Page 115 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

With a huff, I stood, straightening my dress, and closed the distance. “What have you sadists done to her now?”

“The Angel of Death rests, witchling. It seems Moros has concocted a new plan to break through the walls of her mind.”

My brow pinched. That was somehow better and worse at once, but I didn’t like the way my stomach sank. If I wasn’t healing Ally…

“Then who?”

“The prince requires you.”

Anger flared in my chest—always waiting for the slightest tug to resurface—and I stopped short. “The prince can go kill himself for all I care.”

“It wasn’t a request, Briar.”

“Why doesn’t he ask one of his many whores to service him?” I snapped as I turned back toward my door, as if I had a choice in the matter.

As always, the captain refused to entertain me with the fight I was craving.

“Am I carrying you, or would you like to preserve your dignity and walk?”

Gritting my teeth, I lifted my chin and followed the captain through the manor, down the stairs, and past the corridor to the dungeons.

Deeper and deeper, we dove until raucous shouts and jeers reached my ears. Interest piqued, I quickened my pace until the corridor spat us out into a looming stone hallway, where the voices magnified between the walls.

I’d been here before. My stomach sank, realizing exactly when. We were going into the arena where they auctioned us off like heads of cattle.

I rushed ahead of the captain until I stepped into the crowded square.

I scoured the bodies packed into the space—cheering, betting, coupling, wreaking absolute chaos. Beyond the crowd stood a raised platform enclosed by an enormous black cage. Almost like the birdcage Nat raised that cockatoo in when we were in elementary school. Within the bars, violence ruled supreme—two warriors moving like shadows while the crowd bellowed and keened, singing their praise or displeasure.

Both warriors had dark hair and inky, knotted patterns across their skin. But my eyes snapped to the one who moved like water around his opponent.

Bellamy.

Adrastos.

Like a current over stone, his movements were fluid—something enchanting in the whirl of his body, the rise of a short blade to block and parry. Graceful. More choreography than battle. But for him, I supposed, they were one and the same. His seer’s gift led each movement before his opponent could execute his own.

My brain caught up with my analysis, recoiling from the hypnosis of the fight. I blinked, horrified to realize how close I’d drifted to the ornate gilded bars before catching myself.

My trance ended abruptly when the betrayer threw his opponent to the ground with a sickening thud.

My hand flew to my chest as I jumped at the impact against the filthy stone.

His opponent clawed up a fistful of dirt and flung it directly into Adrastos’ face.

The betrayer seized up, back bowing, head jerking away from the impact, tendons bulging in his neck as a rattling gasp tore up his throat.

My breath lodged in my chest, confusion cinching a noose around my throat.

Because he was stumbling. Shaking his head as if to free himself from something unseen.

It was enough. Whatever that distraction was doing to him, his opponent lunged, wrapping both arms around Adrastos’ bare, muscled torso. But the bastard was strong, faltering yet staying upright as he grappled on instinct, his eyes still jammed closed in unseen agony.

“Sand,” Bartholomew murmured, snapping my attention up to his morose face where he’d sidled up beside me. At the question in my eyes, he explained, “Sand and sea are the weakness of readers. Too much stimulus without proper shields.”

“He… fights without magic?”

A dark nod.