Chapter Nine
The Endowment
What burned in him now could not be undone.
The sky was still dark when Viktor climbed the ridge.
Shadows clung to the valley below, the first edge of dawn not yet breaking the mountains.
He stood in silence, arms braced against the chill, breath clouding in the thin air as the pale outlines of the practice field emerged.
Hooves struck the stone behind him.
Gabriel rode up on a gray, broad-chested stallion that tossed its head, ears pinned and teeth snapping at the bit.
“Storne had the hands scour the stables for something mean enough to keep pace with you,” Gabriel said, hauling on the reins as the beast lunged. “I can’t promise he’ll behave. But the lads swear he’s finally stopped biting everyone.”
Viktor huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh, though his eyes stayed on the valley.
“This is the whole of the practice field?” he asked.
Gabriel nodded.
“Furthest targets line the base of that mountain.”
Viktor’s gaze climbed higher, to the cliff face looming over the valley.
“And beyond that?”
“Only a lake so deep no one’s ever touched bottom,” Gabriel said with a bark of laughter. “The kind of cliff fools like you sneak off to jump from.”
Viktor’s mouth twitched, but before he could answer, more hooves crested the ridge.
Commander Storne rode into view with Evander at his right—and Amerei at his left.
Her hair was bound back, her riding cloak drawn close. The first light of dawn touched her face like fire over water. Her gaze caught on him and held, steady, unguarded—captivated.
The morning seemed to hold its breath for her.
Strength stirred in Viktor where exhaustion had lingered, sharper than the ache in his chest.
Then Storne moved forward.
“Were you able to rest, Captain?” he asked, his tone deceptively casual. “Or did the Kryonites drown you in their brew?”
Storne knows every damn thing that happens in this camp.
“I’m strong, Commander.”
“Good.”
Without warning, Evander slid from his saddle, drew his bow, and sent an arrow thudding into the nearest target.
Amerei flinched at the sudden crack.
Storne’s hand shot out, pushing the bow down without even glancing his way, as if he’d been expecting it all along.
He turned back to Viktor and Gabriel.
“Captain Feindoran—wait until Seraphim has passed the first line of targets. Then ride that stallion as hard as he’ll carry you. Both of you go to the end of the field and turn back.”
At last Storne fixed Viktor with a look that left no room for escape.
“And you—do not hold back.”
The ridge fell silent but for the restless horse and the tug of wind against their mantles.
Storne raised his hand.
Viktor braced, the earth solid beneath his feet, and caught Amerei’s gaze one last time—her look steadying him like no command ever could.
The air snapped as Storne’s hand dropped.
Viktor launched.
The world blurred beneath his feet, stone and grass a rhythm he knew by heart.
For a breath, he was ahead—his lungs burning, the gray stallion’s thunder still behind him. But then Gabriel spurred the beast, and in a heartbeat it tore past, hooves hammering the earth like war drums. Dust sprayed Viktor’s face.
“Dask!” Gabriel shouted over his shoulder. “Try to keep up!”
Viktor’s jaw clenched.
He fixed on the horse’s broad haunches, driving harder, each stride a jolt of fire through his legs. The stallion’s speed was merciless, bred for it, built for it. Yet still—Viktor began to close the gap.
On the ridge, Amerei leaned forward in her saddle, breath catching.
“He’s running like he did the other night!”
“There’s no way he’ll catch it,” Evander scoffed, though his knuckles whitened on the reins. “That stallion was a gift from Prince Xavien himself.”
Below, Viktor pushed, sweat burning his eyes, but he never quite passed Gabriel. He matched the stallion stride for stride, nothing more.
Storne’s mouth thinned, frustration cutting hard lines into his face.
“If I’m right, Captain Seraphim can outrun any horse.”
His words hung, heavy with both certainty and doubt.
“He’s holding back,” he growled.
The stallion’s hooves still pounded ahead, but the gap was shrinking—inch by inch, stride by stride.
Awe spilled from Amerei’s lips before she could stop it.
“You’re right, Father. He is one of them.”
