“Elváliev tolerates him pulling men because they want to see how it plays. Some in the capital want him to bring down Zeporah. But they want to see him do it on his own. If he wins, he won’t be just Sevrak’s commander anymore.”
Viktor narrowed his eyes. “He’ll command Casqadia.”
Gabriel’s glance was sharp, almost warning.
“Exactly. And Elváliev will claim him as an ally either way.”
Viktor’s brow furrowed.
“Does King Yethule support Amerei’s claim?”
“King Yethule barely knows what day it is,” Gabriel muttered, half grim, half amused. “But Prince Xavien? He does. He stands behind her cause.”
“That’s good, then. I suppose.”
Gabriel glanced at him from beneath his brow.
“Suppose nothing when it comes to Vykenran nobility.”
Viktor exhaled hard, shaking his head as though to fling off the weight of names and thrones.
“Let’s try something,” he said suddenly.
Gabriel glanced at him warily.
“That tone usually means I’ll regret it.”
“You’re a Ruakite—try to run the way I do,” Viktor told him, lengthening his stride, the rhythm almost inhumanly smooth. “Faster. Push harder. Not just your legs—your whole self. Like the ground isn’t meant to hold you.”
Gabriel barked a laugh, already stumbling to match the pace.
“Dask, Viktor—I’m no storm.”
“Not yet,” Viktor said, eyes fixed ahead.
He let the air catch his chest, his arms, his stride—felt it coil through him like a second pulse. For a few breaths, it worked. The wind seemed to rise with him, his steps lighter than earth should allow.
Then Gabriel cursed, half-tripping, boots skidding on shale.
Viktor steadied him, then surged forward again, this time letting go of restraint. He opened his stride and the air seemed to answer, rushing against his chest, filling his lungs until he thought he might lift clear from the earth. His feet struck the ground with impossible lightness—less pounding, more skimming—like the wind itself bore his weight.
For a heartbeat, he felt untouchable.
The world blurred. The evening pulled past him.
Behind him, Gabriel growled, trying to match pace.
“Dask—Viktor, you’re—”
His words broke off as his legs tangled.
He went down hard, sprawling into the dust.
Viktor skidded to a stop, chest heaving, the storm still alive in his lungs. His whole body trembled, not from weariness but from the sheer, staggering rush of it. He turned back, grinning wide enough to ache.
“Not like that,” he called, laughter still shaking him as he offered a hand up. “But… close.”
Gabriel brushed himself off, hurling curses, when the creak of wheels drew their attention. An old man rumbled past in a battered cart, reins loose in his spotted hands. The mule plodded slow, its ears twitching at every step.
