They'd left the palace before dawn.
Viktor remembered the gates closing behind them. The sound of it—heavy iron on stone—final. Like a door shutting on everything he'd ever known.
The handlers had been waiting with horses and provisions. Three men in field leathers. The oldest had grey hair and hard eyes that assessed Viktor and Leopold once, then dismissed them. The scarred one—white line running temple to jaw—checked the horses with efficient hands. The youngest, broad-shouldered and silent, loaded packs without a word.
One of them handed Viktor the reins to a small mare. No introduction. No explanation.
Leopold mounted his horse without looking back.
They rode east. Away from Eisenholm's white stone and polished marble. Away from the palace gardens and training yards and corridors where Viktor used to run when Emeline called him for lessons.
By midday, the city was gone. By evening, they were in farmland—open fields and scattered villages. By the second day, the farms gave way to forest. Dense. Dark. The kind of wilderness Viktor had only seen from palace windows.
Now, on the third day, there was nothing but trees and mud and cold.
The rain had started on the second day and hadn't stopped. A constant drizzle that soaked through clothes and made everything heavy and miserable. The trail—if it could be called that—was more mud than road. The horses plodded through it with their heads down.
Viktor gripped the reins with numb fingers. His mare moved slowly, hooves sucking at the mud with each step. Ahead, the handlers rode in loose formation. They spoke to each other in low voices—brief exchanges about the trail and their targets.
"Rain's bad."
"Trail's still good."
"Two days. Three if it gets worse."
Viktor didn't understand half of what they said. Just kept his head down and followed.
Leopold rode at the front, driving the pace. Relentless. His back stayed rigid, shoulders tight. He hadn't spoken to Viktor except to give orders.
Keep moving. Don't fall behind. Stay quiet.
Three days of silence and cold stares and the weight of Leopold's hatred pressing down.
Viktor was ten years old, surrounded by his brother who wanted him dead and three men who killed for a living. This wasn't an adventure. This was an execution squad, and he was the liability they had to drag along.
The mare stumbled.
Her front hoof caught on something hidden in the mud—a root, a stone. She lurched sideways hard. Viktor's grip slipped. He pitched forward over her neck and hit the ground.
The impact knocked the air from his lungs. Cold mud soaked through his clothes instantly. He gasped, tried to push himself up. His hands slipped. Found no purchase.
The mare wandered a few steps away, shaking her head.
Hoofbeats. Heavy. Fast.
Viktor looked up.
Leopold wheeled his horse around and thundered back. His face was fury—not because Viktor had fallen, but because Viktor had slowed them down. Made them weak. Made Leopold have to turn back for him.
Viktor saw it in his brother's eyes. The wish that he'd just stayed down.
Leopold didn't dismount. Just leaned down and grabbed the mare's reins, yanking them hard. The horse's head jerked. Then his hand shot down and grabbed Viktor's collar, hauling him upright with brutal force.
"Keep up, phantom." Leopold's voice was low. Vicious. "Or we'll leave you for the wolves." His grip tightened. "It's what you deserve."
He shoved Viktor toward the mare.
Viktor caught himself against the horse's flank, gasping. His face throbbed where Leopold had hit him days ago—the bruise had turned greenish-yellow but still ached. His throat was too tight to speak. He just nodded.
Leopold stared at him for one more second, then wheeled his horse around and rode back to the front.
Viktor stood in the mud, shaking. His hands trembled as he grabbed the reins and pulled himself back into the saddle.
He kicked the mare forward. Kept moving.
They made camp as the grey light died.
The handlers moved fast. The youngest vanished into the trees to check perimeter. The scarred one built a fire from impossibly damp wood. The grey-haired leader cleared camp space, boots squelching in mud.
No wasted motion. Professionals.
Leopold dismounted and sat by the fire with his back to everyone. He pulled out a long knife and whetstone from his pack. The knife was new—one of the handlers had given it to him before they left. Heavier than the daggers he'd trained with at the academy. Made for real violence, not sparring.
The first stroke cut through the quiet.
Shing.
Pause.
Shing.
Steady. Patient. The sound of murder being prepared.
Viktor stood near the horses, uncertain. The scarred handler paused near the picket line. Didn't look at Viktor. Just gestured at the animals with a jerk of his chin.
"Tend to them."
Viktor moved.
Three days ago, servants had brought his meals on silver trays. Now he was mucking out horses in the rain.
He'd been demoted. Deservedly.
He worked without complaint. Without a word.
His hands shook as he pulled the saddles off. The leather was soaked and heavy. His arms ached. The horses shifted impatiently, but he worked through each one. Brushing them down with stiff, clumsy fingers. Checking hooves for stones. Tying their leads to the line.
Behind him, the sound of steel on stone filled the silence. Steady. Patient.
When Viktor finished, he approached the fire slowly. Not near Leopold—never near Leopold. Not close to the handlers either. Just close enough to feel some warmth.
He sat on the muddy ground and pulled his knees to his chest. His stomach was empty—they'd eaten dried meat and hard bread at midday, but that felt like hours ago. His whole body ached with exhaustion. He hadn't slept more than a few hours each night, too cold and too scared to rest properly.
His face still throbbed. Every time Leopold looked at him, Viktor wondered if he'd hit him again.
The handlers spoke quietly across the fire. Viktor heard fragments—words cutting through the whetstone's rhythm.
"—valley narrows—"
"—logging camp, small—"
"—dawn, before they wake—"
He didn't understand most of it. Didn't try. Just sat there and tried to get warm.
This was his punishment.
The thought settled over him like the rain.
He shouldn't be here. He wasn't a killer. Wasn't a soldier. He was just a scared kid who'd made a mistake and gotten his mother murdered.
This is your doing.
Werner's words. True.
Leopold's hatred. The handlers' contempt. The cold and mud and fear—he deserved all of it.
This wasn't a revenge mission. Not for him, anyway. Leopold was here to kill. The handlers were here to guide.
Viktor was here to suffer. To be punished. To earn back—what? His mother's love? Her forgiveness?
She was ash. There was nothing to earn back.
He hadn't even thought about his magic since the pyres. It felt like something that belonged to a different person. The boy who'd wanted to be strong. That boy was dead.
Viktor stared at the fire and tried to stop shaking.
Movement at the camp's edge.
The grey-haired handler unfolded a map near the firelight. He studied it, tracing routes with a calloused finger. The other two moved closer.
Leopold's whetstone paused.
"Found it," the handler said quietly.
Leopold looked up.
"Valley two miles north. Small logging camp. Abandoned this time of year." The handler tapped the map. "Perfect place to hide."
"You're certain?" Leopold's voice was tight.
"Emperor's information was good. They're there." The handler folded the map and looked at Leopold. "We move at first light. Your targets. Your blade. Make it count."
Leopold's hand tightened around the knife handle. The firelight caught his eyes.
He nodded once.
The calm was over.
Viktor's chest tightened. He pulled his knees closer and stared at the flames.
Tomorrow they would find the assassins.
Tomorrow people would die.
Viktor didn't know if he'd survive it.