“The full moon. Sooner if she gains help,” The Midnight explained, hand drifting across the table, fingers brushing air. “The Tome, Commander?”
“Secured,” Storne answered. “A hundred feet below this room.”
The boy’s lips parted, grim.
“The Tome of the Hollow Flame,” he murmured. “I cannot sense it.”
“Good,” Storne said, a rare shadow of a smile crossing his face. “You aren’t meant to.”
Silence followed, still as breath before thunder. The Midnight tilted his head, listening to something only he could hear.
“There is a path, Commander,” he said. “For you to speak in silence.”
His fingers traced a faint line across the tabletop, as if following a vein of light.
“Your mother’s line—”
“Rydan.”
“Yes.” A ghost of a smile. “Old as the oaths of Vykenra. You may speak… to those bound to you by covenant.” His handskimmed the wood again. “Your daughter. Your mother. Soon—” his blind gaze turned to Viktor, “—Viktor Seraphim.”
The boy’s hand hovered in front of him, as if feeling for a pulse.
“But Viktor Seraphim,” he whispered, almost laughing, “can speak to anyone.”
Viktor went still.
He’d heard voices call to him in the dark before—but never imagined he might answer back. Might enter another’s mind like a prayer.
The chair scraped softly.
The Midnight rose, reaching along the wall until his fingers found a gnarled stick.
“It will take time, Commander… to teach you.”
He found his robe by touch and drew it around his thin shoulders.
“I must go now.”
Viktor stepped aside to let him pass—
then couldn’t.
His throat burned with words that would not form.
The Midnight found the doorframe with his palm.
“Wait,” Viktor managed. “Where are you—”
The boy pushed the door open and stepped onto the garden path.
He felt his way by sound and sun, quickening with each step.
Viktor moved after him, but Saecily’s hand caught his arm. Through the window, he watched the hooded figure vanish down the winding path—each step a blade turned in his chest.
“We know,” Saecily said softly, thunder-muted. “Sit down, Viktor.”
His jaw locked.
