Chapter One Hundred Twenty
The Hunt Begins
The fleet was promised, but peace was not.
The great hall of Castle Draekenra shimmered with polished marble and serpent-carved columns, banners of black and silver catching the light. Every inch spoke of elven wealth and order, untouched by war.
Amerei stepped through the doors first, crimson gown trailing, her chin high.
From the high seat, Xavien’s expression scarcely moved—but Viktor saw it. The faint tightening of his jaw, the flicker in his gaze, the way his hand stilled against the arm of the chair as though the sight of her had stopped him.
A coldness settled through Viktor, sharp as frost on glass.
Storne broke the silence, his words blunt as a hammer.
“You would speak of uniting the realm, Xavien? Then start by setting your own house in order. Betrayers marched under your name. Prove you mean to rule. Lend us your warships.”
Xavien’s eyes narrowed, but his voice stayed even.
“A bold demand, Commander. Why should Elváliev bleed further for Casqadia’s wars?”
Viktor stepped forward, the ring of his gauntlet against the table cutting the hall still. His voice was hoarse, each word dragged from him.
“My seer told me what none of us could know. In the smoke. In the slaughter. The vault at Fyreglade was broken.”
A stir among the senators.
Viktor’s gaze locked on Xavien’s.
“The Tome was taken.”
The name landed like a stone in water—rippling out, pulling every face in the chamber toward him.
Xavien’s lips parted, the words almost a whisper, yet sharp enough to cut through marble.
“The Tome of the Hollow Flame.”
His eyes turned, hard as a drawn bow, onto Storne.
“It was yours to guard.”
Storne drew a breath, ready to answer—but Xavien cut across him, voice rising with the ease of command.
“And now you bring this here, to my hall, to lay at my feet. Tell me, Commander—why should Elváliev pay for Casqadia’s failure?”
Amerei stepped forward before Storne could speak, her voice steady, carrying without force.
“Do not mistake this for Casqadia’s burden alone, my lord. If the Tome is opened, it will not distinguish between north or south, human or elf. It will burn us all.”
Xavien’s gaze softened on her, the edge of his mouth bending.
“Spoken like a queen who already thinks beyond her borders.”
His tone was lighter than the moment deserved, but the look in his eyes was not.
“Careful, Amerei—you’ll have my senate clamoring to crown you in Vykenra.”
A cold current moved through Viktor.
He stepped closer, words like sharpened steel.
“If Zeporah unlocks that vault, there will be no senate left to crown you, and no realm left to rule.”
Xavien’s eyes lingered on Viktor, sharp and measuring. Then, without shifting his gaze, he spoke a single name.
“Selene.”
The guards at the back stirred, moving to open the doors.
But Storne stepped into the silence.
“Our course is clear. Zeporah fled south. If she carries the Tome, she carries it to Tyra. We’ll need cutters swift enough to chase and galleys strong enough to board.”
Xavien’s attention turned back, voice cool.
“The Silver Fleet has three such cutters, two galleys armed to the teeth. Admiral Rael commands them. They will put to sea within three days.”
His tone hardened.
“But they will fly Elváliev’s standard. And their first loyalty will be to me.”
Storne’s eyes flicked once to Amerei, a nod, unflinching agreement.
Quills scratched. Orders were taken. The hall began to move with the machinery of alliance.
Storne named routes, Xavien confirmed ships and captains, scribes scratched to seal the pact. The tension shifted, thinning into the work that followed decisions.
Then the council chamber doors swung open—and for an instant, Xavien’s attention narrowed to only her.
Raven-dark hair spilled loose over her shoulders, catching torchlight in glints of blue.
Eyes the color of stormlit seas swept the chamber—devastating in their stillness.
When her gaze lifted to the king across the table, something shifted. Like prophecy breaking open.
Xavien tipped his head toward the chair next to him, then spoke to the rest of the hall.
“The fleet sails in three days. The council is adjourned.”
Benches scraped, quills snapped shut, the hall dissolving into motion.
The fleet was promised. The hunt begun.
But Viktor felt no triumph.
Xavien’s decree did not release him—it bound him.
Ships meant sea.
Sea meant war.
And the Tome meant war of fire.
Above him the phoenix banners stirred, silver wings spread wide.
Blue mist rising in his eyes, he vowed:
He would heal before the Tome was opened.
Again, the Ruakite would rise.