He looked down once—
at the abyss, at a black shadow knifing past like a spear—
then stepped to where only a madman would.
He leapt.
For a breathless second there was only wind—salt and height and the clean, bright snap of a bad idea becoming legend. Viktor hit the stallion hard, one arm slamming across the thick neck, the other finding a fistful of mane.
Vorathen screamed, a sound that rattled shale loose from the ridge.
The world turned to muscle and murder.
The beast reared back, hooves striking sparks from basalt. Viktor clamped his thighs, low and mean, face to the whipping mane. He snapped the coiled line of rope forward and down, hooking it across the bone-white nose.
For three breaths he had him.
The fourth broke.
Vorathen slid his forefeet, dropped his shoulder, and bucked.
Viktor felt the decision before he hit the ground—let go or lose the arm.
He let go.
The sky flipped.
He rolled, came up on a knee. Blood in his teeth, laughter in his chest.
“Commander!” Balian’s voice cracked from the shelf.
Samson didn’t move.
“Hold,” he hissed, eyes bright.
“Look.”
Vorathen spun on a knife’s edge, ears razored flat, front hooves slicing the air.
Viktor didn’t retreat.
He splayed his palm against the stone.
The air thinned, sharp as winter breath.
Flame licked in a circle around the stallion, blue-white and low.
Ring of fire.
Vorathen skidded, screamed again.
The fire held him.
Viktor rose, slow, hands open.
“Easy,” he said, voice like flint striking.
“Silen’ar.”
