A count's daughter in the third row whispered, to no one, "Oh no," and pressed her hand flat between her own legs, and did not stop watching.
Whatever he had been to them before, professor, saint, warlord, mystery, in this moment he was the most beautiful thing any of them had ever seen, and every one of them was tingly, flushed, and silently, privately, hopelessly mesmerized.
"The violet god," somebody in the stands breathed, and the name would outlive the battle.
And Viktor stood over the kneeling prince with the entire academy's eyes upon him, and smirked, and let them look. Because most of this audience were children of the noble faction, and the noble faction was now in open revolt against the crown, and every family represented in these stands would need to choose a man to back in the civil war.
So he showed them a man. Wings. Horns. A halo of caught swords. A prince broken at his feet.
He snapped his finger.
Leo flew.
