“Viktor—” Her fingers caught his arm, trembling. “She’ll see us—”
“I won’t let you go.”
His palm framed her face—hard, claiming—the words a blade wrapped in breath.
Tears scorched his skin.
“You must,” Amerei begged. “She’ll see—she always sees—”
His chest split with the choice. Keep her and doom them both, or let her go and tear himself in two. The ash pressed heavier, demanding surrender.
Her eyes—pleading, raw—cut straight through.
He found Evander in the haze, the last chance left to him.
Viktor lifted her hand. His lips pressed to her skin—not gentle but searing, as if he could brand the vow into her blood. Salt. Ash. And beneath it, the echo of every loss he’d borne—his mother’s back vanishing through a door, Adamar’s cold hand slipping from his.
He had survived those. He would survive this. And he would make her his—not by leave of kings or crowns, but by fire and blood. He already knew whatnevercosts, and he would pay it again.
If the world meant to burn them, then let it burn. He would burn brighter.
That was the cost. That was the vow.
“I’ll never let you go.”
Her breath broke, her eyes glimmering through tears.
“Viktor…”
He thrust her into Evander’s grasp, voice raw, breaking.
“Hold her. Don’t fail me.”
Her hands clung, refusing—but the ash locked her limbs as Evander pulled her back.
The veil swallowed her from reach.
Viktor staggered forward, lungs burning, each step a betrayal, the vow pounding in his skull.
I’ll never let you go.
The haze fractured—
flashes, too fast, too sharp:
The Aetherheart tree in his dreams.
I’ll never let you go.
His mother stumbling, blood down her leg, a swaddled child clutched close.
Two boys—mirror images at eight—crying out together:Momma?
Sand dunes. Hanging oaks. The salt-scent of Westport.
Windmere’s gates yawning wide, his hand shaking as he signed his name.
A cottage door—his father bent over Adamar’s still form.
