“No.” Viktor’s head shook faintly, denial burning through the fever.
His lips parted, reaching into the void.
“Amerei,”he whispered across the frayed bond.
Storne’s voice dropped, low and grim.
“I cannot reach her either. I’ve sent messengers to Amethyst. Pray they find her before she hears the rumors of your demise.”
Viktor strained anyway—toward her, toward home, toward anything that might tear him from this moment. His eyes closed, lips trembling.
“Azrikel.”
A ripple passed through the chamber.
“Who?” Saecily murmured, her hands stilling.
“I’m here, Tory.”
The voice came from the shadow.
Azrikel stepped forward, and the air shifted with him. At the sound of his name—his true name—the silence deepened.
Viktor’s fevered gaze fixed only on him.
“Can I do this?” His voice broke. “Can I save my hand?
Azrikel’s fingers unthreaded the stone from his neck. He knelt, finding Viktor’s arm, and set the crystal just below his elbow.
“See…”
The stone flared.
Light spilled into Viktor’s veins, tracing the jagged fractures of bone and sinew, the mangled ruin of his hand. Gasps shivered around the chamber as the impossible was laid bare.
“You must be the one to move the bones,” Azrikel said. “There is no power in me that can do it for you. My gift can only show you the broken places.”
Viktor’s breath shuddered out.
“And if I fail?”
Azrikel’s face was unreadable in the lamplight.
“Then Saecily will do what must be done. I will not intervene.”
The silence pressed in. Even Gabriel looked up, stunned. But Azrikel’s blind gaze was steady, fixed upon Viktor’s very soul.
“You are not spared by myth, Tory. Not by me. Not by the Endowment. If you cannot do this, then surgeon’s hands will take what fire and lightning have left you.”
Saecily’s chin lifted, grim agreement in her gaze.
“As a soldier of Elváliev, your body is under my charge. If your heart falters again, I will put you under. And if I must amputate, I will.”
The words fell like shattered glass, but Viktor did not turn from them. His chest heaved, sweat dampening his hair. Slowly, painfully, he gave a single nod.
“Do it,” he rasped. “Strap me. I’ll try.”
Something softened in Gabriel’s face, grief and pride warring in his eyes. He leaned close, pressing his brow to Viktor’s.
