Jorvan frowned as if someone had just cracked a stone tablet in front of him. His mouth opened, shut again, and then he turned sharply on his heel, pacing two short steps before throwing a hard look back toward Viktor. "You're serious," he said, voice pitching up with disbelief. "You're actually serious. You're completely cracked in the head, aren't you?"

  Viktor didn't flinch. He stood rooted, arms at his sides, gaze fixed. "I'm going."

  Jorvan let out something between a scoff and a laugh, motioning toward the window with both hands. "To the palace? Alone? You planning on throwing rocks at the king's feet and hoping he chokes on guilt?"

  "I'm not looking for guilt," Viktor said flatly. "I want the truth." A beat passed. "And then justice."

  "You know who's inside that place?" Jorvan barked, incredulous. "How many swords and sigils sit behind those gates?"

  Viktor's voice didn't rise. "Where is he?"

  Jorvan threw his hands wide with a sharp exhale, pacing in a tight circle like he could wear a hole through the stone. "You even asking that makes me complicit. That's treason—by association. I'm not someone they forgive."

  "You won't turn me in," Viktor said, his tone calm but final. "You're not their dog—you've made that clear."

  Jorvan stopped pacing. His eyes narrowed. "If I had any shreds of duty left—if I gave a damn about protocol—I'd end you here and now. Just to keep my neck clean."

  "Then do it," Viktor replied, gaze unwavering. "Let's stop pretending."

  A long silence stretched between them.

  Instead of reaching for a weapon, Jorvan sighed, deep and bitter. "Palace. Mid-tier chamber. They're holding court today." His voice had cooled to something tired and resigned. "Halren and Elric, both present unless there's been a change in rotation."

  "What kind of rotation?" Viktor asked.

  "Council matters. Seasonal review. Parade approvals. Doesn't matter." Jorvan shook his head and started counting off with jerky movements. "Full royal guard—twelve, possibly more. Two battlemages. Two arbiters tighter to the throne than bolts to a vault. And that's not counting corridors. You'd have to survive the gates, the halls, and the court chamber. Alone."

  Viktor didn't look away. "I'm still going."

  The room shifted, heavier somehow.

  Behind Viktor, boots scuffed faintly on stone. Arelos took a step forward, circled maybe a pace around, arms tense against his sides. "Viktor, think," he said, voice low but urgent. "Marching into blades doesn't resurrect anyone. You die, and it's just another name scrawled on a ruined wall."

  "I'm not doing this for names," Viktor said without turning.

  Arelos hesitated. "Then for what?"

  Viktor didn't answer.

  Soren drew in a breath. He'd been leaning against the far wall near the doorpost, arms folded, but now he straightened. His voice was quieter, more measured. "You don't have to be alone in this."

  "I'm not marching you in there to die." Viktor said, meeting Soren's gaze. "This is my challenge to face, not yours."

  Fenric took a step forward, chin cocked. "So that's it?"

  "I'm just telling you to sit this one out," Viktor said, firm now. "You wait by the western gate. One hour."

  "One hour," Jax repeated, stepping forward at last. "That's all you're giving yourself? You're not a storm, Viktor. You're still just one man."

  "If I take him down, maybe it rips a hole big enough for the light to get in," Viktor said.

  Jax's mouth dropped open with disbelief, then clenched into a tight line. "Gods," he muttered, pacing and then halting. "You're so damn ready to die, you're calling it heroism."

  Viktor stared at him. Didn't speak. Didn't need to.

  "You're not proving anything by dying," Jax spat, hand cutting through the air. "You're not making anything right. Mira's gone. The others are gone. You going too doesn't balance the scale—it just crushes what's left of it."

  "You think I don't know that?" Viktor snapped.

  They all fell quiet. The sudden heat in his voice scorched the air between them.

  Arelos stepped closer again, more measured this time, one slow breath feeding into the next. "Just… think for a second. Mira… Mira wouldn't want this."

  Viktor turned to face him fully. "Mira's dead."

  The silence that followed that was stronger than any argument. Jax looked away, chewing the inside of his cheek. Soren rubbed the back of his neck, eyes low. Fenric said nothing at all.

  Arelos exhaled quietly. Then he nodded. "Until sunset, then."

  No hands were shaken. No farewells offered. Just silent understanding, hollow and coarse like a wound that refused to boil over.

  Viktor turned without flourish, picking up his cloak and wrapping it tight against his shoulders.

  No one stopped him this time.

  No one followed.

