Chapter One Hundred Twenty-One
The Knock at the Door
A father’s grief was about to become undone.
Casqadia waited.
But Castle Rhidian was not yet safe.
Ivan was still in the south, hunting dissidents, dragging Zeporah’s loyalists from their holes. No one knew which of the nobles could be trusted—and until they did, Amerei could not take her throne.
So the road bent north instead, to Westport.
To Dunes Way.
To home.
Viktor leaned against Amerei in the carriage, her arms around him, his strength returning though his frame was still lean. One of her hands rested against his heart, the other threaded tight through his. She kissed his cheek, brushing her lips over the roughness of his scar.
“What are you thinking about?” she whispered, struck by the gleam in his eye.
His mouth curved, half-grin, half-mischief.
“When I set foot in Rhidian,” he said. “I’ll bring her Grand Hall down. Stone by stone. Finish what I started.”
She smoothed his shortened hair back, smiling as the strands brushed against her neck.
“Then we’ll rebuild it together,” she murmured. “New banners, new throne, new Casqadia rising.”
Her gaze wandered as though she could already see it: the castle on the sea, bright with sails, ocean spray at its walls, the harbor alive with light instead of shadow.
“A man born of the sea will feel at home in Rhidian.”
She kissed his face once more.
“As if it had always been yours.”
His grin deepened, that spark of mischief cutting through the weariness.
“Then I suppose I’ll have to let them call me their king.”
He looked up at her, their smiles brushing into each other until their lips met in a quiet kiss. When he drew back, his voice softened into a vow.
“So long as I’m still yours first.”
The carriage jolted to a halt at the edge of Dunes Way, where the road gave way to sand. Viktor let Gabriel steady him as he climbed down, Amerei close at his side. They walked the last stretch together, the sea wind tugging at their cloaks, the wolfhound’s bark carrying faint from the hill above.
The steps of the house rose before them, weathered cedar and stone, the porch washed in late light. And there, waiting, stood Issachar.
He had heard his son lived. Jaems had told him weeks ago. But hearing and seeing were not the same. His shoulders shook, his hands braced against the post, as if even now he didn’t dare believe until his eyes gave proof.
Viktor stopped at the foot of the steps, breath unsteady, right hand clutching Amerei’s. His father’s voice broke across the distance.
“Tory?”
For a heartbeat, Issachar only gripped the porch post, his cane trembling in his other hand.
Then the restraint shattered.
With a breath torn raw from his chest, he lurched forward, the cane clattering to the boards as he half-limped, half-ran down the steps.
Viktor’s knees nearly buckled as his father reached him, arms wrapping hard around him, crushing him close as if sheer force could anchor him to the earth. The smell of salt and sea and home filled the moment, Issachar’s tears soaking his son’s hair.
“My boy,” he wept. “My Tory.”
Viktor could only hold him, his face pressed into his father’s shoulder, breath catching with the force of it. He hadn’t felt so young in years. Not since before the fire, before the sword, before war had carved him hollow.
At last Issachar leaned back, his hands rough against his son’s face, studying him as though trying to memorize every mark. His eyes traced the shortened hair, the scar cut across his brow, the steel gauntlet binding his hand. His breath shuddered out.
“I thought you’d lost it,” he said, touching the metal with reverence instead of fear. “I thought I’d lost you.”
Viktor’s mouth curved, tired but unbroken.
“Still here, Father.”
Issachar closed his eyes, then drew him into another fierce embrace.
“Still here.”
He would not let go until Viktor leaned back in his arms, and only then did he guide him up the steps, one hand firm at his back. Inside, the hearth was already burning, the wolfhound pacing at their heels, whining as though he understood the miracle come home.
They ate soup at the table, bread broken between them. Issachar kept staring at his son, pride brimming behind his eyes. But soon the firelight softened into laughter. Stories spilled—of the march, of Fyreglade, of the old comrades who had limped home.
Gabriel leaned back in his chair, raising his cup with a lopsided grin.
“You’ll be glad to know, Issachar, I mean to keep my word. Next time I walk through your door, it’ll be with a wife at my side.”
Issachar laughed, shaking his head.
“About time, boy. I was starting to think you’d be chasing these two all your days.”
Laughter stirred around the table, warm and brief. Then the wolfhound barked at the door, claws scratching the wood. A low knock followed.
The room stilled.
Issachar rose with effort, cane in hand this time, and crossed to the door.
He pulled it open—
and froze.
A figure stood framed in the torchlight.
Dark hair, cloaked, blind eyes pale as glass.
Issachar’s breath left him.
The cane rattled against the floorboards.
His lips parted, but no sound came.
Slowly, as if the weight of years had fallen onto his shoulders, he turned back to the table. His gaze locked on Viktor, searching, pleading, disbelieving.
Viktor’s throat tightened.
He forced the words out, low, reverent.
“Father…”
His heart beat hard.
“…the babe lived.”