Viktor Volkov POV
——
Darkness wasn't the worst part.
It was the stillness.
No chains clinking. No chanting. Just breath—his own—and the quiet, clean sound of razors being washed in cold water.
They always cleaned their tools. That was the worst part. The care they took.
Viktor didn't move. Couldn't, really, with both arms pinned to the wall, wrists locked against carved stone. He couldn't feel his legs. Didn't know if they were still attached or just numb.
He could smell iron. His blood and something foul beneath it—preserved rot, the stink of old magic and powdered bone.
The Bone Saints didn't speak. Not in words. They wore masks, all ivory, their robes stitched with runes. The air around them was heavy, like wet fabric draped over his chest.
One of them moved beside him.
A tool clicked.
Another leaned close and whispered—not with breath, but inside his head.
You are not old.
Your line is ending.
Your teeth will become dust, your howl forgotten.
