Viktor stood with them now.
He didn't remember walking forward. Didn't remember leaving the log. Just found himself there, close enough to see the wounded man's face go grey, close enough to smell the blood pooling beneath his ruined leg.
The assassin sat propped against the cabin wall, breathing shallow and fast. His hands pressed uselessly at the wound—the sword had gone clean through his thigh, just above the knee. Bone showed white through torn flesh. Blood seeped between his fingers, too much of it, spreading dark into the mud beneath him.
The grey-haired handler crouched down. His wounded forearm still dripped, but his hand was steady as it reached for the assassin's leg. Pressed down. Hard.
The assassin's scream was high and animal.
"Duke Farrow hired you." The handler's voice was flat. Matter-of-fact. His thumb ground into the wound's edge.
The assassin's words came out in gasping stutters. "Yes—yes, Farrow—he paid—"
"For what?" The handler pressed harder. Fresh blood welled up around his fingers.
"The—the sculpture! The gala! That's all, I swear, that's—"
"Liar." The youngest handler—blood crusted above his eye—kicked the assassin's good leg. Not hard. Just enough. "The brat here was the one at the Gala; we know about the palace. About the women." He let out, glancing at Viktor.
The assassin's eyes went wide. Desperate. "That wasn't—we didn't—Farrow didn't hire us for that, I swear—"
The grey-haired handler's fingers found something in the wound. Pressed. The assassin shrieked and tried to pull away. The scarred handler grabbed his shoulder, shoved him back against the cabin wall. Held him there.
"Then who did?" The grey-haired handler's voice never changed. Clinical. Cold.
"Someone else!" The words tumbled out fast, tripping over each other. "Different man, different job, we took both contracts—please, I'll tell you everything, just—"
"Who?"
"Masked! He was masked, I never saw his face!" The assassin was crying now, snot and tears mixing with the dirt on his face. "He paid in—in special coin, heavy gold, he knew everything about the palace, the routes, the guard times, where the women slept—"
The youngest handler stiffened. "What kind of coin?"
"Marked. Crow marked. Black stamp on gold."
"What are killers doing with Holy Crow Coin?"
Viktor's chest tightened. Holy Crows. He'd heard that name once, years ago. Emeline had mentioned them—some organization that helped the poor, gave food and medicine to those who couldn't afford it. Why would they be connected to assassins? To his mother's murder?
The assassin's laugh was wet and broken. "You think I know? Man shows up with more gold than I'd see in ten years, tells me exactly how to walk through the imperial palace like it's my own house—I don't ask questions."
Leopold lunged.
The scarred handler caught him, both arms wrapping around his chest. Leopold thrashed, his good arm reaching for the knife at his belt, his voice raw. "You killed her! You piece of shit, you—"
"Stand down!" The grey-haired handler barked. He didn't even look at Leopold. His eyes stayed locked on the assassin. "The masked man. Everything. Now."
The assassin's breathing was ragged. His eyes darted between the faces above him. Calculating. Looking for mercy.
Finding none.
"I don't know anything else. He never showed his face, never gave a name, just—just gave us the route and the gold and said do it quiet—"
The grey-haired handler's hand moved back to the wound. Not pressing this time. Gripping. His fingers dug into torn flesh, found the exposed bone.
The assassin's scream was different now. Higher. Breaking.
"You're going to tell me more than that." The handler's voice was still calm. Still cold. "Or I'm going to pull this leg apart piece by piece. Then I'll start on the other one. Then your arms. Your fingers." He leaned closer. "I'll keep you alive through all of—"
Boom—
Viktor's whole body went cold.
Not the gentle chill from his mother's chambers. Not the controlled cold from training. This was pure panic made physical. His Source surged—involuntary, desperate—and the air in front of him crystallized. Ice formed fast, crude and jagged, shooting up from the mud. Not a wall yet, just fragments, but growing, thickening, his magic pouring into it without permission—
The world exploded.
