Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Two
The Raven
Days passed in Westport, the rhythm of sea and hearth mending what war had broken. The gulls cried low over the tide, their wings silver in morning light. The horizon breathed, soft with dawns that no longer burned.
For the first time since the battle, Viktor slept without stirring—his breath even, his body finally surrendered to peace. The fever had loosened its hold. The soldier had laid down his sword.
That morning, he had stood between his father and his brother on the shore, the urn passed between their hands. Together, they let Adamar’s ashes fall to the tide. The sea claimed him—salt and sunlight, grief and grace—until all that remained was the glittering edge of the horizon.
Issachar wept, and Viktor’s arm came around him, steady as an oath, while Azrikel whispered of Elysium and home beyond the veil.
When the last of the ash was gone, Viktor set the urn aside, his hand lingering on the carved stone.
“When you’re ready, Father,” he said softly, “we’ll etch Momma’s name beside his.”
Issachar nodded through his tears. And for the first time in decades, the weight of grief eased—just enough.
That night, lamplight burned low in Viktor’s old room beneath the eaves. The sea breathed through the window, the air salted and still.
He sat at the edge of the bed, shoulders bare, hair falling against the scar at his brow. The steel gauntlet glimmered faintly as his hand braced on his knee.
When Amerei entered, he looked up—tired, beautiful, alive—and his mouth curved with something softer than a smile.
“You make me believe,” he said, voice rough as distant thunder, “that I could live a quiet life.”
She crossed to him slowly, as if any faster might wake her from the dream. Standing between his knees, she let his hand find her hip, his thumb tracing across silk and skin.
Then, with a steady breath, she unfastened the laces at her shoulders.
The fabric slipped down, baring the curve of her heart.
And there, ink spread dark across her ribs.
A raven’s wing.
Every feather etched in flight.
Viktor’s chest went still.
His hand hovered over it, trembling.
“My tattoo…”
Her gaze held his—bright, eternal.
“No, my love,” she whispered.
“This one flies.”