Smoke coiling into scale and shadow.
Wings unfurling.
A vast shape forcing itself into being behind the throne.
Heat warped the air.
Iron and smoke choked the hall.
The first hiss rattled marble.
Something inside him snapped.
Light flared across his palms.
Steel shrieked from every scabbard.
Two blades slammed free, ripping through the air into his grip.
Fire raced their length, flaring white.
Viktor lifted his head.
Eyes blazing.
Twin swords in hand.
He turned—slow and terrible—
face to face with the dragon,
rearing from the haze,
its eyes molten,
its wings blotting out the hall behind Zeporah’s throne.
Her gaze slid from Viktor to Amerei, then back again, her smile sharp as knives.
“You chose her, Captain. You chose this.” Her voice carried over the hall. “Then let all see the Ruakite broken at my feet.”
The dragon burst forward, a nightmare given flesh—its wings scraping the vaulted ceiling, its roar tearing through marble and bone alike.
Benches splintered. Goblets exploded in showers of wine and glass.
Nobles trampled one another in their scramble for doors that would not open. Zeporah’s spell sealed them in, her laughter slithering through the hall as smoke curled higher.
Viktor stood alone at the center, blades blazing blue in his fists.
His breath rasped in his chest. His shoulders braced, though every instinct screamed to flee.
The beast prowled low, embered eyes fixed on him, fire building in its throat.
The first torrent struck.
Viktor dove behind a column.
Stone erupted in shards, flames searing hot enough to scorch through his cuirass.
