His eyes snapped to Storne.
The commander only stared.
Viktor tore himself from the window, gripping the chairback until the wood groaned, knuckles white, storm thrumming in his blood.
Saecily closed the distance, courage steadying her voice.
“Seventeen years ago… Eiliyah Aradostylan called the Elders of the forest to save her dying child.”
Viktor’s gaze lifted, dark and unyielding.
“And from that plea,” she said, glancing toward the door, “we were given The Midnight. A seer—yourseer.”
She drew a breath. The air seemed to still with her.
“And yes… your brother.”
Memory struck like a lash.
His mother’s face as she rode away.
His father’s hollowed grief.
The eight-year-old boy he once was clutching his ribs against a hurt he could not name.
Something broke open in him.
Heat surged—the Endowment stirring like stormfire in his blood.
“Where has he been?”
Viktor’s voice cut low, dangerous.
“My father mourned him like a grave was dug—wouldn’t even speak his name.”
His voice frayed, grief shredding the last of his composure.
“I don’t even know the boy’s name.”
“He has none,” Saecily said gently, taking his wrists to steady him. “He will not let us give him one.”
“I would have searched,” Viktor rasped, shaking his head. “I would have found him. Brought him home. Where is he going? I have to—”
“You cannot.” Her fingers tightened. “The Elders forbid it.”
“They forbidyou,” Viktor snapped, tearing free and striding for the door.
He stopped in the threshold, squaring his shoulders—a soldier before battle.
“Where are you going?” he called down the winding path.
“Turn back.”
“I cannot,”the boy answered in his mind.
Viktor startled, the presence there like shadow’s chill.
“You must let me go… for now.”