  He stepped through the arch and down the alley, boots moving clean over cold stone. The sky had begun to tilt gray, shadows stretching sharper as the waning sun dipped behind the hillline.

  He didn't look back. There was no need.

  Let them say what they would later—madness, vengeance, grief. It didn't matter.

  Justice wasn't behind him.

  It waited ahead.

  Viktor approached the outer wall of the palace, shoulders squared and breath steady, but his jaw was tight enough to ache. He stopped just beyond the shadowline where the late afternoon sun glazed the tile like a forge plate. "This is it," he murmured under his breath. No awe. Just certainty, and beneath it—the edge of something harder.

  The royal palace crested above Onyra's northern quarter, its redstone towers stabbed into the sky, capped with domes of opal that glinted like scraped bone. From gold-tipped poles, white banners whipped under the wind. Guards stood in practiced rows around the perimeter—stiff in their ceremonial plate, trimmed in gold, their helms casting sharp shadows over unreadable eyes.

  One of them turned his head slightly, watching Viktor with idle wariness. "Gate's closed to outer traffic," the guard said, tone flat and rehearsed. "No access beyond this point. Return to your business."

  Viktor took another step forward, cloak brushing over the gravel. His voice dropped a register. "They're waiting for me inside."

  The guard shifted his grip around the haft of his spear. "Are they?" he asked, skeptical. "Name?"

  "Avrolios. Viktor Avrolios," Viktor said, not stopping.

  Now the other guard moved, angling forward, heavier in his stance. "No records of any audience scheduled," he muttered, squinting down at a yellowing scroll unfurled across his bracer. "No Avrolios. No Viktor."

  "Then the list is incomplete," Viktor replied.

  The first guard gave him a long look. Half confusion, half irritation. "We're not paid to play guessing games, and we're not familiar with your name," he snapped. "You're not on here."

  Viktor exhaled. He raised one palm, fingers loose, and the air around it shimmered—like heat rising off glass. In the next instant, the guards lifted slightly off the ground. Alarm flashed across their faces as they locked eyes—then, with a heavy thunk, their heads slammed together. They crumpled to the stone with a hollow thud. Armor clattered. One helmet rolled away in a slow, lazy circle.

  Viktor held still.

  His heartbeat didn't climb.

  Then he moved past them and muttered, "You'll know my name soon enough."

  The palace's outer halls swallowed him whole. The noise of the square faded behind richly lacquered doors, replaced by something worse—hollow quiet. The corridor ahead twisted inward like a ribcage, arched with marble, each curve tighter than the last. Every step he took echoed just a little too loud. He kept near the edges, brushing stone, ducking under banners, avoiding the open sweep of light spilling from high windows.

  Footsteps sounded—soft and erratic—then a man rounded the corner, arms full of twisted bedsheets. A servant. "Ah—hells, I didn't see—" he started, adjusting the linens clumsily as he nearly collided with Viktor.

  Viktor stopped cold. He didn't raise his hand, didn't snarl. Just met the man's wide eyes and said, level as winter, "You didn't see anything—keep walking."

  The servant blinked once. Jaw loosened.

  "I said," Viktor added, softer now but with a weight behind it, "keep walking."

  His feet obeyed before his mind caught up. The man turned and retreated fast down the hallway, shoulders high, lips pressed shut. He didn't even stumble.

  Viktor waited until the sound disappeared, then stepped forward again.

  The deeper he went, the more the stone changed. Elm paneling swept along the walls, carved with sweeping images of past kings—friezes of victories, treaties, blood. Their painted eyes watched as he passed like witnesses pinned to judgment. Still, no one challenged him.

  Two courtiers turned a corner up ahead. One in tapered robes, the other in navy velvet. Their conversation stuttered as they saw him. Their brows lifted—confused, maybe even suspicious—but neither spoke.

  Viktor inclined his head slightly. Court regard. Civil. Enough to sell the illusion.

  They moved on, glancing once over their shoulders, but said nothing more.

  He walked faster now. He slipped through half-open doors, crossed into quiet antechambers, ducked under low arches, and turned sharp corners. Tension in him curled tighter, like a wire threaded through his spine, pulled taut every time his boots struck marble.

  Then: voices again. From ahead. Closer.

  He slowed.

  A patrol stepped into view. Four guards. Less ceremonial than the ones outside. Tunics bearing the palace seal, eyes slightly more alert.

  "Wait there," said one, hand tightening around his sword hilt. "State your name. Who cleared you?"

  The second took a few paces forward, scanning Viktor's jaw as if searching for something to match against a warning board in his mind. "You don't belong here."

