At last Storne moved—slow, circling him with the weight of judgment.
“Fate chose you, Captain Seraphim.”
The words landed like a brand.
Chosen.
Claimed.
“You carry the Endowment.”
Storne did not raise his voice.
“Fire first, always fire. But it does not end there.”
His gaze cut sharp as steel.
“Wind. Storms. Healing. Bonds no mortal should bear.”
The fire climbed higher.
Chosen? No—cursed.
“You’ve never heard the word,” Storne said, reading the denial in Viktor’s face.
“Ruakite.
That is what you are.
Few each generation. Fewer still among men.
My father was the last. Until you.”
A rustle swept the ridge.
Evander stiffened, stricken. “My father—”
“—was Ruakite,” Storne finished for him. Then to Gabriel: “So was yours.”
Evander flinched, shoulders jerking as if struck.
Gabriel only stared—hollowed out by the weight of it.
But Storne’s gaze held only Viktor.
“Rare, for a man. Rarer still, when no father’s blood passed it down.”
His voice fell low.
“And yet, here you stand. With fire in your hands.”
The words burned deeper than the flame itself.
With a trembling motion Viktor crushed the fire to nothing, sparks lashing out between his fingers. The steel fell to his side, steam ghosting into the mountain air.
Wind swept across the lake, carrying silence so taut it seemed the world itself had paused to listen.
Amerei moved first.
