(Enough.)
He cut the circle with a flick of his fingers.
The fire parted like silk.
He stepped inside.
The stallion’s sides thundered, muzzle snaked and struck. Viktor was already there, palm to the scar, fingers iron-hard.
“Vorathen,” he breathed, letting the stallion take his scent, the cold of him.
The world narrowed to the two of them.
Both raven-dark.
Both called to glory.
“We cannot outrun our destinies,”he pressed into the void.
“Down.”
The stallion’s weight shifted.
Black eyes meeting blue.
Not obeyance—agreement.
Viktor cupped the jaw where the white scar split the black. The fire sank into the earth and went out. He stood with the stallion, breaths matched, pulses braced.
“Good.”
He gathered the rope, stepped to the left shoulder, and with brutal grace swung up bareback. Vorathen tremored beneath him, ready to explode. Viktor sat deep, heels down, hands low.
“Slow.”
They took three steps.
Then—thunder.
Vorathen bucked, plunged, tried to shake the man to pieces. Viktor rode it like a storm he’d been born into, hips with him, hands giving and taking, curses tearing out of him with each grated breath.
“Enough,” Viktor rasped and dropped his weight.
Vorathen stilled, ribcage beating against Viktor’s calf.
“There,” Viktor said, breath hot, sweat streaking his brow.
“There you are.”
Breath heavy, legs shaking, he turned the stallion so he faced Samson and Balian.
“Bring the halter,” he barked, voice cracking the basalt wall.
Samson scrambled up, eyes huge, and pressed the leather into Viktor’s palm.
“Fecking hell, Commander,” he blurted. “That was—”
“Not yet.”
