Chapter Eighty-Eight
Salt and Sunrise
The tide may rise. The war may come.
But it will not take him from her.
They slipped from the house before Westport had stirred, steps hushed on the cedar porch. Wind tugged Amerei’s braid, brine kissed her lips, and beyond the dark the tide whispered like a secret. She paused on the sand-covered stairs, toes curling against the chill.
“Will we not wear shoes, Tory?”
“Never.”
He swept her into his arms before she could protest, her laugh breaking the hush.
“Shh,” he whispered, gruff but grinning.
“Tory?” Issachar’s voice drifted from inside.
Viktor smirked like a thief with stolen treasure.
“Dask—we’ve been caught.”
Amerei tucked her smile into the crook of his neck as he carried her down the sand path toward the sea, his low laugh rumbling against her.
Beneath the first stream of sunlight, with stars fading into dawn, they sank into the sand by the ocean. She leaned against him, his heartbeat steady as the tide, while he drew the blanket around them, the warmth of his hands lingering.
“It’s not a Vykenran sunrise,” he said, “but it’s home.”
“It’s perfect.” She leaned her head against his shoulder, letting the hush of the waves fill the pause.
His voice swept the quiet. “Evander told me you sit by the ocean every year for your mother’s passing.”
“I do.”
“So do I,” he admitted, voice low. “When I miss my own.”
He tugged the blanket tighter.
“I used to think the Isle of Eilles was just beyond the horizon. Didn’t realize it lay off the elven coast.”
His laugh was short, unguarded.
“I always believed the sea returns what it takes. Maybe not whole. Maybe not the same. But it drifts back.”
Her hair brushed his jaw as she lifted her gaze.
“Do you still wait for her, Viktor?”
He shook his head.
“No. But Father does. When he’s ready, we’ll carve her name beside Adamar’s.”
He nodded toward the rocky ledge above the waterline.
“He’s there. We laid him in a tomb of stone so the tide could reach him but never take him.”
Amerei pressed her fingers to his lips.
“The tide won’t take you either. You’re coming to get me from Amethyst.”
“I am.” He kissed her hand, voice gravel low. “And you’ll know me.”
Her gaze held his. “I’ll know you. No matter what’s broken.”
Sand crunched behind them. Gabriel stood on the slope, arms folded, hair windswept, amusement playing at his mouth. “You two planning to sit here until the tide rolls in, or are we riding to Sevrak?”
“Windmere first,” Viktor said flatly. “We’ll need every sword we can rally.”
“A detour for reinforcements—or just to strut in front of your men? Shave before we leave, Tory.”
Viktor huffed. “Feck off, Feindoran.”
Gabriel waded into the surf, trousers darkening.
“Cover your ears, my lady,” he warned, then tossed over his shoulder, “I told your father last night’s haunting… wasn’t ghosts.”
They were on him before he could flee, spray soaking his shirt. Gabriel sputtered, laughing, and retaliated until all three dripped with seawater.
The hour blurred into stolen emberbrew, scraps tossed to Issachar’s hound, and Amerei’s reminders that Viktor still hadn’t shaved. He only smirked, eyes bright with mischief.
When the blade finally touched his skin, she sighed.
“I do wish you could keep it.”
“Your father would strip my mantle so fast," he muttered under his breath.
She kissed his smooth, damp cheek. “Good thing I outrank him.”
They were both dry now, dressed in black from boots to collar. Viktor grazed the silver clasps lining his uniform, the words dragging out like a weight he couldn't shrug.
“Into Windmere as a soldier of Elváliev.”
“Tory…” Amerei laced her hand in his. “You’re entering as the only hope they have.”
His Endowed power stirred, stealing her breath before fading. Her grin curved as she corrected him. “Ask.”
He only shrugged, a crooked smile pulling at his mouth as he followed her out.
The porch boards creaked as dawn bled into the sky, the air sharp with cedar and salt. Issachar leaned against the railing, cane in one hand, a stone in the other—pale marble veined with gray, its leather cord worn smooth by years of touch.
“It was forged by the sea on Eilles,” he said to Viktor, voice like the tide against rock. “Your mother wears the other.”
Viktor’s jaw tightened. “Father, I can’t—”
“You must.”
Issachar slipped it over his neck himself. The stone lay cold at his collarbone, heavy as memory.
“Tuck it beneath your cuirass. Your mother believed it would keep you from drowning. I believe it will keep you from being taken at all.”
For a long moment Viktor only stared at it, the cold weight against his chest sinking deep. His throat worked, words dragging from him at last.
“I’ll guard it,” he promised, the sound rough and raw.
Issachar kissed his son’s crown, gaze drifting to the horizon.
“Your mother was... too precious for a man of the sea. What little rest I gave her beyond the mountains, I pray was enough.” His hand cupped Viktor’s face. “My heart grew strong in her absence. But you—you need her presence now.”
Viktor’s eyes lingered on him, drinking in every detail as if to etch it into memory—the cropped silver hair, the short beard touched with gray, the weathered hands gripping his cane, the lines carved deep into his face. He swallowed hard, forcing the image to stay.
Then Issachar turned to Gabriel.
“And you, my boy—I expect you to bring your own wife home next time you cross my threshold.”
Gabriel grinned but bowed his head. “Aye, sir.”
Lastly, Issachar faced Amerei, his gaze gentling as he touched her face, and she smiled up at him.
“You’re far too beautiful for Tory. May he never forget it.”
He kissed her cheek.
“Keep him honest.”
She laughed softly, bowing her head. “I will.”
He lingered, his gaze sweeping over each of them, eyes distant yet full. At last his cane tapped the floor.
“Then go," he said. "Bring them all home.”
Viktor clasped his father’s arm, the stone’s weight like an oath across his chest, then led Amerei into the waking day.
The morning air cut cool, gull cries breaking overhead, cobblestones still glistening with tide.
A girl darted from a doorway.
Viktor stopped.
It was her—the child from the monastery tent, her burns healed. Wide-eyed, hair tangled from sleep, her aunt behind with a shawl pulled tight.
“You’re leaving?” she asked, her little voice breaking.
Viktor crouched to meet her gaze. “I have to. For a little while.”
Her lips quivered. “Don’t go.”
Her eyes brimmed as tears slipped free, and the sight cracked something deep inside him. He opened his arms, and she rushed into them, clinging fiercely around his neck.
“I’ll come back,” he promised—words a soldier should never give, yet couldn’t hold back. “And when I do, I’ll visit you at the bakery. You’ll show me how to knead bread—the proper way?”
She nodded, a shy smile breaking through.
“Good,” he said with a low laugh. “I’m a terrible cook. My wife just doesn’t know it yet.”
He glanced at Amerei, her hands pressed to her heart.
The aunt stepped forward, taking the girl’s hand, meeting Viktor’s eyes with quiet gratitude.
He rose, the stone cold against his chest, the weight of the march settling across his shoulders.
And this time, he did not look back.