He rolled clear, came up slashing.
His left blade scraped across a jawline scale, sparks scattering uselessly. The right drove shallow between ridges—barely a sting.
The dragon’s head snapped down.
Viktor threw himself sideways, marble cracking where teeth closed.
Its tail swept—he vaulted, landed rough, chest heaving.
Around him, the hall was ruin—columns scorched, tapestries aflame, nobles shrieking for escape.
Somewhere beneath the thunder and screams, he swore he could hear a voice breathe through him—fire answering fire.
“Turn the dragon.”
The words struck him like iron in his skull—ancient, cold, commanding.
He staggered, scanning the smoke.
No one there. No one speaking.
The dragon reared, fire already building in its throat.
Viktor braced, then surged forward—fire racing his veins, blades flashing.
He dove beneath its chest, slashing hard, and skidded to the base of a marble column.
He turned his fury on the stone.
With a roar, he drove both blades deep and wrenched them wide. The column cracked, splintering from within.
Power surged through him—
wind howling, fire burning.
A single heave—
he tore the column down.
The ceiling groaned. Dust cascaded, plaster splitting. Nobles screamed as benches splintered under the falling debris.
Viktor’s chest burned, gaze snapping to the back wall.
He raised his hands—fire blazing, storm rising—and hurled it all against the stone.
The wall did not so much as tremble.
His heart slammed in his ribs.
“Turn the dragon.”
The voice slid into him, ancient as the earth.
“Dragonfire alone breaks the spell.”
Viktor staggered, breath ragged.
“No,” he rasped, shaking his head, chest scorched raw. “It’ll kill me.”
