He reached the cottage door and stilled.
Through the window, the silhouettes of Storne and Saecily stood braced like shadows against the boy within. A breath filled Viktor’s chest, rough and unwilling, before he forced the door wide.
There he was.
Seated at the table, robe cast aside, clothed only in a simple linen tunic.
The Midnight.
Hair dark as Viktor’s, though coarser, curling wild across pale eyes—clouded and strange. A face caught between—no longer a boy, not yet a man.
“A soldier comes this way…”
His voice broke the stillness like a tremor.
“I hear it in his boots.”
“This is High-Captain Viktor Seraphim,” Storne said.
Saecily touched the commander’s shoulder, then motioned Viktor forward. He crossed to the table, every step unsteady, and sat.
The Midnight’s head turned, unerring—blind gaze fixed, following Viktor’s shadow.
“I feel no heat in your skin,” he whispered. “You healed yourself, Ruakite.”
“Yes,” Viktor breathed, scarred hands curling tight on his knees. “Only faint traces remain.”
He stared across the table. His father’s eyes. The gentle curve of his mother’s smile.
Dask.
A boy he had never met. A brother he had always known.
“You were rising… into Elysium.” The words left The Midnight in broken measure, fragments of a dream. “…after the Vykenraven.”
Viktor nodded.
The Midnight went on.
“But you are strong. You returned.”
“I have much to live for,” Viktor said, voice low, carved with certainty.
The Midnight inclined his head slowly.
“Zeporah stirs Ashakar. Conjuring… a spell that needs time.”
Viktor’s breath sharpened.
“The volcano…”
He looked from Storne to the boy.
“She takes the fire of Ashakar,” Storne said, voice roughened, “and shackles men’s souls to the dragons. That’s how she makes them hers.”
Viktor’s chest tightened. “How long?”
The boy hesitated, as though listening to some hidden current.
