Viktor charged.
Steel shrieked as the first blow rang out, echoing across the ridge. Storne blocked cleanly, shoulders steady, as if Viktor’s rage were nothing but wind.
Another strike—hard, but precise, cut from hours drilled in the yard.
Another—measured, yet fueled with fury.
Storne met each one, parrying with the reflex of long campaigns.
“Too wild,” Storne snapped, forcing him back.
“A soldier’s anger won’t win a war.”
Viktor roared, bringing the blade down in a furious arc.
Sparks burst.
Storne staggered a step but righted himself, eyes flashing.
He pressed forward, every stroke heavy, every movement honed by decades of battle.
“You’ve more in you—stronger than this!”
Their blades locked.
Viktor’s grip tightened, muscles burning, but his form held—boots braced, strike true.
Storne leaned close, voice a growl.
“If fate put fire in your hands, then burn, damn you.”
With a cry, Viktor heaved, driving the blade with all his might. The impact jolted through him, and Storne stumbled back, boots grinding furrows into the earth.
For the first time, the commander yielded ground.
Viktor froze, chest heaving, stunned by what he had done.
Flame coursed along the blunted steel, bright and consuming, born of his own hand.
From the ridge, Amerei’s cry split the air.
“Viktor!”
And the fire answered.
Chapter Ten
Ruakite
Prophecy did not whisper his name. It thundered across the desert.
Storne’s voice rolled across the valley, unshaken by flame.
“There it is.”
Gabriel fell silent. Amerei stood frozen, breath caught between wonder and dread.
Viktor’s grip tightened on the burning blade, frost and fire warring in his chest.
