No horns, no victory cries—only the shuffling of boots and the rasp of wheels.
Smoke clung to their cloaks. The stench of char and blood rode with them, a reminder of what the storm had taken.
Viktor lay stretched across a makeshift cot, wrapped in torn cloaks. His chest rose shallow, each breath a battle of its own.The crushed hand was bound in splints of spearwood, blood seeping through the bandage. His skin burned hot, fever already pressing him, but he did not wake.
Gabriel kept one gauntlet pressed to his shoulder, as if holding him there by force alone. Samson sat beside him, one hand braced to a spear, steadying the cot as they rode.
“He called lightning down on himself,” Samson whispered, voice cracking, as though the words themselves were too heavy to leave behind.
“He fights wars no man was meant to bear.” Gabriel laid his hand over Viktor’s burning brow but could not bring himself to look at the mangled hand beneath the bindings.
Tears slipped free, wetting Viktor’s hair.
“You’re safe now, Tory. The war is over. She’s run for Tyra.”
Mutilated by Evander’s fireball, defeated by Viktor’s vow—Zeporah would not linger in the realm she had dared to conquer. To Tyra she would flee, her shadowed alliance now laid bare.
They reached the gates of Fyreglade, where Saecily was already waiting. She summoned Zakkari to the wagon, her healer’s gaze falling first to Gabriel. He had not moved. Viktor’s head was still braced against his arm, cradled as though sheer will might keep him held together.
Saecily touched Viktor’s brow, her frown deepening at the heat, at the laceration carved cruelly across his skin.
“Sutures, Zakkari,” she ordered, before her eyes flicked back to Gabriel, reading the truth in his expression.
“His back is worse,” Gabriel said hoarsely.
Saecily only nodded. “Masten told me.”
For a breath, Gabriel wondered how Storne had reached her—but the thought dissolved with a ragged exhale.
Zakkari pressed a cloth into Saecily’s hands. She dabbed gently at Viktor’s cheek, then her gaze dropped to the mangled hand.
“He burns already,” she said. “That hand will not see the dawn—”
“Then let him tell you that himself,” Gabriel cut in, grief breaking his voice. “You’ll not take it while he still sleeps.”
Saecily’s mouth tightened, but she gave no answer. She only motioned, and the servants came forward. Together they lifted Viktor from the wagon. Cloaks slipped from the splints, blood seeping dark.
They carried him down the stone ramp that curved beneath Fyreglade’s gates. The keep loomed solemn around them, its torches burning low. Servants lined the walls, faces pale and reverent, watching as the Ruakite was borne home. No one spoke. Not a word. Only the shuffle of boots and the creak of the cot.
Gabriel walked with them, his gauntlet fixed to Viktor’s shoulder, his other arm cradling his head. Not even death had pried him loose—he would not be the one to let go.
The ramp leveled, opening into the infirmary hollowed in the castle’s heart. The air was cool, the shadows deeper here, yet comfort lay in the scent of lavender, chamomile, and crushed herbs steeping in bowls along the walls. Smoke curled from oil lamps, painting gold across the stone.
Only then did Gabriel exhale, his breath shuddering free. The gates above were closed. The battlefield was shut out. It was only them here—he and Tory.
He pressed his brow to Viktor’s tangled hair and whispered,
“I won’t leave you, brother.”
And he didn’t.
Chapter One Hundred Thirteen
Let It Be Done
In the hush of Fyreglade, fate was left hanging in the dark.
Viktor woke to darkness, glowing orbs humming low above him.