  "No," Viktor said.

  And then he motioned with his wrists.

  It was fast. Brutal.

  Their heads twisted into the walls with two, three quick grunts of impact—hard enough to rattle thin stone, loud enough that the glass behind them rippled. Helmets cracked open like dropped bowls. They fell, unmoving.

  Viktor didn't check their pulses.

  He moved on.

  He crossed a passage shaped like a rotunda—an open circle rising up into a glass dome. The air here felt heavier, colored with incense and something older. He glanced upward and registered jeweled panels shaped in conquest scenes—crowns lowered, swords raised, enemies crumbling.

  His senses spread wide—spiderwebs through air and stone.

  There. Toward the palace's heart.

  He felt them.

  The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  A cluster of people. Dense. Ten? Fifteen? No—dozens. A full court. The weight of expectation and power gathered in one place, pressed down like a stone lid.

  But within that crowd—four stood out. Or rather, five—one of them dim, fraying, an observer. But the other two—

  Viktor drew in a breath.

  They pulsed like Jorvan had. Anchors. Beacons. Arbiters.

  His eyes opened.

  He found the door.

  A massive construct of redwood and gold stood ahead, flanked by set-in velvet patterns and bound by twin hinges thicker than his arm. Two guards in full dress stepped to block him.

  He didn't even bother trying to persuade them to let him pass.

  With a movement smoother than breath, he flicked his wrists outward. Their feet slipped first. Then their skulls cracked into opposing walls. A wet noise. A single clatter of armor. A sharp, skidding groan of one blade falling against tile.

  Neither would rise again soon.

  Viktor paused at the door. No one came running.

  No echo of alarm.

  With a deep, steadying breath, he stepped forward and placed his palm against the redwood. But he didn't press with strength.

  He just moved it.

  No resistance.

  The door opened.

  And Viktor walked into the lion's mouth.

  Viktor stepped into the throne room with even strides, the weight of his purpose tamped beneath his ribs like a loaded spring. The polished floors below clicked faintly beneath his boots—sharp sounds swallowed under the hush of the assembled court.

  Rows of nobility lined long benches on either side of the hall, fifty at least, all draped in silks and crests, gold thread clinking faintly against rings and cups.

  At the far end of the room, the marble dais rose to frame the court's centerpiece. On its highest step sat King Elric, narrow-shouldered and too young for the crown that slipped slightly forward on his brow. To his right stood his father Duke Halren Carolian, regal in wine-red finery, a serpent-shaped clasp at his throat glinting with every subtle motion he made.

  Ceremonial guards in gold-accented armor lined either wall in practiced formation, their bodies unmoving, their spears upright, and their eyes tracking everything without so much as a twitch.

  A pair of petitioners finished their bowing, their voices faint and forgettable. They stepped back from the dais with the hesitation of men unsure if they'd just been honored or dismissed.

  A man in fine robes stepped forward from the queue that coiled along the side of the hall. He launched toward the open floor eagerly, a scroll clutched in both hands, a hopeful gleam brightening his face.

  Then Viktor shifted, intercepting the aisle. He stepped low and direct, shoulders squared as if the room belonged to him.

  "What in the bloody hells do you think you're doing?" the petitioner barked, pulling up short with an offended sputter. "That's my petition slot—that's mine!"

  He gestured frantically with his scroll and looked around as if trying to summon legal reprieve with indignation alone.

  Heads swiveled. The nobles leaned forward in their seats, clearly interested now. A few exchanged amused whispers. One woman arched a brow as she tucked her goblet close to her lap.

  Two guards detached from their posts like wheels coming unlatched. Their hands rested lightly on their hilted blades.

  "Step back," said the first, voice flat—practiced, but not unkind. "This is a breach of court protocol."

  "No authorization, no voice," added the second with a sterner tone, nodding toward the guards at the side. "Step aside or be removed."

  Viktor didn't flinch. He didn't look at them. His eyes stayed fixed on the dais beyond, locked on one man.

  "Halren Carolian," he said, his voice cutting the air clean.

  That did it.

  The chatter stopped. A stillness settled over half the gallery like a lid. Movement halted mid-sip, mid-glance, mid-breath.

  The duke turned. Slowly. Like a man reminded unexpectedly of a name from an old debt record. Curiosity flicked across his face, then faded into annoyance like a hand smoothing a crease from parchment.

  He looked Viktor over—cloak, boots scuffed from dust, no sigil on his collar.

