The Sagittarii had brought one low.
Viktor wheeled Vorathen to the ridge.
He didn’t wait.
He rose in the saddle—and leapt.
Steel and storm fell with him.
He struck the beast’s skull like judgment, both blades plunging deep into its eye.
Black blood geysered, hot as tar.
The beast collapsed: thrashing, dying, falling—
Viktor with it.
Sand.
Blood.
Searing pain.
His arm—cracked sharp.
His ribs—splintered.
Breath knifed his chest.
The carcass rolled half-over him before it stilled.
Azrikel was there, shadow at his shoulder.
“Set it,”he commanded.
Viktor growled, braced his arm against the ruin of the beast’s jaw, and rammed the bone back into socket with a cry that tasted like blood.
Next he bound his ribs with his belt, breath ragged, eyes burning blue fire.
Azrikel’s voice cut sharp.
“You bleed. You breathe. You swing.”
Viktor staggered upright on the carcass. Both blades lifted, dripping black blood, seared with lightning.
The men saw him. Samson’s mouth broke open. Gabriel’s fist lifted, shaking with defiance.
The Ruakite was still standing.
“More!” Viktor roared into the storm.
Thunder shook the teeth of Ashakar.
The second wave came screaming from the volcano’s throat—five beasts. Shadows a wall against the sun.
“Shields high!”Viktor sent.
On the ridge, the Sagittarii braced, mirrors flaring. Sunlight lanced, blinding one. Arrows hissed, rattling scales.
