…” He peered outside. “Here he comes now.”
The largest dog Amerei had ever seen padded in, claws tapping the boards. His head reached Issachar’s shoulder, his dappled-gray coat catching the lamplight like steel wool. A leather pouch swung from his neck. His eyes were deep, knowing, as though he had understood every word.
“To the courier, boy,” Issachar told him, scratching behind his ear. The dog huffed once and trotted back out into the night.
Issachar turned, arching a brow.
“You captains haven’t forgotten how to carry firewood?”
Gabriel clapped his arm. “He’s High-Captain now.”
Viktor stepped onto the porch, night air crisp against his skin.
Issachar blinked. “You forgot to tell me that.”
Gabriel’s mouth tilted.
“Pales beside marrying a queen and finding out you’re Endowed.”
Issachar’s brows rose. Gabriel flicked his fingers, coaxing a tongue of fire to life—then hissed as he snuffed it out
“Not quite the same for elf-kind,” he said, shaking his hand.
Issachar chuckled, pride warming his eyes. “So I’ve heard.”
Gabriel nodded toward the trees. “Firewood still that way?”
Viktor’s gaze lingered on the torchlit road beyond—faces watching with fragile, rising hope. He stepped down. “Let’s go.”
Issachar crossed the room, lifting a cloak from the wall. “Your husband’s,” he said to Amerei, offering it. “Bit cold tonight.”
“Thank you.” She drew it over her shoulders—heavy leather, weathered and worn. Dask, it smelled of him: cypress and cedar, steel and fire. She pressed the collar to her cheek, closing her eyes.
Issachar started for the door. Amerei caught his arm, walking with him onto the porch.
“Thank you, dear,” he said, a gleam in his eye.
The sandy hill gave way to tall grass, rocks jutting from the slope. She helped him lean against one, still holding his arm as she sat beside him.
The villagers edged closer, lanterns swaying in the dark. Children clung to skirts and coats, peering wide-eyed.
Viktor crouched beside the firepit. One breath sparked kindling; smoke curled, orange tongues spreading through the twigs.
Gabriel stepped forward into the glow, rubbing his hands together with a grin.
“Now,” he called, “who’s ready for a tale worth the walk?”
Laughter rippled through the night.
Children gathered at Amerei’s feet, a few familiar from the fountain, their eyes wide. She looked up as Viktor came, kissed her hair, and sat beside her.
All eyes turned to Gabriel, haloed by firelight.
“My name is Gabriel Feindoran,” he said, voice carrying.
“And yes—I am an elf.”
Laughter again, lighter.
Gabriel let it fade, his grin sharpening.
“But tonight, I’m only the teller of the tale. The man you came to see—the name that walked this road—is here.”
He lifted a hand toward Viktor.
“High-Captain Viktor Seraphim. Your kinsman. Your defender. The one who walked through fire and carried it home.”
The crowd shifted, murmurs rustling like wind in grass.
Viktor kept his eyes on the flames, as though deaf to it—but Amerei felt the squeeze of his hand on her knee.
“I met him at enlistment,” Gabriel said. “A day’s ride from here. No human would spar with me. But Tory Seraphim? He wasn't afraid.”
A smirk tugged at Viktor’s mouth.
“Some of you think you’ve seen Tory fight. But until you’ve watched him charge a dragon with a princess at his back—” Gabriel paused, firelight flickering on eager faces “—you’ve seen nothing.”
Amerei lowered her gaze, a smile touching her lips.
“The usurper queen invoked Vykenraven,” Gabriel said, voice dropping. “A spell to twist the mind. She trapped us in Castle Rhidian’s Grand Hall. Doors locked. Torches out. No weapons. Not a prayer.”
He let silence stretch. The crowd leaned closer.
“Strange magic. Offerings to forgotten gods. And then—Zeporah summoned a dragon.”
Gasps stirred. A child pressed into his mother’s skirts.
Amerei’s fingers tightened over Viktor’s, memory of smoke rising in her chest.
“Only Tory Seraphim could save us,” Gabriel said, firelight reflected in his hazel eyes. “He let his Endowment rise. Faced the beast. Tore down the wall. Rocks fell, fire seared his skin—and still he stood.”
A hush fell over the crowd, the night holding its breath.
“I’ll never forget his screams when the flesh tore from his back,” Gabriel went on, quieter now. “Tory didn’t want to live. Until… he saw her. Amerei. Princess of Casqadia.”
The villagers hushed, eyes flicking between them.
A murmur passed. She met their gazes unflinching.
“Their love survived the Vykenraven,” Gabriel continued, “and it will endure the battle to come. Remember this—Tory Seraphim, son of Aerdania, husband to the Casqadian queen. Ruakite guardian—Endowed to avenge his people.”
The yard stilled. Whispers swelled, then cheers, until the hill rang with it.
Issachar watched from his stone seat, eyes shining as the crowd roared. Pride and worry warred in his gaze, but he did not look away.
The cheers softened into handclasps and blessings. Lanterns swayed as villagers drifted down the road.
Amerei stayed at Viktor’s side, greeting those who lingered—an old woman with a quivering smile, a boy who shyly offered her a sprig of pine, a fisherman who clasped Viktor’s arm and called him kinsman.
Hooves struck stone.
A lone rider appeared at the road’s edge, his horse draped in black, the silver crest of the Royal Army of Elváliev glinting in torchlight. He dismounted without a word and pressed a sealed letter into Viktor’s palm.
“A letter, High-Captain. From Commander Storne.”
Viktor broke the seal.
The die has been cast. Return to the desert.
His jaw tightened.
Zeporah was nearly ready.
The battle was coming—and with it, the reckoning.
From the porch, his gaze swept the hanging oaks at the hill’s base. Three scouts leaned in the shadows, cloaks drawn tight. Viktor gave a short, sharp whistle. They came at once.
“Which of you is entitled to carry royal correspondence?”
A young man stepped forward. “I am, sir.”
Viktor nodded toward the house. “Stay here. You’ll leave within the hour.”
Inside, the kitchen smelled of smoke, cedar, the faint sweetness of Issachar’s emberbrew. Amerei still spoke with Gabriel, her laughter carrying low and warm.
Viktor ducked into the back room and set pen to paper. He pressed the nib too hard, nearly tearing the page before he dragged the letters out clean.
Xavien—
Send for her. Fort Sevrak.
He folded the note and pressed it into the scout’s hand.
“For His Highness, Prince Xavien Draekenra. Direct to him, no other.”
The man tucked it into his cloak and slipped into the night.
Viktor watched the door close, heart pounding. Outside, torches still burned along the road, smoke trailing into the dark.
No one had to know—
Not yet.