“Get the draught down his throat before pain kills him again.”
The surgeon skidded down the ridge with a flask and rag, hands trembling as he tried to uncork it.
“Here!” Storne snapped, seizing the vial and wrenching it open with his teeth. He shoved the medic aside, braced Viktor’s jaw in one gauntlet.
“Gabriel—hold his head.”
Gabriel cradled him up, whispering ragged into his hair.
“Easy, Tory. It’s me. I’ve got you.”
Viktor writhed once more, his mangled hand twitching against the glassed ground. A cry tore his throat—veins bulging beneath ice white skin.
“Now.” Storne poured the draught past clenched teeth, forcing his hand over Viktor’s mouth, sealing it shut. Viktor thrashed, coughed, swallowed—or drowned.
A heartbeat stretched.
Then another.
His body gave, the tension easing.
His breath hitched shallow, uneven, but it came.
Gabriel’s forehead pressed to his hair, tears streaking ash.
“That’s it. That’s it, Tory.”
Samson’s sob broke behind them, boy’s shoulders shaking with relief.
The Midnight crouched still, stone at his neck glowing white, listening to the storm that still rattled Viktor’s veins. His chant softened, words falling to a whisper, until silence claimed them both.
Viktor stirred once, lips moving without voice. Gabriel bent low, caught it—the name breathed into the ash.
“Amerei…”
Then he went under, limp in Gabriel’s arms.
Storne wiped his mouth hard with the back of his hand, voice snapping sharp: “Get him to the tents. Now.”
Four men broke from the line, spears crossed, cloaks stripped for stretchers. They lifted the ruined weight of their commander carefully, as if the whole realm hung by his pulse.
Beyond the ridge, horns sounded.
The battle turned, dragons driven back.
But around them, whispers had already begun to spread—hushed, fearful, half-believing.
“The Ruakite is dead.”
Chapter One Hundred Twelve
I Won’t Leave You
Viktor had carried the storm, and now he would carry Viktor.
The battlefield slipped behind them, a smoldering scar across the flats. Ashakar’s roar had fallen quiet, its fire choked down to smoke. The dragons wheeled wide, retreating to their mountain like shadows recalled by night. Only the dead remained—men and beasts alike—strewn across glassed sand and broken stone.
The march to Fyreglade was hushed.
