Across the hall, he heard her.
“Viktor!”
Amerei’s voice—raw, aching—rose above the shrieks and thunder. His eyes cut to her, desperate, her gaze locked on his as if willing him to hold.
“Turn the dragon.”
The beast lunged, fire gouting toward him.
He dove, rolled, came up slashing—forcing its head to follow.
The voice beat like a drum in his skull.
“Only dragonfire.”
Viktor froze for half a heartbeat, the cost clear in his bones.
His eyes found hers.
Amerei strained against Evander’s grip, screaming his name, tears streaking ash down her face.
She knew.
She knew what he meant to do.
Her wrists twisted against Evander’s hands, her voice breaking as she cried, “No! Viktor, please—”
He held her gaze, every muscle seared with fire and resolve.
This was the choice.
This was the vow.
His jaw locked.
His grip tightened on the blades.
One last breath.
And he sprinted straight into the path of fire.
Heat devoured him.
His skin blistered, shoulders seared, the scream ripped from his chest—
but the dragon turned, its furnace throat aimed at the wall.
The spell lit, cracks spidering like veins of light through stone.
Viktor staggered upright, smoke curling from his burned shoulders, blue mist searing in his eyes. He slashed at the air, forcing the dragon to wheel back, and bellowed through blood and ash—
Zeporah’s voice slid into him like a knife of smoke. From her throne beyond the beast, her gaze caught his, black and pitiless.
“Do it, soldier. Burn for her. Son of no one—end as nothing.”
His jaw locked.
Ash streamed from him, blue fire climbing higher on his blades.
