The warmth of her kiss still lingered when the light tore sideways, ripping him from the cradle of that moment. The memory dragged him down a darker path—into night, into blood, into loss.
Earth under bare feet. His mother staggering, linen dark at her thighs, hair unbound and matted. She held a third bundle close—smaller, too-still—while the night-forest opened its ribs for her.
Aetherheart.
The tree that called to Viktor in his dreams.
Heartwood shot through veins of light. Its roots curled from the earth like the fingers of an elven god.
“Azrikel,” his mother sobbed, shaping a name around a breath that might have been the child’s last. “Live, my son—please. Take him. Take—”
Elders stepped from shadow, bark-worn hands cupping the failing infant. Blood dripped from her calves to the roots. The tree drank. The air tightened—then sang, a high, glass note that made the night hold still.
Light threaded the baby’s lips.
A flicker. A breath.
He lived.
Viktor’s fingers crushed around the hand in his own. The Midnight’s grip trembled back, a shudder running through him. His breath rushed over Viktor.
“My name.”
The vision cracked open again.
Cassandra’s chamber—white curtains, figs gone soft, a silver pitcher at her elbow.
Zeporah poured the tea.
Cassandra drank.
Her hand trembled once.
Not age. Not chance.
Poison.
Zeporah bowed her head.
The ring clicked the saucer. Breath hitched. Cassandra reached for the armrest—missed. Zeporah caught her, the gentleness of a sister.
Whispered,“Stay.”
Kissed her burning brow.
Stone, salt, smoke.
A sharkskin ledger.
A bronze bowl black with years.
“The twins,”the Tyrian murmured.
“Both,”Zeporah said, letting her blood fall.
“One for the pit. The other—I’ll set his feet on Oustinon’s stones. A cleaner kill.”
“And the price?”
