Viktor pressed himself behind a decorative hedge, his pulse roaring in his ears.
The sculpture sat thirty feet away through tall glass-paned garden doors. Lamplight made the ice glow from within. The chimera's wings caught the light and threw it back—sharp, beautiful, impossible. Guests crowded around it, pointing and murmuring appreciation.
His target.
Viktor wiped sweat from his palms. His hands wouldn't stop shaking.
Be a storm. Don't disappoint me.
He could do this. He'd destroyed training dummies. Shattered ice constructs in his mother's lessons. This was just... bigger. More important.
He crouched lower and reached for his Source. The cold power coiled in his chest, ready and waiting.
Focus. Precision. Like Mother taught him.
Viktor whispered the words: "Glacies Spiculum."
Magic flowed through him—structured, shaped, familiar. Cold formed in the air directly in front of his face. A crude spear of ice materialized, about the size of his fist.
It dropped into the grass with a sad, wet thud.
Viktor stared at it.
The sculpture sat pristine and perfect thirty feet away. Hadn't moved. Hadn't cracked. Nothing.
His throat went tight. The spell had worked exactly as designed—it created an ice spear. Right here. In his space. That's what it did. That's all it did.
But he needed to break something over there. Through glass. Across distance.
He had the wrong tool. Like trying to unlock a door with a sword.
Panic crawled up his spine. He didn't have other spells. Didn't have a bag of tricks like the older mages. He had ice constructs for training and one offensive spell Mother had taught him for emergencies.
And it was useless here.
Think. Think. There has to be—
No. No time to think.
Viktor abandoned the chant entirely. The words felt wrong anyway—too careful, too structured for what he needed. He didn't need to create ice. He needed to break what was already there.
He shoved his power forward. Not shaped into a spell. Not following Mother's careful lessons about control and precision. Just raw force pushing outward toward the sculpture.
The magic flowed easier this time. Like breathing instead of reciting instructions. Natural.
Inside the ballroom, the sculpture shuddered.
A hairline crack appeared on one of the wings.
Guests gasped. Someone pointed. A woman's voice carried through the glass: "Is it melting?"
Viktor's chest tightened. It worked. It actually—
Light flared in the darkness.
Viktor's head snapped toward the source. A guard stood near the garden's edge—distant, maybe a hundred feet away, but clearly visible now. A bronze charm at his belt glowed with pale light. The guard's hand moved to his baton.
"Magic." The guard's voice was low and hard. "Unauthorized."
The charm had detected it. Not Viktor's location. Not the direction. Just magic somewhere in the garden.
The guard started forward, slow and methodical, scanning the hedges and shadows. His lantern swung in wide arcs across the lawn.
Viktor's heart kicked against his ribs. The guard didn't know where he was. Not yet. But he was searching. Getting closer.
Inside, voices rose in confusion. The Duke was calling for someone to inspect the sculpture. Someone else suggested it was the temperature.
Time was running out.
Viktor squeezed his eyes shut. His hands pressed into the cold dirt.
He was going to get caught. Going to fail. Father would know. Everyone would know he was useless. Weak. The phantom who couldn't even manage one simple task.
No.
Werner's voice thundered through his head: BE A STORM!
Viktor sucked in a breath and shoved everything forward. Every last bit of power he had. No control. No precision. No careful measured force like Mother taught him.
Just everything.
The crack split wider. Branched like lightning across the chimera's body—through the wings, down the serpent tail, up the dragon's neck.
The sculpture groaned.
Then it collapsed.
Not outward in deadly shards but inward, folding into itself. Ice turned to slush and heavy chunks that hit the marble floor with wet, meaty sounds. Grey sludge spread across the ballroom. Water sprayed outward. A woman in gold silk slipped and went down hard. A man stumbled back, his jeweled cuffs dripping with melted ice.
The temperature dropped. Viktor felt it even through the glass—a wave of cold air rushing out as tons of ice turned to water in seconds.
Inside, chaos erupted. Screaming. The Duke's voice rising above the rest, furious and bewildered. Servants rushing forward. Nobles backing away from the spreading mess.
Viktor had done it.
He'd actually done it. Father would see. Would know Viktor wasn't useless. Wasn't weak. He'd proven—
The world tilted.
Viktor gasped and sagged against the hedge. His vision blurred at the edges. Every muscle in his body felt hollow, like something vital had been scooped out and only skin remained. His Source was empty—completely drained. A void where cold power usually sat.
He'd used everything.
The guard's lantern swung closer. Still searching. Still scanning shadows. The bronze charm had stopped glowing but the man moved with purpose, checking behind statues and decorative bushes.
Viktor forced himself upright. Everything in his body screamed to collapse right there. His legs wobbled. His hands shook worse than before.
But the guard was coming.
Adrenaline overrode everything else.
Viktor stumbled away from the hedge, moving deeper into the garden's darkness. Not running. Not yet. Just moving. His exhausted body barely obeying.
He had to get out. Had to get back to the palace.
He was almost safe.
