Chapter Fifty-Eight
The Thread Unbroken
He had never met the boy, and yet he had known him all his life.
The apothecary lay hidden between two hills behind Castle Fyreglade, veiled by an herb garden and an apiary.
Viktor moved past the raised beds, the sun drawing fragrance from every leaf, the air heavy with green heat.
Bees hummed in their wooden homes—a low, living song.
The garden spilled into a meadow farther down, teeming with life.
He reached the cottage door and stilled.
Through the window, the silhouettes of Storne and Saecily stood braced like shadows against the boy within. A breath filled Viktor’s chest, rough and unwilling, before he forced the door wide.
There he was.
Seated at the table, robe cast aside, clothed only in a simple linen tunic.
The Midnight.
Hair dark as Viktor’s, though coarser, curling wild across pale eyes—clouded and strange. A face caught between—no longer a boy, not yet a man.
“A soldier comes this way…”
His voice broke the stillness like a tremor.
“I hear it in his boots.”
“This is High-Captain Viktor Seraphim,” Storne said.
Saecily touched the commander’s shoulder, then motioned Viktor forward. He crossed to the table, every step unsteady, and sat.
The Midnight’s head turned, unerring—blind gaze fixed, following Viktor’s shadow.
“I feel no heat in your skin,” he whispered. “You healed yourself, Ruakite.”
“Yes,” Viktor breathed, scarred hands curling tight on his knees. “Only faint traces remain.”
He stared across the table. His father’s eyes. The gentle curve of his mother’s smile.
Dask.
A boy he had never met. A brother he had always known.
“You were rising… into Elysium.” The words left The Midnight in broken measure, fragments of a dream. “…after the Vykenraven.”
Viktor nodded.
The Midnight went on.
“But you are strong. You returned.”
“I have much to live for,” Viktor said, voice low, carved with certainty.
The Midnight inclined his head slowly.
“Zeporah stirs Ashakar. Conjuring… a spell that needs time.”
Viktor’s breath sharpened.
“The volcano…”
He looked from Storne to the boy.
“She takes the fire of Ashakar,” Storne said, voice roughened, “and shackles men’s souls to the dragons. That’s how she makes them hers.”
Viktor’s chest tightened. “How long?”
The boy hesitated, as though listening to some hidden current.
“The full moon. Sooner if she gains help,” The Midnight explained, hand drifting across the table, fingers brushing air. “The Tome, Commander?”
“Secured,” Storne answered. “A hundred feet below this room.”
The boy’s lips parted, grim.
“The Tome of the Hollow Flame,” he murmured. “I cannot sense it.”
“Good,” Storne said, a rare shadow of a smile crossing his face. “You aren’t meant to.”
Silence followed, still as breath before thunder. The Midnight tilted his head, listening to something only he could hear.
“There is a path, Commander,” he said. “For you to speak in silence.”
His fingers traced a faint line across the tabletop, as if following a vein of light.
“Your mother’s line—”
“Rydan.”
“Yes.” A ghost of a smile. “Old as the oaths of Vykenra. You may speak… to those bound to you by covenant.” His hand skimmed the wood again. “Your daughter. Your mother. Soon—” his blind gaze turned to Viktor, “—Viktor Seraphim.”
The boy’s hand hovered in front of him, as if feeling for a pulse.
“But Viktor Seraphim,” he whispered, almost laughing, “can speak to anyone.”
Viktor went still.
He’d heard voices call to him in the dark before—but never imagined he might answer back. Might enter another’s mind like a prayer.
The chair scraped softly.
The Midnight rose, reaching along the wall until his fingers found a gnarled stick.
“It will take time, Commander… to teach you.”
He found his robe by touch and drew it around his thin shoulders.
“I must go now.”
Viktor stepped aside to let him pass—
then couldn’t.
His throat burned with words that would not form.
The Midnight found the doorframe with his palm.
“Wait,” Viktor managed. “Where are you—”
The boy pushed the door open and stepped onto the garden path.
He felt his way by sound and sun, quickening with each step.
Viktor moved after him, but Saecily’s hand caught his arm. Through the window, he watched the hooded figure vanish down the winding path—each step a blade turned in his chest.
“We know,” Saecily said softly, thunder-muted. “Sit down, Viktor.”
His jaw locked.
His eyes snapped to Storne.
The commander only stared.
Viktor tore himself from the window, gripping the chairback until the wood groaned, knuckles white, storm thrumming in his blood.
Saecily closed the distance, courage steadying her voice.
“Seventeen years ago… Eiliyah Aradostylan called the Elders of the forest to save her dying child.”
Viktor’s gaze lifted, dark and unyielding.
“And from that plea,” she said, glancing toward the door, “we were given The Midnight. A seer—your seer.”
She drew a breath. The air seemed to still with her.
“And yes… your brother.”
Memory struck like a lash.
His mother’s face as she rode away.
His father’s hollowed grief.
The eight-year-old boy he once was clutching his ribs against a hurt he could not name.
Something broke open in him.
Heat surged—the Endowment stirring like stormfire in his blood.
“Where has he been?”
Viktor’s voice cut low, dangerous.
“My father mourned him like a grave was dug—wouldn’t even speak his name.”
His voice frayed, grief shredding the last of his composure.
“I don’t even know the boy’s name.”
“He has none,” Saecily said gently, taking his wrists to steady him. “He will not let us give him one.”
“I would have searched,” Viktor rasped, shaking his head. “I would have found him. Brought him home. Where is he going? I have to—”
“You cannot.” Her fingers tightened. “The Elders forbid it.”
“They forbid you,” Viktor snapped, tearing free and striding for the door.
He stopped in the threshold, squaring his shoulders—a soldier before battle.
“Where are you going?” he called down the winding path.
“Turn back.”
“I cannot,” the boy answered in his mind.
Viktor startled, the presence there like shadow’s chill.
“You must let me go… for now.”
Viktor braced his forearms against the frame, breath harsh. His eyes burned, but his stare didn’t break.
He relented.
“Are you safe?”
“I am.”
The voice lightened, a thread of warmth through the air.
“I am never far from you, Ruakite.”
Viktor’s jaw tightened, storm rising in his chest.
“Then swear it,” he growled. “If danger comes, you’ll call to me. You will.”
A long silence—then the boy’s voice, hushed and certain:
“I promise…”
A breath.
“ …brother.”
The garden swallowed his steps.
And yet Viktor felt him still—as if a cord thrummed between them, buried deep and bright.
I have much to live for… and now, someone else to protect.