He set his course: across the flats, along the river bend, through the painted rocks by midnight… the desert by sunrise.
Glaston by daybreak.
The flame behind him guttered out.
Darkness opened before him—vast and soundless.
His runners whispered over stone. Each step drew him farther from the walls, from safety, from thought.
A doe drank at the river’s edge.
He knelt beside her, cupped water to his lips.
She startled, vanished into the dark.
He kept moving.
Beyond lay the painted rocks of Kryon, shadows stretching long beneath a cold moon.
His stride lengthened. His lungs filled.
Running always brought him home—to the salt, the sea, his brother’s laugh echoing beneath the pier.
Then the memory changed. The face he chased became a corpse.
A howl tore through the quiet.
A dog writhed in the dirt, its legs tangled in a trap.
Viktor drew his knife, knelt, and steadied the beast with one hand.
“Caught in a trap meant for something twice your size,” he murmured.
The dog lunged, teeth flashing, and Viktor huffed a laugh.
“You weren’t out here picking fights with bears, were you?”
He sliced through the ropes.
The animal bolted—then stopped, tail thumping, eyes bright with mischief.
Viktor shook his head, mouth curving.
“Go on. And try not to take on anything that could eat you, eh?”
The creature vanished into night.
Stars brightened above.
Viktor tipped his head back, lungs full of cold air.
“Almost there…”
Gemini glowed over the western horizon—the twins’ constellation, bright and eternal.
He whispered, “Race you, Adamar,” and ran harder.
By dawn, the desert was behind him.
