Viktor stood at the window because he didn't know where else to stand.
His legs had stopped working right somewhere between the bells and now. Not gone—just distant, like they belonged to someone standing next to him. The stone sill pressed cold against his palms, but that felt distant, too. Everything did.
Below, in the courtyard where he used to watch Emeline hang laundry, there were shapes.
Two of them.
He tried to make them into something else. His mind kept offering options—market stalls draped in silk, festival pavilions catching the wind, anything but what they were. The flames moved like dancers. Still beautiful, even now. Gold and amber threading through white smoke that rose in ribbons, soft as Nadia's hair when she'd braid it in the morning.
He remembered how her frost-beads used to catch the light just like that. Bright. Warm.
His throat closed.
She was gone.
The thought arrived flat, factual. He waited for tears. Nothing came. Just a hollow ache spreading through his chest, cold and vast, like someone had scooped out his insides and filled the space with ice.
Palace officials stood in loose clusters below. Watching. Waiting. The formal ceremony had happened hours ago—words Viktor barely remembered, gestures that meant nothing. Now they just watched the pyres burn.
Charles had been there since the ceremony ended. Standing near the wall behind Viktor. Watching. Viktor could feel him there—the same way he always knew when Emeline was nearby. But Charles wasn't Emeline. Charles wouldn't comfort him. Not now.
Charles had given him the mission. The map. The route. The anonymous clothes. Charles had known Viktor wasn't ready. Had sent him anyway. Had watched it all unfold exactly as planned.
Charles had set this in motion as much as Viktor had. Maybe more.
The realization should have brought anger. It brought nothing.
Viktor's mind kept circling back. Not to this morning when the guards came to his door with flat eyes and flatter voices. Not to the screaming that had echoed through the halls. Not to the moment someone said the word assassinated and his brain simply stopped processing.
Back further.
To the gala. To standing in the dark garden with magic pouring out of him. To the sculpture shattering into slush. To the rush of pride when he'd stumbled back through the palace gates covered in blood and thorns and success.
He'd done it. Proven himself. Been strong.
Father would finally see him.
A week he'd waited. Seven days of thinking he'd gotten away with it. Seven days of avoiding his mother's careful questions. Seven days of Emeline's cold distance. Seven days of that empty space at his throat burning like accusation.
Seven days of thinking he was safe.
Two weeks ago, she'd told him to be careful.
He'd promised.
The door opened.
The temperature in the room dropped. Not magic—not the gentle cool that followed Nadia, the kind that made you want to stand closer. This was different. This was the cold that came before punishments, the kind that made servants find reasons to be elsewhere.
Viktor didn't turn. His fingers tightened on the sill.
Footsteps. Two sets. Measured. Deliberate. Stopping just behind him.
"Turn around."
Werner's voice.
Viktor turned.
His father stood so close Viktor had to crane his neck to see his face. The emerald eyes were flat. Assessing. Leopold stood beside him, face streaked and blotchy, eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot. His jaw was clenched so tight Viktor could see the muscle jumping. His hands were fists.
The hate radiating from him was tangible. Physical. Viktor knew what Leopold was thinking: Your fault. Your fault my mother is dead.
Advisors lined the walls—they'd filtered in during the ceremony, witnessed everything. But as the Emperor walked in, they couldn't help but shift their attention. Everything orbited Werner. Always had.
Werner's hand moved.
Something silver caught the light. Small. Delicate.
The locket.
Viktor's breath stopped.
That locket. The one from the gala. The one that had snapped in the thistles. The one he'd left behind in the mud.
Guilt slammed into him like a fist to the chest.
Werner held it up, letting it dangle from its broken chain. The ice beads caught the grey afternoon light. Nadia's work. Her gift.
"It was found at the Farrow estate," Werner said. His voice was quiet. Controlled. "In the garden. After your... demonstration."
Viktor's knees went soft. He locked them. Stayed upright through pure will.
"Our enemies used resonance charms—traced the magical signature of the ice beads back to their creator. Back to Nadia." Werner's eyes didn't leave Viktor's face. "The ice beads held her Source signature. Her unique imprint. Easy to trace once they knew what to look for."
The room spun.
They'd found it. Used magic to trace it. Identified Nadia as the owner. Sent assassins.
All because Viktor had dropped it and run.
Werner held the locket higher. "This is your doing."
Leopold moved.
Not toward Werner. Not toward the door.
Toward Viktor.
His fist connected with Viktor's face before anyone could react. The impact snapped Viktor's head sideways. Pain exploded across his cheek and jaw. His vision whited out. He hit the window frame hard and tasted copper.
"You killed her!" Leopold's voice cracked. Raw. Broken. "You killed my mother, you useless bastard—"
Charles moved fast. His arms locked around Leopold from behind, hauling him back. "Enough."
Leopold struggled. "Let me go! Let me—"
"Enough." Charles's voice was ice. Final.
Leopold went still in his brother's grip, chest heaving, eyes burning with tears and rage and grief that had nowhere else to go. He stared at Viktor like he wanted to kill him. Like he would kill him if Charles let go.
Viktor didn't fight back. Didn't even try. Part of him thought Leopold should hit him again. Harder.
Maybe Viktor deserved it.
Werner hadn't moved. Hadn't stopped Leopold. Hadn't intervened at all.
He placed the locket on the windowsill beside Viktor's hand. Someone had cleaned it. Washed away the mud. Polished the silver until it shone.
"Weakness has consequences," Werner said quietly. "Remember that."
He turned and walked toward the door. The advisors followed like shadows.
Charles released Leopold slowly. "Go."
Leopold's hands were still fists. His whole body shook. But he went. Shooting one last look of pure hatred at Viktor before storming out.
Charles lingered a moment. His eyes met Viktor's—flat, unreadable. Then he too left.
Viktor stood alone at the window.
Blood dripped from his split lip onto the stone floor. His face throbbed. The locket sat on the sill beside his hand, ice beads glinting.
Below, the pyres were dying. Just smoke and ash now.
His mother was ash.
And it was his fault.
The hollow ache in his chest wasn't cold anymore. Cold would have been something. This was nothing. Absence. Void.
Viktor's hand closed around the locket. The silver bit into his palm. The ice beads pressed sharp against his fingers.
He couldn't cry. Couldn't scream. Couldn't do anything except stand there and understand, finally and completely, what he'd done.
Be a storm, Father had said.
He'd been a storm.
And storms destroyed everything they touched.