Chapter Sixty-Four
Of Wind and Steel
The storm answered him now. And it spoke ruin.
The cliffside behind Fyreglade seethed with silence—the air heavy, the valley below bristling with enemy steel.
Viktor reined Ruby to the edge, fire restless across his shoulders, while Storne’s horse stamped beside him.
Two riders against an army, watching, waiting—the storm poised between their breaths.
The Midnight’s voice carried on the still air, stronger than ever.
“Send the wind to find them.”
Viktor closed his eyes and let the Endowment surge through him—his senses riding the current, sweeping the canyons, catching the thrum of a hundred hearts beating in chaos.
“There.”
He pointed to a gulley carved deep into the rocks.
Storne wheeled his horse.
“Call to The Midnight,” he ordered. “I compel you to stir a storm.”
“You said something about the Gearíyan Strait?” Viktor pressed, following.
Storne laughed, rough.
“Only if he thinks you’re ready—to bring down the sky itself.”
Viktor swallowed. “Will you guide me?”
The Midnight was still a long moment. Then his words came on a rush of breath.
“They say you are not ready.”
“In the Vykenraven,” Viktor told him, “I used the wind to tear down a wall.”
The Midnight’s tone darkened to a whispered warning.
“Your soul cannot withstand the grief of what you ask.”
Viktor drew a slow breath.
The Midnight—the Elders he spoke to in silence—they were right.
“Commander,” Viktor called, halting Storne.
Storne looked back.
“I can’t…” Viktor’s gaze lifted skyward.
“I cannot bear the weight of killing them all.”
For a moment, Storne only stared at him. Then a faint smile curved on his lips.
“Good,” he said at last. “You remember why you were chosen.”
He pointed toward the gulley, to the soldiers waiting there.
“Convince them to turn back. Don’t let them through the pass.”
Viktor nodded, eyes narrowing. The jut of a cliff caught him—it looked just like Ronan’s Bluff back home. Memory sparked.
“I could send a cutterwind.”
“A cutterwind?” The Midnight asked.
“That’s what we call them in Aerdania—bursts of wind that shred thatching, rip trees from their roots.”
“Yes,” The Midnight murmured. “I know what you speak of.”
A beat of silence, then:
“You may.”
Viktor nodded once.
“Commander!” he shouted down. “Stay low—find cover.”
Storne slipped into a cleft, tied off his horse, and saluted. Viktor returned it.
“Call the wind from the north,” The Midnight instructed.
Viktor threw out his arm.
“Faster,” The Midnight urged. “Faster!”
The plains shivered. Dust surged. A line of wind tore through the trees.
Ruby braced beneath him as Viktor leaned forward, flame trailing his shoulders.
Below, soldiers shouted—armor rattling like thunder in a gorge.
He charged the clifftop, matching the storm’s fury. The men broke formation, trapped between canyon and gale. Viktor reined Ruby hard at the edge.
“Leolis, son of Gray!” he called—half taunt, half accusation.
The wind detonated through the canyon—bodies tumbling, banners whipping.
Viktor’s gaze swept the soldiers. His voice cut through the roar.
“Your captain betrays you!”
He found him—Leolis, riding forward.
“He has led you…” Viktor’s voice burned. “…to trespass a Ruakite.”
Murmurs spread like wildfire.
Leolis lifted his shield. “You reek of ash,” he mocked. “Did Zeporah burn you—or brand you?”
Viktor’s fury stoked the gale.
“Turn back. My power is not meant for you.”
His hands ignited.
A dozen men bolted, galloping back through the gulley.
“Cowards!” Leolis raged. “Hold. The. Line!”
But the storm roared unchained, unraveling order with its howl. Even Leolis ducked beneath rock.
Viktor leapt from his saddle, boots slamming stone. He dropped from the ledge, hit the ground running, fire wreathing twin blades in his grasp.
“Turn back now.”
His voice was thunder.
“The Endowment does not ask—it answers.”
Leolis shoved forward, shouting, “Stand fast! Seraphim will weaken. Zeporah crushed him in the Vykenraven!”
“Mind the skies,” Viktor warned. “The north wind was mercy. Shall I call the south to devour you?”
“You have no such—”
Viktor flung his arm wide.
Leolis faltered, air torn from his chest. “What are your terms?”
The wind stopped.
Only silence—and steel.
“You will take your men back to Rhidian,” Viktor called. “Beg mercy of your whorish queen.”
Leolis clung to his saddle, fear hollowing his eyes.
“To those who pledge fealty to Casqadia’s rightful queen,” Viktor cried, “come with me.”
He met Leolis’s gaze.
“You who follow this coward—” he kicked dirt at Leolis’s boots “—go back to Rhidian by the Whispering Way. Stay out of Elváliev.”
A tremor passed through the host. One by one, soldiers dismounted—blades reversed in surrender.
Leolis’s face twisted.
“She will come for you!” he shouted, voice fraying. “She will haunt your minds!”
He scrambled into his saddle, legs shaking.
“Amerei stands no chance,” he spat. “Zeporah will have the realm—or she will burn it all to ash.”
Viktor didn’t falter.
“Run,” he said, his eyes aflame. “Before there is nowhere left to go.”
Leolis wheeled his horse.
At the canyon’s mouth, Storne waited, arms wide in taunt. Leolis tore past him, fleeing.
Storne’s voice cracked over the soldiers.
“You are now subject to the Royal Army of Elváliev. Rend your mantles—cast them into fire. Surrender your arms!”
Steel fell in a clatter.
Viktor scanned the soldiers—shaken, hardened, but theirs now.
Moments later, Storne stepped to his side, clasped his shoulder hard.
“You’ve won us a hundred men and horses,” he said. “I don’t even know how to commend you.”
Viktor huffed. The words left him before he could leash them.
“Your daughter is mine. That’s enough.”
Blood roared in his ears. Dask, did I just say that?
Storne’s head snapped toward him—silence. Then a bark of rough laughter. “Careful, boy. I ought to lay you flat for that—if I weren’t so damn proud.”
Viktor’s jaw eased, the ghost of a grin tugging at his mouth.
Storne nodded to the soldiers.
“I’ll have Matteo escort the recruits to Fort Sevrak.”
He gave Viktor a hard, knowing look.
“But you—make haste to Fyreglade.”
His reins cracked sharp.
“Your bride is waiting.”
The recruits filed into motion, threading through the canyon pass.
The wind stilled, but Viktor carried its fury in his marrow. Fire flared at his heels as he drove his horse harder, every stride a vow.
I’m coming, Amerei.
* * *
In the quiet halls of Fyreglade, a sudden gust swept through the open window—biting first, then warm, like winter yielding to spring.
Amerei turned from her mirror, hand rising to her heart. The air still carried him—salt and smoke, cinder and snow.
She smiled through a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
He was coming.