Chapter Ninety-Three
Under White Banner
They expected an escort. They got him.
Before dawn touched the ramparts, it spilled into their tent, finding her asleep against him like a secret the night had kept.
The brazier glowed to a red hush, canvas breathing with the slow pull of the wind.
Viktor lay still and watched her—one hand at his chest, her golden hair strewn across his shoulder, the faintest smile curving her mouth. He let himself drink it in. Every breath, every sigh. The way she clung to him, still holding their braided cord.
“Let them call me commander, king, cursed—” he whispered against her crown, “—I’ll only ever bow here.”
He eased free without waking her, drawing the blanket to her shoulder, tucking it beneath her arm.
His eyes caught the mirror, brazier’s light painting copper across the new mantle.
For a moment he was both—Tory, the man stripped bare, long black locks unbound—and the commander set to wear the uniform of princes, guardian of Sevrak, Casqadia, and the realm.
He dressed in silence.
Tunic, leathers, boots, belt.
His hair bound back, braids drawn tight at the sides.
He faltered at the mantle, the insignia heavy in his hands. More than wool. The weight of oaths and eyes. A mantle woven with the names of those he would avenge.
I came to Sevrak a scout. Today I command its host.
With a breath, he set it across his shoulder, then turned back to Amerei once more. She stirred, edging into the warmth of his side of the bed.
“Tory? Did you sleep at all?”
“I tried,” he said. “Then some fool made me Commander and ruined it.”
His voice was gravel, dry with humor, but he bent to kiss her hair anyway.
She smiled—small, proud, a little sad.
“It suits you.”
“It’s heavy.”
His mouth quirked as if he wanted to scowl but couldn’t while looking at her.
“Let’s hope the men think it suits me better than I do.”
“They will.”
She closed her eyes again, settling into his pillow. He smoothed her hair and kissed beneath her ear.
“Go back to sleep,” he whispered, gruff. “One of us should get some rest.”
She was already drifting into perfect peace, holding his pillow like he’d never left.
He brushed his lips over her cheek. “Sleep easy, Ami.”
He rose, every step a drumbeat of command before the day had even begun, the mantle catching torchlight like a banner claimed in war.
Outside, a guard at the flap straightened. Another pretended not to stare at the new insignia.
“Commander.” Gabriel fell in beside him, buckling a bracer as he walked. “Procurement’s alive. Barely. Arrows and oil by second hour—if no one sets my lists on fire.”
“Keep them close to the barrels,” Viktor said, eyes sweeping the dark beyond the palisade. “I want them where I can point and not speak.”
A runner ghosted past, nearly colliding with Evander as he stepped out of Storne’s tent.
“Lieutenant Tassen,” Viktor called without breaking stride.
Evander hurried to fall in line.
“Report to my quarters. Wait for the queen.”
Evander bowed, turning sharply. “She comes now.”
Viktor halted at the door of Storne’s tent, gaze finding her without effort. She’d dressed in a simple gown, cloak trailing the ground.
“What did I say about walking out here alone?”
His thought brushed her with a flick of fire, gentle and sharp all at once.
“Reprimand me,” she teased, chin lifted. “I dare you.”
A motion at the far edge of camp pulled her gaze—a line of servants slipping in without banner or fuss. Jasmine broke from them first, hood falling back.
She didn’t bow.
She ran.
They collided like sisters trying not to cry.
Jasmine’s tight curls bounced against Amerei’s shoulders, amber-brown skin lit by the torches, eyes bright and assessing as ever.
“That braid’s a war crime,” Jasmine muttered against her hair.
“You shouldn’t have come through the redwoods in the dark,” Amerei whispered, relief and joy knotting into something that left her dizzy.
“I didn’t,” Jasmine grinned, breathless.
“I flew through them on prayer and profanity. Quartermaster’s here—your dresses, signet chest, and the good hair oil you like. Captain Feindoran—”
“Jasmine,” Gabriel cut in, almost formal until he wasn’t. He took her hand, then both of them, and forgot how to speak for one baffled heartbeat. “Welcome to Sevrak.”
“Don’t make me regret it,” she quipped, trying to look anywhere but his mouth.
A horn from the outer line shattered the dawn—one long, low note that rolled across the camp like thunder caught in brass.
Not alarm.
Announcement.
Conversations snapped shut. The air itself seemed to hold its breath.
Viktor’s head turned, eyes narrowing toward the ridge.
“Report,” he called, voice cutting through the hush as a runner knifed through the ranks.
“Party inbound,” the boy panted. “White banner. From the east.”
White banners meant talk, but no parley had been set. Gabriel’s glance at Viktor held the question unsaid.
Together, Viktor and Amerei looked toward the ridge where fog clung like smoke.
Shapes began to form: riders in arrowhead formation—the Sagittarii of Vykenra. Behind them came wagons, more than there should be, heavy and curtain-sided. The escort tightened around one at the center with the precision of men guarding something—or someone—meant to shake the world.
“That’s not the caravan we were told to expect,” Gabriel said.
“Too many horses for supplies,” Viktor sent Amerei, his thought edged like steel. “Too much armor for servants.”
“It’s a dignitary,” she breathed, heartbeat quickening.
Viktor’s breath iced.
“It’s him.”
“Xavien crossed Elváliev—”
“For you.”
The truth locked between them.
“Ready the black tent,” Viktor snapped at the nearest aide. “Table, maps, brazier. West side guard before they hit the palisade. No gawkers.”
Storne shouldered from his pavilion, cloak half-fastened. “Report.”
“Change of plans,” Viktor all but growled.
“We’re hosting a king’s son.”
The camp broke into ordered chaos—fires stoked, cloaks thrown over nightshirts, armor buckled with fumbling hands. A kettle clanged. Someone swore. Lines straightened as if a crown itself were watching.
“Jasmine, with me,” Amerei commanded, already turning. “We dress for court.”
“Gabriel,” Viktor called, eyes fixed on the ridge, “reception is yours. Shields high, blades sheathed. Respect, not weakness.”
“Understood.”
The Sagittarii’s arrowheads glinted as the sun broke higher, fog thinning to reveal the wagon rolling steady as a heartbeat.
The realm’s most powerful elf was riding into Sevrak.