The voice sliced through the dark like a blade drawn slow.
Viktor stumbled, caught himself on a tree trunk, chest heaving.
“What?” he whispered, not aloud, not really.
The wind stilled. The trees hushed. And then—calmly:
“Our father is alive.”
The quiet dropped like a stone.
And Viktor, still gasping, clenched his jaw and said—
“You knew.”
The Midnight’s presence hovered near him, as real as the dirt beneath his feet.
“Why…”
Viktor’s tone grew cold.
“…didn’t you tell me?”
The Midnight stilled, his voice low.
“The dragons reached Glaston before the wind could change. There was nothing you could do.”
Glaston.
It would always be the place Viktor had first met Amerei. Always the place where his breath caught, trembling as he first looked upon her in that pit.
It would have to stay alive in memory.
Because now—
it was ash.
Viktor closed his eyes to the darkness. Drew in the cold night air, and it burned like grief.
“They were my people,” he whispered.
His fists tightened. Not in rage. In loss.
“Brother,”The Midnight said.“They still are.”
Viktor stilled.
Storne’s words echoed in his mind:Glaston, gone. Briar’s Keep, gone. Silver Hills is still fire.
He opened his eyes.
“Do dragons linger in Kryon? I’ll go there. I’ll stop them—”
“My eye is on the dragons, Viktor.”
The Midnight’s voice grew stronger.
“Mind what is yours to defend.”