Viktor's legs barely held him.
Each step felt wrong—unsteady, too slow, like his body had forgotten how to work. The garden stretched dark around him. Hedges and flower beds and decorative paths he couldn't see clearly.
Behind him, the guard's lantern swung through the darkness. Still searching. Still moving.
Viktor pushed forward, keeping low, trying to stay quiet. His breath came too fast and too loud. The spring air felt thick in his lungs.
Almost there. Almost to the wall. Almost—
His foot caught on something in the darkness.
Viktor pitched forward. His arms windmilled. He crashed sideways into thick vegetation—thistles, the thorns catching his clothes and skin. Sharp immediate pain across his hands and face. Warm blood on his cheek. Branches snapped. Leaves rustled loud enough to wake the dead.
The noise shattered the quiet garden.
"There!"
The guard's voice—sharp, triumphant. Far too close.
Heavy footsteps pounded across grass. The lantern's beam swung toward the thistle bush.
Viktor scrambled to get up, to get out, but the thistles held him. Thorns dug deeper. His tunic snagged on branches. He yanked himself forward and felt fabric tear.
The guard crashed into the bush behind him.
A hand closed on Viktor's tunic, gripping fabric at his shoulder and collar. The weight pulled him backward. "Got you! You little—"
Pure animal panic flooded through Viktor. No thought. No plan. Just terror.
He shoved himself forward with everything he had left. Twisted hard. His head wrenched one direction, his body pulled another. The branches held him fast. The chain at his throat pulled taut, caught between the guard's grip and the thorns.
The guard's grip tightened. "Stop—"
Viktor wrenched himself sideways one more time. His whole body twisted. The branches wouldn't let go. The chain became the weakest point—pulled from both sides, stretched beyond its limit.
SNAP.
The sound was tiny and final.
Something released at his throat. The pressure vanished.
Viktor's hand flew to his collar. Empty. The familiar weight was gone.
No.
The guard stumbled backward, cursing, trying to regain his footing in the thistles. His lantern swung wild—and in that sweep of light, Viktor saw it.
Silver glinting against mud at the guard's feet. His mother's locket. The ice beads catching lamplight for just a second before the beam moved on.
Viktor's chest went hollow.
That was hers. The only thing he had that was truly hers. The piece he wore every single day.
The guard was getting up. Shouting. Other voices answered from the direction of the ballroom.
Viktor's hand reached toward the locket. Inches away. He could grab it. He could—
More footsteps. More lights. The guard reached for his baton.
Viktor ran.
He crashed through the remaining thistles. Thorns scraped his face and hands. Blood ran hot down his cheek and dripped from his torn fingers. His legs screamed. His lungs burned.
The garden wall rose ahead—low stone, maybe four feet tall. He hit it at full speed and scrambled up. His hands found the top. His feet slipped once, twice. He hauled himself over and dropped hard on the other side.
The impact jarred his teeth.
Viktor stumbled forward into a narrow street. Darkness. Quiet. The sounds of the party and guards muffled by stone walls.
He kept moving. Not running anymore—limping, stumbling, but moving. Away from the estate. Away from the lights and voices and searching guards.
His hand touched his bare throat.
Mother's locket was gone.
His chest felt tight. His eyes burned. He couldn't think about it. Couldn't stop. Had to keep moving.
The streets were mostly empty at this hour. A drunk slumped against a wall. A few late-night stragglers. No one looked at him twice—just another rich kid who'd gotten into trouble.
Viktor's thoughts spiraled as he walked.
The mission was done. He'd destroyed the sculpture. Father would be proud.
But the locket—
No. Don't think about it. Not now.
It was fine. He'd go back tomorrow. Find it. The guard didn't pick it up—why would he? Just a silver locket in the mud. Viktor could retrieve it. Easy.
Mother would understand. She had to understand. He'd explain. It was an accident. She'd—
It would be fine.
Everything would be fine.
Viktor turned onto a wider street, heading toward the Inner Ring. The walk felt endless—or maybe just minutes. He couldn't tell anymore. Time moved wrong. Everything moved wrong.
His legs shook. His face stung from the scratches. Blood dripped from his torn hands. He could barely feel his Source—completely empty, a void where cold power usually sat. The exhaustion was crushing.
But he'd done it. He'd succeeded.
The palace came into view as he crossed into the Inner Ring. White stone glowing in lamplight. The gates ahead, still open for late traffic.
Home. Safety.
The guards at the gate glanced at him as he approached—a disheveled boy in torn clothes, blood on his face. One started to move forward.
"Prince Viktor?" The guard's voice was uncertain.
Viktor didn't stop. Just nodded and kept walking. Through the gates. Into the courtyard. The guards let him pass without question.
He was back. He was safe.
Father would be proud. Viktor had proven his strength. Done exactly what was asked. Destroyed the sculpture like a storm.
The thought carried him forward through the palace corridors, up familiar stairs, back toward his quarters.
Away from the Farrow estate.
Away from the silver locket glinting in the mud behind him.