For a breath he thought he still lay beneath the weight of ash and fire, but then the scent of lavender reached him—soft, insistent, cutting through fever. An oil lamp guttered nearby, painting amber on damp walls.
Gabriel was there, hunched at his side, gauntlet still resting over his shoulder. His head lifted the instant Viktor stirred.
“Tory.” His voice cracked. “I’m here.”
Viktor tried to speak, but his throat rasped raw. Gabriel gave the only answer he knew his brother wanted:
“We’ll see you well again. And then we’ll bring her home.”
Amerei.
His mind reached for her—for Amethyst, for the tether that bound them—but where he had felt her before there was only void. His breath shook.
“I can’t feel her.”
“She’s there.” Gabriel cupped his face with one steady hand. “She’s waiting for you.”
Saecily appeared above them, her healer’s eyes sharp even in shadow.
“You’re awake, Commander Seraphim,” she said, a brief smile softening her mouth. “Drink.”
Gabriel received a clay cup brimming with an herbal tincture. He carefully lifted Viktor’s head and set the rim to his lips. Once he settled, Saecily took his wrist, fingers measuring the fevered pulse.
“Your heart runs too fast, Viktor,” she said. “The herbs can slow it, but only so much.”
Her gaze slid to his ruined hand, and her voice hardened.
“Your hand is dying. The bones are shattered, the blood blackening. If nothing is done, infection will take the arm. And then the rest of you.”
The words cut through the haze.
He flexed—or tried to—but the bindings bit back pain.
His voice rasped.
“Tell me,” he said in broken breaths, “what must be done.”
Saecily leaned close, auburn braid falling over her shoulder.
Her tone dropped low.
“You must reset the bones yourself. With your Endowment. If you fail, the hand dies. And if your heart falters again”—her eyes flicked to Gabriel—“I will not hesitate to end it. I will amputate.”
Viktor’s gaze drifted upward to Gabriel, grief pooling behind his lashes. Gabriel cradled his face, tears shining behind a thin smile.
“One hand is enough to hold her, Tory. Ami needs you alive.”
A shadow lengthened against the wall.
Storne.
Viktor’s vision blurred with tears he could not stop.
In a ragged breath, he said, “I’ll be useless to you, Storne. To Casqadia.”
The commander came to Saecily’s shoulder, his frame stooped with the weight of war.
“You’ll not raise a sword again, perhaps. But you’ll raise armies. Halyon. Aerdania. This was my plan for you—and it does not change.”
