Adamar’s hand lifted to Viktor’s.
Grief shattered his face.
“Leave me, Tory—GO!”
The world tore.
Viktor slammed back into stone and glass, blades flashing wild. The dragon crashed over him, claws raking sparks. He stabbed upward, black blood spilling hot across his armor. The beast pressed harder, pinning him down.
A talon swept—razor edge catching his face. Fire ripped from brow to cheek, blood blinding his left eye. The shock staggered him, head snapping to one side.
He never saw the second strike.
A talon slammed down.
Bone shattered.
His left hand crushed beneath iron weight.
His cry was not human—it was agony and storm, the voice of a man breaking and refusing to break in the same breath.
He tore free, right blade stabbing deep, lightning exploding through the dragon’s wrist until the beast recoiled shrieking.
But the storm inside him faltered.
His ribs screamed.
His breath failed.
The prison he had reached for slipped back into fire and shadow.
Adamar’s blue eyes flared, swallowed in flame.
Viktor staggered to his knees on glass and blood. Around him, the world broke apart—Ashakar spewing fire-rock into the dawn, the Sagittarii breaking, men scattering, horses shrieking.
Smoke.
Terror.
A realm on fire.
He knew then.
Not like this.
Not with blades.
Only one way remained.
He hurled himself across Vorathen’s saddle, forcing the stallion up the ridge. Samson broke from the line to meet him, face pale, eyes wide.
“Commander—”
“Hold me up.”
Viktor’s voice was ragged steel.
Samson caught him under the arms, braced his weight. Viktor fumbled beneath his cuirass, found the stone his father had pressed into his hand. Cold still, though fire burned him alive.
