“Only if he thinks you’re ready—to bring down the sky itself.”
Viktor swallowed.“Will you guide me?”
The Midnight was still a long moment. Then his words came on a rush of breath.
“They say you are not ready.”
“In the Vykenraven,”Viktor told him,“I used the wind to tear down a wall.”
The Midnight’s tone darkened to a whispered warning.
“Your soul cannot withstand the grief of what you ask.”
Viktor drew a slow breath.
The Midnight—the Elders he spoke to in silence—they were right.
“Commander,” Viktor called, halting Storne.
Storne looked back.
“I can’t…” Viktor’s gaze lifted skyward.
“I cannot bear the weight of killing them all.”
For a moment, Storne only stared at him. Then a faint smile curved on his lips.
“Good,” he said at last. “You remember why you were chosen.”
He pointed toward the gulley, to the soldiers waiting there.
“Convince them to turn back. Don’t let them through the pass.”
Viktor nodded, eyes narrowing. The jut of a cliff caught him—it looked just like Ronan’s Bluff back home. Memory sparked.
“I could send a cutterwind.”
“A cutterwind?”The Midnight asked.
“That’s what we call them in Aerdania—bursts of wind that shred thatching, rip trees from their roots.”
“Yes,”The Midnight murmured.“I know what you speak of.”
A beat of silence, then:
“You may.”
Viktor nodded once.
“Commander!” he shouted down. “Stay low—find cover.”
Storne slipped into a cleft, tied off his horse, and saluted. Viktor returned it.
“Call the wind from the north,”The Midnight instructed.
Viktor threw out his arm.
“Faster,”The Midnight urged.“Faster!”
