Crack. Pop. Crack.
Viktor rolled his neck, feeling the vertebrae protest and then settle, one after another, like old wood expanding in morning heat. His arms rose above his head, stretching long, and the muscles of his back pulled tight and then released with a satisfaction he didn't need to think about. He stood at the edge of the upper floor's open walkway, bare feet against warm marble, entirely naked, and absolutely unbothered by it.
The garden below him was unreasonable. It had no business existing halfway up a dungeon tower and yet there it was — Helena's floor, transformed from wooden soldiers into something that looked like a paradise a god had designed in an afternoon and then left running. The grass was an obscene shade of green. Flowers bloomed in clusters that matched no natural season. Small stone paths curved between them, and the whole thing smelled — God, it smelled — like warm earth and jasmine and something Viktor had no name for except 'right.'
