“The old rites say a pool wakes quickest to two offerings,” he mused, wicked-dry. “Blood… orpassion spent.”
Color scorched her cheeks.
“Xavien.”
His smile gentled. He touched her elbow and leaned to whisper.
“I’m teasing you. Breathe, Elarien.”
“Breathe, Ami.”
Her pulse stumbled. The remembered voice felt warmer than the one at her ear, a promise that had steadied storms.
Xavien brought her to the rim and let her see her own reflection. Shadows rippled, caught in a shimmer of light.
“We’ll ask it for nothing but water and will,” he said, voice steady.
“I’ll pour the brine. You keep watch. If the image stumbles, squeeze my wrist—I pull us out. No needless risk.”
She nodded—once, twice—breath finding rhythm with his.
He unstoppered a vial, dusted salt across the surface.
The water shivered.
“Ready?”
Her fingers slipped to the inside of his wrist, warm and living.
“Ready.”
Xavien set his hand over the water—spoke something ancient, something quiet.
The final utterance:
“Seraphim.”
Chapter One Hundred Three
The Moon Rises
A dragon’s eyes opened, and his brother looked out.
The voice threaded through the dark like wire.
“Wake up, Tory.”
Viktor’s eyes opened to the red throat of the brazier and the mutter of rain working the far side of the mountains—the storm he’d pulled down now pacing at the ridge.
He didn’t move.
His hand lay over the scar that crossed his ribs. The heat there answered him as if it were alive.
“I’m awake,” he said.
A cold presence settled at his shoulder—felt not seen. The Midnight always arrived like shade when a candle guttered. Tonight he felt nearer. Human-near.
“It’s time,”he said.“You asked to see.”