  "And who are you, exactly," Halren asked, his tone dismissive but measured, "to disrupt the throne's business?"

  Viktor advanced a half-step down the aisle, just enough to make his intention irreversible.

  "Avrolios," he said—nothing more.

  A beat passed. Blank expressions met the name. Then a shift.

  Someone in the noble rows coughed aloud. Another blinked three times in confusion. A third lifted a hand to his throat, wine half-tipped, seemingly unsure if the moment was part of some strange satire.

  "Avrolios?" Halren repeated, frowning now, turning fully toward him. One hand came up slightly, palm half-raised. "House Avrolios is long dead and buried."

  He looked to one side, toward one of the king's attendants, brows lifted in vague challenge. "Yes? Confirm this? The young man's confused."

  "There was record of their fall," murmured the court scribe nearby.

  "Exactly," Halren said, facing Viktor again. "Whatever game you're playing, you chose the wrong costume. That house is ash."

  "You'd know," Viktor replied, voice like ground glass.

  Halren narrowed his eyes. "Excuse me?"

  "You'd know they're ash," Viktor said louder, one step further across the marble. "Because you lit the fire."

  That broke the air wide open. Like a rock cast into a still pond, the throne room rippled with gasps and harsh whispers. A man near the far bench stood up short and sat back down again without word. Someone hissed Viktor's name, though they hadn't heard it yet.

  "I beg your pardon?" Halren said, voice snapping razor-sharp. "You accuse me—me—of what? Conspiracy? Arson? Assassination?"

  "I accuse you," Viktor said, thunder building in his chest, heartbeat even, "of having everyone I once held dear slaughtered."

  One guard stepped toward him, but Viktor didn't stop, and the man hesitated, caught in that war between instinct and ceremony.

  "You sent men," Viktor continued. "You planned a purge and called it politics. You burned down our home, choked our halls with fire and steel, and none of these cowards here even bothered calling you out for it."

  "Slander," Halren said, volume rising now, "Borderline treason, right here in front of the king—"

  Viktor's voice rose to match. "You feared what our bloodline might restore. You feared what unity outside your house would mean."

  "I'll have your tongue torn out," Halren spat, finally shaken. "This dog's lost his senses—Guards! Restrain this lunatic before he soils the marble any further!"

  Steel rang faintly—not drawn yet. Not quite. But half a dozen guards began to move in tandem along each wall.

  Viktor raised his voice over the rising clatter.

  "You thought you ended us," he called out, each word cracked with fury. "You tried to bury my family beneath cinders—but you missed one."

  He turned his chin slightly, slow and unafraid, letting the gathering quiet feel the weight of the words.

  More movement in the court now—some people standing, others inching back, confused whether to call for help or remain seated, unsure if arrest was imminent or history unfolding.

  The young king shifted in his seat above, brows furrowed, hands pale around the carved edges of the throne's arms.

  "Father, what is this?" Elric asked tentatively, voice adolescent and hollow with authority still too new. "Is this man— Is any of this true?"

  "That is no Avrolios," Halren snapped, a vein pulsing in his temple. "The house is gone—extinguished. Impostors are easy to make when no one's left to contest the blood. They're all dead and buried."

  "LIES—ONE AVROLIOS STILL DRAWS BREATH!"

  A hush so complete followed, the dust hanging in the golden shards of windowlight felt deafening.

  Then suddenly—noise. A single hilt unsheathing. One of the inner guards, no longer still. The order had been given.

  Halren gestured downward, trembling with fury. "Seize this madman! I want him dragged from the court and gagged before he poisons this chamber further!"

  Behind Viktor, boots began to move.

  But he didn't turn. Didn't flinch.

  He stood as if rooted in stone—and waited.

  Duke Halren's face was flushed with blood. He jabbed a trembling finger through the air and bellowed, "GUARDS! Seize him! Now!"

  From every stair and pillar, palace guards surged forward—six in total—boots thundering across the marble. Blades flashed in the lamplight, steel hissing as they closed in with trained precision, eyes cold, movements sharp.

  Viktor didn't budge. Clenching both fists at his sides, he exhaled once through his nose.

  "Enough," he said. His voice wasn't loud, but the echo of it rode strange on the stone.

  In the same breath, something tore loose inside him.

  The air cinched—tightened, buckling around his chest—then detonated outward. The palace floor groaned. A shockwave burst from Viktor's core, unseen but unmistakable. The six guards flew off their feet like dolls hurled by a careless giant, arms flailing midair before their bodies slammed into walls, stone columns, ornamental banisters. One crumpled over a toppled chair; another dragged a crimson smear down a marble post.

