“Lead on,” Viktor ordered, pulling the reins to the right.
They left the horses at the base of the ridge, tying Ruby long to scrub of saltbush. Viktor shrugged off his mantle and rolled his sleeves. The rock underfoot was knife-sharp, broken lava and grit that slid if you trusted it.
They climbed in a stagger—Samson scouting a half-dozen paces ahead, Balian minding his footing, Viktor moving like he’d been born of rocks that crest the sea.
Samson dropped to a knee, palm over a crescent-shaped gouge in the basalt.
“Fresh,” he whispered. “Front hoof—he strikes when he turns.”
A few yards on, a strand of black hair snagged on thorn.
“He’s close,” Viktor said, voice rough as gravel.
Samson nodded and pointed two fingers along a narrow shelf.
“He runs through there, Commander. Lets the wind do half the work. Clever bastard.”
Viktor’s mouth curved, sharp. “I like him.”
He touched Balian’s shoulder, guiding him with quick, silent hands:you—low, to the left—block the pass.To Samson, a gesture—hook wide, cut off the runout.Viktor took the spine.
They moved like pieces on a board, dust quieting, breath held. The shelf narrowed to the span of two boots, the drop enough to turn a man’s stomach. The wind rose—cool, relentless—the smell of horse and iron.
Viktor dropped to his knees, one hand to stone, one on the line he’d looped from Ruby’s head. He tested the give, then coiled it twice around his fist.
Samson froze and pointed over the crest.
There.
Cut out against the pale sky.
A stallion as black as night, a ragged white scar on the bridge of his muzzle.
“Vorathen.”
The word ripped from Viktor’s chest.
“Devils respect teeth, not tenderness,”The Midnight’s voice slid in—thin as wire, cold as shade.
Viktor did not look away.
The tone turned velvet, vicious.
“Even a legend limps if he lets another man bridle his mount.”
Viktor gritted his teeth.
“You know just how to get under my skin,”he growled, fingers tightening on the coiled line.“We really are brothers.”
The Midnight’s presence flickered—a laugh.
Viktor exhaled once, steadying.
The stallion lifted, tasting the wind, mane lashing. His far ear flicked toward Viktor’s ridge. He snorted once and turned to ghost along the edge.
“Tory— Now.”
Viktor rose in a single fluid motion, boots on the rim, wind in his face. The distance between predator and prize shrank to a heartbeat.
