Chapter Thirty-Five
Son of No One
Chains could not hold him. Fire would not spare him.
Zeporah’s fingers uncoiled from Amerei’s hair—
a viper releasing its prey.
Viktor struck first.
Chains split from arms in a spray of ash and fire, the fetters of every human in the hall snapping loose at once.
Gasps and cries rippled through the chamber.
Amerei surged into him, colliding against his chest. He caught her hard, flames guttering to smoke as he crushed her close—just for a breath, long enough to feel her safe against him.
Above the uproar, Zeporah lowered herself into her throne. Black wings of silk and bone flared wide, catching the light. Her calm was worse than rage—every word promised ruin.
“You think a vow makes you untouchable, Captain Seraphim?”
Her voice was sweet with venom.
“I will grind it to ash. And I’ll start with her.”
Viktor bent to Amerei, grip firm at her waist.
“Go with Evander,” he whispered, urgent. “Behind the column.”
She clung tighter, eyes locked to his.
“Viktor—”
He pressed his brow to hers, a kiss seared into her hair.
“Trust me.”
He tore himself back, turning her into Evander’s arms—
But in her eyes,
in that last reflection—
he saw it.
Smoke coiling into scale and shadow.
Wings unfurling.
A vast shape forcing itself into being behind the throne.
Heat warped the air.
Iron and smoke choked the hall.
The first hiss rattled marble.
Something inside him snapped.
Light flared across his palms.
Steel shrieked from every scabbard.
Two blades slammed free, ripping through the air into his grip.
Fire raced their length, flaring white.
Viktor lifted his head.
Eyes blazing.
Twin swords in hand.
He turned—slow and terrible—
face to face with the dragon,
rearing from the haze,
its eyes molten,
its wings blotting out the hall behind Zeporah’s throne.
Her gaze slid from Viktor to Amerei, then back again, her smile sharp as knives.
“You chose her, Captain. You chose this.” Her voice carried over the hall. “Then let all see the Ruakite broken at my feet.”
The dragon burst forward, a nightmare given flesh—its wings scraping the vaulted ceiling, its roar tearing through marble and bone alike.
Benches splintered. Goblets exploded in showers of wine and glass.
Nobles trampled one another in their scramble for doors that would not open. Zeporah’s spell sealed them in, her laughter slithering through the hall as smoke curled higher.
Viktor stood alone at the center, blades blazing blue in his fists.
His breath rasped in his chest. His shoulders braced, though every instinct screamed to flee.
The beast prowled low, embered eyes fixed on him, fire building in its throat.
The first torrent struck.
Viktor dove behind a column.
Stone erupted in shards, flames searing hot enough to scorch through his cuirass.
He rolled clear, came up slashing.
His left blade scraped across a jawline scale, sparks scattering uselessly. The right drove shallow between ridges—barely a sting.
The dragon’s head snapped down.
Viktor threw himself sideways, marble cracking where teeth closed.
Its tail swept—he vaulted, landed rough, chest heaving.
Around him, the hall was ruin—columns scorched, tapestries aflame, nobles shrieking for escape.
Somewhere beneath the thunder and screams, he swore he could hear a voice breathe through him—fire answering fire.
“Turn the dragon.”
The words struck him like iron in his skull—ancient, cold, commanding.
He staggered, scanning the smoke.
No one there. No one speaking.
The dragon reared, fire already building in its throat.
Viktor braced, then surged forward—fire racing his veins, blades flashing.
He dove beneath its chest, slashing hard, and skidded to the base of a marble column.
He turned his fury on the stone.
With a roar, he drove both blades deep and wrenched them wide. The column cracked, splintering from within.
Power surged through him—
wind howling, fire burning.
A single heave—
he tore the column down.
The ceiling groaned. Dust cascaded, plaster splitting. Nobles screamed as benches splintered under the falling debris.
Viktor’s chest burned, gaze snapping to the back wall.
He raised his hands—fire blazing, storm rising—and hurled it all against the stone.
The wall did not so much as tremble.
His heart slammed in his ribs.
“Turn the dragon.”
The voice slid into him, ancient as the earth.
“Dragonfire alone breaks the spell.”
Viktor staggered, breath ragged.
“No,” he rasped, shaking his head, chest scorched raw. “It’ll kill me.”
Across the hall, he heard her.
“Viktor!”
Amerei’s voice—raw, aching—rose above the shrieks and thunder. His eyes cut to her, desperate, her gaze locked on his as if willing him to hold.
“Turn the dragon.”
The beast lunged, fire gouting toward him.
He dove, rolled, came up slashing—forcing its head to follow.
The voice beat like a drum in his skull.
“Only dragonfire.”
Viktor froze for half a heartbeat, the cost clear in his bones.
His eyes found hers.
Amerei strained against Evander’s grip, screaming his name, tears streaking ash down her face.
She knew.
She knew what he meant to do.
Her wrists twisted against Evander’s hands, her voice breaking as she cried, “No! Viktor, please—”
He held her gaze, every muscle seared with fire and resolve.
This was the choice.
This was the vow.
His jaw locked.
His grip tightened on the blades.
One last breath.
And he sprinted straight into the path of fire.
Heat devoured him.
His skin blistered, shoulders seared, the scream ripped from his chest—
but the dragon turned, its furnace throat aimed at the wall.
The spell lit, cracks spidering like veins of light through stone.
Viktor staggered upright, smoke curling from his burned shoulders, blue mist searing in his eyes. He slashed at the air, forcing the dragon to wheel back, and bellowed through blood and ash—
Zeporah’s voice slid into him like a knife of smoke. From her throne beyond the beast, her gaze caught his, black and pitiless.
“Do it, soldier. Burn for her. Son of no one—end as nothing.”
His jaw locked.
Ash streamed from him, blue fire climbing higher on his blades.
He set his shoulders, every muscle carved with ruin.
He answered—voice low as death itself.
“I will rise. And when I do…”
His gaze seared into hers.
“I’m coming for your crown.”
“Viktor!” Amerei’s scream tore against the silence.
The dragon roared—fire detonating in answer, a furnace gale swallowing marble and banners alike.
Viktor crossed his blades. His chest was already blackened, the burn sinking deep as he wrenched the wall’s corners down with raw force.
The chamber split apart, spell-veins shattering in an eruption of light and smoke. The breach blew open. Night slammed in, stars tearing wide across the ruin.
The blast hurled Viktor backward, body flung through the gap, blood and ash trailing in his wake.
He vanished into the dark,
a soldier consumed by ruin and claimed by the night sky—
leaving her cry echoing through the breach like a vow the stars themselves refused to swallow.