  A tight exhale gasped through the court. Someone screamed.

  "He's... he's a mage," a noblewoman choked out, stumbling backward. Her glass slipped from her fingers and shattered.

  Whispers erupted like embers caught in wind. Courtiers backed away swiftly. A page—not older than sixteen—bolted, robes clutched high as he ran. A balding lord fumbled for a sword that wasn't there, his hands trembling uselessly over his belt.

  "SH—SHOOT HIM!" Duke Halren screeched. "Shoot him now! Do it!"

  Four arbalests locked into motion from the room's corners—stationed, waiting, now weapons raised in practiced sync. Cranks clicked. Strings released.

  The bolts flew, slicing through the air with a cruel hiss, one from each corner, synchronized misery aimed straight at Viktor.

  But he moved before thought could return. Arms swept upward. The floor didn't shake this time—just the air. A sharp shimmer distorted around him like heat haze given shape.

  Time didn't slow. It broke entirely.

  The bolts froze mid-spin. A meter from his chest, they halted, hovering. Wood groaned, metal tips quivered, the tension between fired intent and denied violence hanging invisible and heavy.

  "By the stars," someone uttered.

  The first arbiter—dark-robed, face lined, eyes sharp—twitched at the hovering projectiles. His mouth tightened into a thin line. "That's... that's not possible," he muttered, words nearly lost in the confusion.

  Viktor's fingers turned. Just a subtle motion. Barely a movement.

  The bolts rotated in place—not with precision, not with grace. Just enough. Just enough to aim them back where they came from.

  Four sharp thunks rebounded across the hall. One arbalest collapsed backward with a wooden shaft sunk into his throat. Another crumpled over his firing stand, arms convulsing as the bolt buried deep beneath his jaw. The last two barely made sounds—just gasps. Collapses.

  Silence collapsed over the throne room like someone had stripped the air from it.

  Even the banners above seemed frozen.

  Duke Halren's breath wheezed out like he'd been struck in the ribs. "Wh... what are you waiting for?" he rasped. "Arbiters—kill him! KILL HIM!"

  The two arbiters flanking the dais turned their heads slightly toward one another. No words. Just a glance. Measured. Quick. No debate lingered, but caution exchanged in silence.

  The one on the left stepped forward. He extended a single hand, palm out, fingers spread. His cloak shifted behind him—heavy fabric that fell still as his power spun forward.

  Something snapped.

  Light bled into the space just ahead of his outstretched palm—raw, colorless at first, then deepening into molten core-orange. A humming flare grew in an instant's breath, then—

  The beam fired.

  A shriek of force. Hot pressure. It tore toward Viktor in a seamless lance of burning energy, not fire, not light—just destruction. Direct, precise. The floor beneath the line of force began bubbling before the beam even touched it.

  Viktor didn't run.

  Instead, his instincts pulled his hands up again, flinching at first—and then not flinching at all. His will surged forward like a tide answering a call it had always known.

  The beam met resistance, three meters from his chest.

  It slammed, peeled, burned—but didn't pass.

  The sound it made wasn't a crack or a roar—it was grinding. An awful roar like rock tearing through bone. Heat blazed outward in waves. Floor tiles sagged and cracked. Gold-framed braziers flared, their flames wreathing sideways.

  The air around the contact point shimmered. Yet the invisible wall held firm.

  "WHAT—?!" shouted the first arbiter, sweat starting to streak his brow. "HOW are you doing that?!"

  He poured more power forward with a snarl. His feet dug in. His robes flared back behind him from the force. Still—Viktor did not falter.

  The second arbiter moved now. "Is he—he's holding it?" he asked, voice unsure for the first time. "That shouldn't be... That's not..."

  "The fuck are you waiting for?" the first arbiter barked through clenched teeth. "Assist me! Now!"

  Without further protest, the second joined him. Step. Stance. Stretch.

  This time, Viktor saw more than light. He felt it gather—cold and immense—then burn alive. A second beam fired.

  It struck beside the first.

  Two rivers of annihilation crashed down toward a single figure.

  Viktor threw out his other hand. The room vibrated as a second wall of force formed—the resistance cracking under the weight.

  His knees bent. Body shook. He pressed in with all that he was.

  "How...?" the second arbiter gasped. "What kind of monster is he?!"

  Several of the nobles had retreated. Some ran screaming. Others froze behind toppled benches, gaping at the impossibility playing out before their eyes.

