“My brother chooses life.”
A command.
A vow.
The storm obeyed.
Chapter One Hundred Eleven
Hold Him
The dragons fled. The mountain stilled.
But whispers carried faster than victory. “He is gone.”
Gabriel lunged for him at the first flutter of his eyes.
“Tory—”
The Midnight settled, eyes simmering to pale, washed blue.
Viktor’s body jolted, back bowing sharp, a ragged gasp tearing the silence. Air ripped into him—violent, hungry, unstoppable. His chest heaved, every vein straining.
For one breath, relief broke across Gabriel’s face.
Then the thrashing began.
Viktor bucked in his arms, choking, clutching with his right hand as though drowning. His left lay mangled, glove torn, fingers bent wrong, blood spilling at the seams.
Pain hit him like a hammer.
His cry shook the earth beneath him—the guttural sound of something dragged half-alive from death itself.
“Hold him!” Storne barked, already forcing his weight down against Viktor’s shoulders.
Gabriel caught his wrists, but Viktor’s strength was wild, broken, dangerous. His head snapped side to side, breath tearing raw from his throat.
“His hand—” Samson’s cry cracked. “Dask, his hand—”
The crushed limb twitched once, then spasmed. Viktor’s back arched, another scream bursting out, eyes broke wide with disbelief.
Gabriel pinned him harder, tears cutting through ash.
“Tory—stop, please—”
Storne snarled toward the ridge.
“Delirium—now!”
Another cry left Viktor’s chest, ragged and hollow, and Gabriel bent over him, voice breaking: “Hold on, Tory—help is coming—”
The Midnight’s hand pressed to Viktor’s sternum, chanting low still, trying to steady the storm thrumming his veins.
“Breathe,” he whispered in the ancient tongue, forehead bowed close. “You will survive this.”
Viktor thrashed once more, then sagged against Gabriel’s hold, every breath jagged, too shallow to last.
Storne’s gaze went to the ridge, voice cracking like a blade:
