“My firstborn.”
The bowl glowed.
The pact sealed.
Flashes: Oustinon’s cliff, a sling in a scout’s hand—a knife laid for his sleep.
A ledger’s tally:
One for the pit.
One for the blade.
Darkness surged—dragons wheeling, wings like ravens stabbing light.
A thread pulled taut, identical to his own.
Adamar.
Viktor’s throat shattered the breath that came.
The Midnight’s voice broke.
“She bartered him. She gave him to the Host.”
The vision burned in him—
Westport.
The sea.
The tomb.
He pulled against his own Endowment, but the wind tore through him, dragged him deeper.
Into the garden.
Into the tomb.
Adamar was not there.
Iron rings sunk into rock where a body should have been.
A dragon’s eye lit a cell window.
A second breath in the dark that beat in time with his own.
Light flickered.
Black hair.
Blue eyes.
Darkness.
Twin.
The Midnight’s grip eased, not leaving. His voice—so close now, it brushed his cheek.
