Viktor’s body arched, smoke curling from his cuirass.
No breath.
No sound.
Again.
The Midnight’s voice tore the sky, white fire burning from his eyes as he chanted and struck once more.
The storm roared.
Viktor convulsed.
And still—the silence held.
Gabriel’s hands clawed the dirt.
“Again—”
The Midnight didn’t falter.
His eyes flared white, his voice a furnace.
The chant deepened, faster, louder.
He struck again.
Another shock ripped through the air.
Viktor convulsed—spine bowing, fists clenching. For an instant Gabriel thought he heard it: a gasp, a catch—then silence swallowed it whole.
“Tory. Please—”
Storne’s jaw was stone, but his voice cracked.
“Don’t you dare stop.”
The Midnight leaned lower, his forehead almost touching Viktor’s. The chant broke into a roar, syllables too old for men, stormfire spilling from his mouth like smoke and light. His necklace flared so bright it seared the eyes.
A third strike.
The ground shook.
Viktor’s body jolted—then fell slack again, limp as ash.
The silence that followed was absolute.
Even the volcano’s fury seemed far away.
Gabriel pressed his brow to Viktor’s temple, choking on the words.
“He’s gone—”
“No.”
The word cracked like thunder.
The Midnight’s white eyes flared, sightless yet unyielding. His glowing face bent low, lips still moving in that jagged, ancient tongue. The stone at his throat pulsed bright, answering the one clenched in Viktor’s hand.
