Chapter One Hundred Eleven
Hold Him
The dragons fled. The mountain stilled.
But whispers carried faster than victory. “He is gone.”
Gabriel lunged for him at the first flutter of his eyes.
“Tory—”
The Midnight settled, eyes simmering to pale, washed blue.
Viktor’s body jolted, back bowing sharp, a ragged gasp tearing the silence. Air ripped into him—violent, hungry, unstoppable. His chest heaved, every vein straining.
For one breath, relief broke across Gabriel’s face.
Then the thrashing began.
Viktor bucked in his arms, choking, clutching with his right hand as though drowning. His left lay mangled, glove torn, fingers bent wrong, blood spilling at the seams.
Pain hit him like a hammer.
His cry shook the earth beneath him—the guttural sound of something dragged half-alive from death itself.
“Hold him!” Storne barked, already forcing his weight down against Viktor’s shoulders.
Gabriel caught his wrists, but Viktor’s strength was wild, broken, dangerous. His head snapped side to side, breath tearing raw from his throat.
“His hand—” Samson’s cry cracked. “Dask, his hand—”
The crushed limb twitched once, then spasmed. Viktor’s back arched, another scream bursting out, eyes broke wide with disbelief.
Gabriel pinned him harder, tears cutting through ash.
“Tory—stop, please—”
Storne snarled toward the ridge.
“Delirium—now!”
Another cry left Viktor’s chest, ragged and hollow, and Gabriel bent over him, voice breaking: “Hold on, Tory—help is coming—”
The Midnight’s hand pressed to Viktor’s sternum, chanting low still, trying to steady the storm thrumming his veins.
“Breathe,” he whispered in the ancient tongue, forehead bowed close. “You will survive this.”
Viktor thrashed once more, then sagged against Gabriel’s hold, every breath jagged, too shallow to last.
Storne’s gaze went to the ridge, voice cracking like a blade:
“Get the draught down his throat before pain kills him again.”
The surgeon skidded down the ridge with a flask and rag, hands trembling as he tried to uncork it.
“Here!” Storne snapped, seizing the vial and wrenching it open with his teeth. He shoved the medic aside, braced Viktor’s jaw in one gauntlet.
“Gabriel—hold his head.”
Gabriel cradled him up, whispering ragged into his hair.
“Easy, Tory. It’s me. I’ve got you.”
Viktor writhed once more, his mangled hand twitching against the glassed ground. A cry tore his throat—veins bulging beneath ice white skin.
“Now.” Storne poured the draught past clenched teeth, forcing his hand over Viktor’s mouth, sealing it shut. Viktor thrashed, coughed, swallowed—or drowned.
A heartbeat stretched.
Then another.
His body gave, the tension easing.
His breath hitched shallow, uneven, but it came.
Gabriel’s forehead pressed to his hair, tears streaking ash.
“That’s it. That’s it, Tory.”
Samson’s sob broke behind them, boy’s shoulders shaking with relief.
The Midnight crouched still, stone at his neck glowing white, listening to the storm that still rattled Viktor’s veins. His chant softened, words falling to a whisper, until silence claimed them both.
Viktor stirred once, lips moving without voice. Gabriel bent low, caught it—the name breathed into the ash.
“Amerei…”
Then he went under, limp in Gabriel’s arms.
Storne wiped his mouth hard with the back of his hand, voice snapping sharp: “Get him to the tents. Now.”
Four men broke from the line, spears crossed, cloaks stripped for stretchers. They lifted the ruined weight of their commander carefully, as if the whole realm hung by his pulse.
Beyond the ridge, horns sounded.
The battle turned, dragons driven back.
But around them, whispers had already begun to spread—hushed, fearful, half-believing.
“The Ruakite is dead.”