Viktor drove through it.
Pain cut sharp—ribs grinding with every breath, arm numbed to fire.
Azrikel’s shadow kept to his flank, voice slicing through the storm.
“Through them. To him.”
Viktor’s jaw locked.
Every heartbeat drew him closer.
His blades hummed in his grip, lightning twitching down their edges, eager to be loosed. Somewhere in the smoke,Gabriel’s rockets shrieked, Carys’ arrows fell—but all Viktor felt was the pull. A pulse in the storm. The same as his own.
He pressed low over Vorathen’s neck.
The storm thickened, answering his vow.
He would not stop.
Not until he found his brother.
Vorathen screamed beneath him, hooves striking sparks from the glassed earth. The ridge cut sharp ahead—the path narrowing toward the fire-mouthed mountain.
Above it, wings blotted dawn. One pair burned blue.
Viktor’s chest seized.
Every scar, every breath he’d carried since Westport, since Adamar’s last rasp—answered. He stood in the stirrups, ribs shrieking, lightning burning his fists.
“Now—”
Vorathen surged, a final bound up the ridge.
Viktor threw himself into the storm.
Armor and steel and fire hurled skyward.
Claws raked for him—he twisted, one blade catching scale, the other sinking deep. The impact ripped through his shoulder, spun him hard across the beast’s back. Heat seared his skin, sulfur choked his lungs. But he held.
The beast bucked, wings thrashing, a storm made flesh.
Claws swept—one caught him across the back. The Velascarin screamed, scales tearing, blood spilling hot down his spine. Viktor bit back the cry, teeth grinding, arms locked tighter on the beast’s ridge.
It rolled.
The world inverted—sky, sand, storm.
His vision blackened, his grip slipping.
“Hold!”Azrikel’s voice snapped like thunder.
Viktor drove one sword deep.
“I will not fall.”
The dragon screeched again, twisting its head back.
Those blue eyes locked to his.