  "He's... he's holding off both arbiters," muttered someone in the back—either reverent or terrified.

  "Impossible," breathed another.

  "RUN—they're going to level the palace!" someone screamed.

  Viktor braced himself with each hand outstretched. The beams howled against his will, and for all his power, he could feel it unraveling. His chest heaved. Every drop of strength bled out through his arms, into the air, into the fight.

  He grit his teeth, every muscle locked, every breath a gasp through fire. I can't hold this... The thought wasn't spoken—it was torn through him, raw and panicked. It's too much...

  But something in him resisted that thought. Not denial. A redirection.

  He stopped pushing back.

  Instead, he twisted.

  It didn't happen all at once. An inch here. A subtle curvature there. Like hands guiding rushing water—not fighting the tide, but bending it.

  The beams resisted at first. But then—shifted.

  His fingers twitched. Sweat burned in his eyes. The beams screamed against the force of his will. Almost, he thought, pain edging every syllable in his mind. Just... almost...

  And then he let go.

  The beams warped.

  And collided.

  A thunderclap of magic erupted. The colliding forces tore through air, space, matter—ripping out in a sphere of blind detonation. Time didn't slow—it stopped. The cracks split wide around the dais. The floor curled upward in chunks. Chandelier chains snapped and spiraled to the flooring like downed serpents. Braziers overturned. Fire climbed the walls.

  Viktor was blasted backward, his body skidding across the marble, tumbling until he smashed into a fallen column. Stone cracked under him. He didn't get up.

  The arbiters flew in opposite directions—one struck the far wall near the throne, slumping hard against it with a sound no man should survive. The other collided with what had once been a table of wine goblets. Glass exploded outward on impact.

  Then stillness.

  A soldier's voice cut through the settling dust. "I—did we get him?!"

  Another voice, somewhere under a collapsed banister: "I think my leg is broken... help, please!"

  Viktor moved.

  Slow at first. Fingers digging against fractured tile. He pulled himself up to his knees. One shoulder sagged low. A cut wept blood beside his left eye. His breathing was quick, shallow. His vision swam.

  Smoke and swirling dust obscured the throne. Debris coated half the room. Flames licked through torn tapestries. Half the pillars trembled under their own weight.

  He narrowed his eyes—but the throne was hard to make out.

  "Can anyone see him?" someone cried. A younger voice.

  "Is the king... is he—?" another voice, too frightened to finish.

  For a moment, Viktor stayed still, head lowered, battered hands twitching at his sides.

  He could press forward. He could end this.

  But the throne was hard to see. Smoke thickened in the air, dust dancing in the light of scattered fires. Rubble cloaked half the dais. A figure lay near the steps—but distance and haze blurred the shape. It might've been Halren.

  Or not.

  Viktor squinted. Eyes stung. His vision swam, and his body screamed with every breath.

  He should be sure. He had to be sure.

  If Halren was still alive—if he crawled out of this—Viktor would regret it. He might never get another chance.

  He took a step forward.

  His knees buckled.

  That last defense had drained him down to the bone. His arms still trembled from the effort of holding back the two arbiters. If even one guard stirred, or one of the arbiters had life left in their broken bodies, he wasn't certain he could stop them. Not now.

  Another step might be a death sentence.

  And for what? A guess? A shape in the smoke?

  A flicker crossed his thoughts.

  Mira.

  Not her voice. Not a memory of words. Just her face. That fierce, worried way she used to look at him when he charged headlong into something he shouldn't. When he thought he didn't have anything left to lose.

  But he did.

  Arelos. Fenric. Soren. Jax.

  They were waiting. Right now—somewhere beyond these walls—they were hoping he'd make it back. That he wouldn't die here in this ruin of stone and fire and vengeance. They couldn't stop him from coming. But they'd still be watching, praying for a sign. Waiting to run.

  And if he didn't come back—they'd carry that with them. Blame themselves for not stopping him. For not being able to.

  His breath hitched.

  He glanced toward the dais one last time. Still no movement. Just rubble. Smoke.

  He wasn't sure.

  But he knew what Mira would've wanted. And he knew what his friends still needed.

  Not revenge.

  Not yet.

  Not at the cost of his own life.

  He turned. Limped past a fallen standard. Past the guard who hadn't moved since the blast. Past the ruin.

  He didn't look back.

  Let Halren choke on the ashes if he was still breathing.

  Viktor had chosen to live.

  He parted the wreckage without pause.

  And did not look back.

  Let the court dig through the ash. Let them rebuild their throne room from ruin.

  They would remember this day.