Arrows would scatter. Spears would splinter.
A dragon’s shadow alone could unmake an army.
He drew the knife Gabriel had pressed into his hand days before—a slender, gleaming blade, elf-forged and polished so fine it caught the sun in a single bright flare.
Light leapt across the barren ground, flashing into his eyes.
He blinked—then looked again.
A dragon could be blinded.
The thought struck hard:
Mirror-bright shields, raised to the sun, forcing the fire back into the beasts’ own eyes.
A way to turn fear into fury.
A way to hold ground.
The bay tossed her head, impatient.
Viktor sheathed the blade and let her run again, heart pounding—
and before him, visions of fire broken on light.
* * *
By dusk, the camp glowed with scattered fires.
Viktor found Gabriel’s men gathered in a rough circle, mugs in hand, their laughter rising above the crackle.
He dismounted stiffly, earning a round of ribbing.
“Careful, Captain—bay’s too fine for you. She’ll spoil you soft.”
“Or maybe it was the nomads’ balm!”
“What’d they do, rub you down like a prince?”
Viktor smirked, tugging his mantle tighter.
“Mock all you like. But when your backs give out, don’t come begging my jar.”
The circle roared.
Gabriel leaned over, grin sharp as ever.
“Look at you—making friends everywhere. Cavalry, archers, and nownomads? What have I told you about letting them trick you with their potions?”
“Spoken from a Draekenran elf,” Viktor shot back.
Gabriel sighed, raising his mug in mock defeat.
“Fair.”
Firelight gilded their laughter, warm in a camp that smelled of steel and fear.
For a moment, Viktor let himself breathe—the ache dulled by desert dew and brotherhood both. But when the circle broke and men drifted toward their tents, the weight returned—the quiet that stalked when the fires went out.
