A spear of fire tore the sky. Screaming. Piercing. Gold light raining over Oustinon.
Carys’ voice cut through the echo:
“Volley—loose!”
The first rain of arrows crossed the dark like black hail tipped in iron.
Viktor drove.
Vorathen hit his full stride.
Azrikel commanded:
“Flame.”
On Viktor’s breath, the storm answered—lightning braided the edges of the twin firewalls, the desert’s glassy skin flashing blue, then white.
He struck the first rank like a wave breaks stone. Left blade low. Right high. A crossing cut that took shield and throat. Heat rolled off him. Sparks kissed sand. The air around his body burned cold.
He drove on—then saw it: a face in the sand, ears catching firelight.
Elf. Not bound. Not pressed. Fighting for Oustinon.
Viktor’s fire sharpened.
The next cut was merciless.
Up on the ridge, a tremor ran the Sagittarii line.
“Storms…” Carys breathed. “Our own.”
Blood boiled.
Jaw set.
“Draw.”
A dozen bowstrings answered like teeth.
“We loose for Casqadia.”
The ridge exhaled—bowstrings thrummed, a black rain arced.
Wind shifted. Ash and hot glass in Viktor’s mouth.
“Seraphim.”
The word slid through his head like a knife—silk and poison.
Zeporah.
“I knew you would come to me.”
He didn’t answer.
He turned a blade, split a spear, and let her voice be fuel.
“Tell me how she slept,”the sorceress purred.“The little queen in her borrowed robes. Did she learn your name on her knees? Or does she save that for—”