The ice solidified just as the blast hit. Sound and pressure and heat all at once. The wall shuddered, cracks racing across its surface. Something screamed past Viktor's head—charged particles moving so fast they hummed. The cabin wall behind the assassin exploded outward. Wood and stone and fragments punching through everything.
Then silence.
Viktor's ears rang. Everything muffled and distant. He blinked against the grey light, trying to understand what he was seeing.
The ice wall stood between him and the crater. Melting now. Water running down its surface in streams, pooling in the mud. Cracks spiderwebbed across it, but it had held.
Beyond it—
The crater was maybe six feet across. The assassin sat slumped at its center. His body was whole—no wounds except the ruined leg, no blood except what had already been there. But he looked wrong. Hollowed out. His skin had gone grey, stretched too tight over his bones. His eyes were open but empty. Staring at nothing. His chest rose and fell in shallow, rattling breaths.
Still alive.
Just empty.
Crystalline fragments—pieces of something that had been inside him, something that existed and didn't exist—were embedded everywhere. In the mud. In the cabin wall. In the bodies.
The grey-haired handler lay five feet away. He'd been thrown backward by the blast. His chest was a ruin—fragments had punched through leather and flesh and come out the other side. Blood spread beneath him, mixing with rainwater. His eyes were open but empty. Already gone.
The youngest handler had been standing to the side. The blast had caught him at an angle. Half his face was just—gone. Replaced by red meat and white bone and crystalline shards that glittered in the dawn light. He'd fallen forward into the mud. Wasn't moving.
The scarred handler—
Viktor's stomach heaved.
He'd been closest. Standing right over the assassin when it happened. The blast had hit him full-on. His chest was opened like a book, ribs spread wide. Viktor could see inside—organs and fragments and blood, so much blood. The man was still alive. Still conscious. His mouth opened and closed, trying to breathe through lungs that didn't work anymore. His eyes were wide. Aware.
He tried to move. Tried to crawl. His arms shook, pushed against the mud, and something inside him shifted. Slid. His mouth opened wider and blood poured out, thick and dark.
His eyes found Viktor's.
Held them.
Still alive. Still feeling every second of it.
Viktor couldn't look away. Couldn't breathe. Just watched as the light in the handler's eyes flickered. Dimmed.
Went out.
The man slumped forward into the mud and didn't move again.
Behind where the scarred handler had been standing—
Leopold.
His brother lay motionless in the mud. The handler's body had been between him and the blast. Had taken the worst of it. Shielded him.
But Leopold wasn't moving. His face was pale beneath the blood—his own, the handler's, impossible to tell. The thrown blade still jutted from his shoulder. His eyes were closed.
Viktor's throat closed.
No.
He stumbled forward, legs barely working. His boots splashed through blood and water. He dropped to his knees beside his brother.
"Leopold?" His voice came out small. Broken. "Leopold, wake up."
Nothing.
Viktor's hands hovered over Leopold's chest. There was so much blood. From the shoulder wound. From the cuts across his ribs. From the handler who'd died protecting him.
"Please." The word cracked. Tears were already coming, hot and fast. "Please don't—you can't—"
His brother had made his life hell. Called him phantom. Pushed him down. Made him feel worthless.
But he was family.
And he was only here—only in this forest, only in this mud, only dying—because Viktor had dropped a locket. Because Viktor's mother had been killed. Because Leopold's mother had been killed. Because Viktor couldn't do anything right, and now everyone around him was dead.
"I'm sorry." Viktor's hands found Leopold's chest, pressed down, felt for breathing. For heartbeat. For anything. "I'm sorry. This is my fault. All of it. I didn't mean—"
Nothing.
No rise and fall. No pulse beneath his palms.
Viktor's vision blurred completely. The tears came harder now, shaking his whole body. His hands stayed pressed against Leopold's still chest.
His brother was gone.
Four men dead in the mud.
And Viktor was still alive.
Still breathing.
Still breaking everything he touched.
He stayed on his knees and cried like the ten-year-old child he was, surrounded by bodies and blood and the slow drip of melting ice.