Her fingers grazed his brow, her hand soft against his jaw.
“Let him breathe, Viktor. Let him set down his armor.”
For a moment, there was only her, his pain melting beneath her gentle touch. He searched her eyes, finding only truth there—truth that undid him more than fire, more than war. Dask—his heart ached.
I’ll never be loved so well in all my life,he thought, something breaking open inside him.Not unless I spend it with this woman.
Her hand had just dipped for the cloth again when his fingers closed over hers. He drew her across the table until she was close enough for his breath to meet hers. Then, without rush, without apology, he kissed her—slow, deep—his vow laid bare.
The Endowment stirred as if it too remembered their promise, wind slipping over her shoulders, sweeping her hair against his cheek. She melted into it, into him, feeling the unshakable truth of a man who had already chosen her, body and soul.
Her smile broke against his mouth. “There you are.”
He kissed her again, slower, fiercer, his hands cradling her face as if the world itself might vanish if he let go. His breath shuddered out against her mouth.
“In the Vykenraven,” he said, the words a quiet rasp. “I broke chains. I tore down walls. I wielded fire I never knew lived in me—because you were in danger.”
His forehead pressed to hers, voice low and breaking.
“But when the dark came for me—when I was nearly gone—it wasn’t my power that saved me. It was your voice, Amerei. Your name.” His eyes met hers. “You pulled me back.”
Her hand stayed against his cheek, trembling, steady all at once.
“Then I’ll never stop,” she whispered. “Wherever you go, I’ll call you back.”
Her words echoed in his bones, the breath between them aching with everything they’d yet to say.
Eternal.
Unstoppable.
Inevitable as night to dawn.
Then the air changed.
The candlelight flickered as though a gust of wind had passed through the room.
Viktor’s gaze flicked past her shoulder, narrowing. His whole body tensed, Endowment humming at the edges of his frame.
A hooded figure stood in the doorway’s shadow.
Sightless eyes, white as bone.
The same man he’d glimpsed once on the Whispering Way, staff planted firm beside a hound. The same voice that had torn through the Vykenraven, commanding him to turn the dragon.
Viktor’s blood went cold.
Instinct surged—soldier, protector.
He caught Amerei at the waist and pressed her back to the wall, his body a shield.
“Stay here,” he rasped.
She called his name, but he was already moving, already crossing the room for the door—heart pounding, throat tightening.
He wrenched it open—
and Matteo stood there, breathing hard, urgency in his eyes.