Her voice trembled with reverence, as though fate itself had just unfolded before her eyes.
Storne’s gaze shifted from his daughter to the man below.
His tone fell like a judgment.
“You believe. Now he must.”
He spurred his mount forward, thundering down the slope in a spray of dust and fury.
Amerei gasped, panic breaking her reverie.
“Where’s he going?” she asked, voice fraying.
“What is he doing?”
Evander’s hand clamped around her arm.
“Stay out of it. Your father knows what he’s about.”
She twisted sharply, her braid slipping loose, golden strands catching the light.
Her eyes flared as she snapped back, voice low and dangerous.
“Try to stop me, Evander—and see what happens.”
She broke free, leaning over the ridge, heart in her throat as Viktor tore across the field. Every breath, every beat of her pulse was with him—terrified of what her father might do.
Gabriel’s voice cut through the chaos.
“Viktor—look out! He’s coming!”
Storne’s stallion thundered after him, hooves pounding like war drums at his back.
The commander gave no quarter, driving him harder, faster, each strike of the mount’s hooves closer, closer—until Viktor could feel the heat of its breath against his neck.
“Commander, stop!” Gabriel’s shout cracked, furious, desperate.
Amerei’s cry split the ridge. “Father!”
Viktor’s chest tore with fire.
He pushed harder, lungs screaming, legs aflame.
Dust rose in choking clouds, the far edge of the field rushing nearer with every stride.
“Commander!”
His voice broke raw.
Still the stallion bore down.
“Commander!”
No answer. No mercy.
His throat burned, his heart collapsing into dread. Desperation wrenched the word from him, stripped of rank, stripped of fear.
“Storne!”
At last the commander hauled on the reins, the stallion rearing, hooves slashing the air.
But Viktor’s own momentum could not be stopped.
The ground vanished beneath him.
The last thing he heard was Amerei’s scream—raw, breaking through the wind.
Then the world fell away.
Gabriel and Amerei rushed to the cliff’s edge, voices ragged with horror.
“Viktor!” Gabriel roared.
Amerei struck Storne’s chest with both fists, golden hair wild around her tear-streaked face.
“You killed him! You killed him!”
Storne caught her wrists, his voice cutting through their grief like a blade.
“Look.”
Below, Viktor hovered above the lake, body stretched over the water as if the air itself bore his weight. Light fractured around him—water and fire meeting in impossible balance. Spray burst against him, yet no wave touched his skin.
Amerei froze, breath torn from her lungs.
Gabriel’s fury faltered into silence.
But Viktor—
Viktor felt the impossible weightlessness, his body held by some power he had never sought.
Shock carved through him.
This isn’t real. It can’t be.
His heart hammered in disbelief, terror breaking through rage.
The strength gave way.
He collapsed, plunging into the lake at last.
The cold tore through him, real and merciless.
He struck out for the bank, every stroke a cry of denial, every kick raw defiance.
When he hauled himself to shore, water streaming from him, he rose—
eyes locked on Storne above.
The lake shifted.
The current bent away from him, parting in ripples as though commanded by his fury.
Amerei’s hands flew to her mouth.
Gabriel muttered a curse.
Storne wheeled his stallion at the cliff’s edge, watching, unshaken, as if the plunge had been exactly what he intended.
Rage throbbed in Viktor’s chest, hotter than the fire in his lungs. He dragged himself onto the stones, pulse pounding like drums in his ears, body trembling with something far greater than exhaustion.
“Is that all you have for me?”
His voice tore raw, desperate with anger.
Storne’s gaze narrowed, unreadable. Then, without a word, he wrenched a practice blade from the saddle and flung it down.
The sword clattered at Viktor’s feet.
“You want to rage at me, Captain?” Storne’s tone cracked like a whip. “Do it with steel in your hand. Show me what you are.”
Viktor seized the blade, its weight anchoring him, dragging his fury into form. He rose, dripping, weapon trembling in his grip.
Storne dismounted in one fluid motion, drawing his own blunt steel. His stance was calm, almost careless.
“Come then. Let me see if fate truly chose you.”
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.