A second blast from the ballista.
Lock. Aim. Strike.
A dragon reeled, wings sheared, spiraling down.
Viktor’s pulse leapt. Hungry for the kill.
He raised his swords—
and stilled.
The ground trembled beneath his boots.
A low groan rose through the flats—deep, ancient, alive.
Viktor staggered, braced on Vorathen’s flank.
His ribs screamed, blood slick down his back, blades still burning in his fists.
Then it came.
The mountain split.
Ashakar roared awake—its throat spewing molten stone. Fire-rocks hurtled skyward, shrieking arcs that turned night to flame.
The desert shuddered.
Lines broke.
Men scattered.
Horses screamed.
Viktor dragged air into his chest, every breath knife-sharp.
He felt it.
Deep in the heart of the storm.
The soul that had split from him. The eyes that had died. The heartbeat that mirrored his own.
His twin.
“Adamar.”
“He’s there,”Azrikel sent, voice cold.
The volcano screamed again, a sound like lightning tearing glass.
Viktor raised his swords into the fire, voice carrying through the net, through every mind still standing:
“Stand! Even if the mountain falls—stand!”
His next words, straight to Azrikel.
“Into Oustinon. Together.”
Chapter One Hundred Five
