Page 109 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

A slight woman with Persian features stepped forward, her head lowered in deference.

“Commander Porter, we’re here to report for service.”

Brows pinched, I searched their faces. My eyes widened as, in synchronized motions only warriors could manage, they brought armed fists to their lips, lowered the blades over their hearts, then turned them toward me in one massive Grayshell salute—a duelist’s challenge made collective.

A promise of violence. A vow written in raised steel.

Locking eyes with the beautiful warrior in front of me, I demanded, “Who are you?”

Her full mouth tipped up at one corner. “Grayshell’s seventh coven.”

Cyrus

“She’ll consider it!?” I snarled as Carr shoved me back across the sparring ring. We’d been beating the shit out of each other since I got back from Cadoc’s little ambush.

“What the hell did you expect her to say?” he practically spat onto the mat. We circled each other in sync, both dragging down breaths, sweat sliding along my arms. “Get fucked, Cadoc?”

“That woulda been great, yeah.”

“We need his numbers.”

An irritated growl rumbled in my chest as Carr ducked my right hook with insulting ease and drove his fist into my exposed side.

“A marriage alliance?” I demanded, dropping my shoulder.

“You could’ve claimed her, you pussy.” His breath punched out in an oof when I drove into his gut.

“I didn’t see her stating any loyalty to me.”

“Can you blame her?” he groaned, fighting my tackle, bare feet squealing against rubber. “You ignore her half the time—” a grunt of effort “—and spend the other half pretending she’s nothing to you.”

“Sure, that’s why she sought out Atreus?”

“The Westerlunds and Bellatons need Cadoc’s numbers. They’re spread too thin down the coastline.”

“So she barters herself in the goddamn trade?” I hissed through gritted teeth.

With a slam that knocked the air clean from my lungs, I landed flat on my back. Wheezing. Spluttering for oxygen. Dizzy. Disoriented. Staring up at my cousin as he sauntered closer and finding…

Anger in his features.

“Freya Porter is a queen, Cyrus. A queen who—from what I can tell—actually gives a flying fuck about our people.”

“She’s good at convincing people she cares,” I snapped, though without enough oxygen, the words came out pathetic.

I reached up a hand. Carr only stared at me, a muscle feathering in his jaw. Fine. Taking the hint, I planted my hands beside my ears, rolled onto my shoulders, and sprang back to my feet with my guard raised. He stayed where he was, glowering.

“What?” I barked, irritation sharpening at the judgment in his eyes.

Ridiculous. I was pathetic, and the worst part was knowing it. Didn’t make the sting of her betrayal any easier to carve away.

A pawn. She’d used me as a goddamn pawn. A rung on her ladder to power. And the price of entry? My mother.

And yeah—she wasn’t exactly winning Mother of the Year awards, but she was still the woman who gave me life. Who held me through hurricanes when I was a kid. Who kept me in one piece while healers repaired my fractured skull. The mother who buried her youngest son before his seventeenth birthday. Who renegotiated a damn alliance to save Cali from the same strategic marriage Freya was now considering.

What she’d done to Valora was jacked. What she’d put me through? Equally so.

And now she was gone. No amends. No penance. No restoring the balance.