—and she was gone.
The image vanished.
His body braced for grief, but light washed it from his eyes.
A world without pain. A world without sorrow.
A world without her.
“Elysium,” he whispered again—as if he could summon her ghost once more.
Across the river, the horizon glowed.
And from behind him, a figure’s voice:
“You’ve come far, Ruakite.”
Viktor turned.
Broad shoulders. Iron bearing. Eyes that had long looked on war.
“Gideon Storne.”
The man’s smile carried sorrow and pride.
“Eiliyah sends me to you. Adamar is with her now. Safe. Finally home. But you—” His hand gripped Viktor’s shoulder. “You’re not meant to remain. Not yet.”
Viktor’s eyes fell shut for an instant.
Gideon’s gaze swept to the river.
“If you stay, Andórmanor falls. Twenty years of Tyra’s chain before the next Ruakite rises. Born of my line.”
Born of my line.
“Amerei…”
The stone pulsed in Viktor’s fist.
His hands remembered her belly beneath them, the promise waiting, fate unknown.
Light pressed gentle against him, offering rest.
He could stay. He could let go.
Peace would cradle him forever untouched.
But his mouth hardened.
And his eyes burned bright.
“No,” he said at last.
“I will not leave her to face this world alone.”
Gideon’s voice rumbled, soft and solemn.
“Then you already know your path.”
