He leaned closer—too close—as if her lips had named him.
For a moment he lingered there, his hand rising as if to cup her face, the air thick with the choice he had not yet made. His mouth hovered a whisper from hers, so near she could feel the heat of it, believe he might cross the line—until at last it shifted, brushing instead against her temple.
“Stay,” he said against her skin.
“Stay until the thunder in your chest is only rain.”
Chapter One Hundred One
For You
Some vows do not end in battle. His was written past the veil—for her.
Stormlight crested the mountains sooner than expected, a soft roar thundering against the far side of the peaks. Viktor had pulled the storm down with a thought, and the ridges bowed beneath it.
“You’ve stolen dawn from the storm,” The Midnight said.
“The sun will be yours when dragons come.”
His voice rode the first flashes of lightning, quiet as snowfall.
“Well done, Tory.”
Viktor exhaled, loosening the hand he didn’t realize was clenched inside his glove. A rough laugh rumbled beneath his mantle.
“Tory,” he muttered, shaking his head.
The Midnight’s words came quiet.
“That is what they call you. Your kin.”
Viktor nodded, eyes sharp to the Sagittarii moving below in disciplined silence.
“What am I to call you? Father never told me your name.”
He drew in a breath, cold, cedar-smoke on the air.
“I could give you one. An Eillish name would suit—”
“No.”
The Midnight’s voice cut sharp.
His presence waned, then returned, softer.
Something like fear. Something like regret.
“The only name I ever wanted was the one she gave me.”
Their mother.
Viktor’s eyes fell shut. He didn’t reach for the memory. He set the ache like a stone on the bank and came back to command.
No shouted orders carried—he didn’t need them. Commands moved thought to thought, steady as breath.
—Viktor:“First Bow—check your line.”
—Carys:“Six strides, Commander. Wind veers from the north. Feindoran, your signals ready?”
