He would not wait for horns.
He would be the horn.
The beacon.
The blaze that woke them to war.
Samson saw him first.
“Commander.”
Gabriel turned at the word, laughter dying in his throat.
The flames caught the spikes along Viktor’s vambraces, the black serpent-hide plates gleaming wet, the twin swords burning in his fists. Blue fire smoldered in his eyes, colder than the storm behind him.
“Dask.” Gabriel’s voice cracked. “He looks like legend.”
One by one the others turned. Soldiers roused from their pallets, captains breaking from their councils, men who had bled in his ranks—all stilled, struck silent by the sight.
Viktor raised both blades. Fire licked the steel, caught the air, roared into the desert. Twin walls of flame tore across the flats toward Oustinon, carving sand to glass.
The camp awoke as one.
Horns cried. Shields clashed.
Armored mounts. Strung bows. Sharpened swords.
And before it all—a torch astride night itself.
Thunder chased every hoof strike.
Lightning woke the dark.
The Ruakite had risen.
Storne saw him next—a black helm on a black horse—and felt his own spine answer.
“Mount up!” he barked, voice like a gauntlet thrown.
“Line forward—keep the gap for the Ruakite. We don’t run at fire. Wechaseit.”
Steel hissed from sheaths. His riders swung into saddles.
Farther along the flats, Ivan turned at the blaze ripping the desert in two. The High-Captain’s mouth went hard.
“Cavalry hold,” he said, low and even.
He lifted two fingers—circling signal. Captains relayed, banners dipped, the southern front bowed like a drawn bowstring waiting for release.
Gabriel wheeled Faerin to the ridge-stand and lifted his arm.
“On my sign,”Viktor sent, mind to mind.
“Aye, Commander.”
Gabriel set the first rocket, crowned the fuse.
He loosed.
