Page 123 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

“Vague.”

“It is Adrastos.”

“I still can’t believe Magnolia bonded herself to that fucker.”

“Hey,” I said, snatching her wrist.

“I’m not saying it’s her fault—he’s obviously brilliant.”

“No, not that. Has your uncle ever talked about bonds?”

“Damien? Not really.”

“The other one.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh. So?”

“Jason doesn’t really divulge much about the ropes. It’s kinda sacred work, and he’s self-taught, after all. But… yeah. He sees them.”

“Hypothetically speaking—for Mags, or anyone else in an unfortunate predicament—can they be altered?”

“Blood Bonds? I don’t think⁠—”

“Can Jason re-weave them?”

“I, uh…” Those quizzical blue eyes narrowed on my face. “I’d have to ask him for the particulars.” She left the rest unsaid—if he returned with the Grayshell party. If they survived the journey. “I’m not sure if he’s strong enough to manipulate a Blood Bond. Regardless of ranking, he would never condone such a thing. Reading bonds is one thing, but manipulating them… Jason would see that as morally reprehensible.”

“But can it be done?”

She gave me a long, hard stare, reluctance tightening her voice. “Yes. It’s why fate weavers were hunted so savagely.” She studied me, her gaze like a brand. I held her stare, chin lifted even as she confirmed my worst fear and maddest shot in the dark all at once. “Theoretically, all Bonds could be meddled with. Why are you asking?”

TWENTY-TWO

CLAIMED

BLYTHE

132 days…

Three days passed without a summons to the dungeons to heal Ally, and I kept trying to convince myself that was a good thing. My gut disagreed. What new tactic was Moros wielding? How long could one soul endure that kind of acute agony before they broke?

For three days, the captain woke me at dawn and dragged me down to the kitchens to help in the dish pit.

“My pet can make herself useful in other ways if she refuses to heal,” Adrastos had said with a smirk the day after the fighting ring. The next morning, he was waiting in the hallway when Bartholomew escorted me from my room. That rumbling English bass was the first sound of my day. “A word, pet?”

My curse and middle finger had earned only a dry, humorless smile—the kind that hid a blade I was certain I didn’t want to unearth.

Still.

That word. Pet. It made me want to claw his eyes out almost as badly as watching his fingers trace lazy patterns over the bare legs of his latest conquests. Every morning, when I was sent to collect dishes from the dining hall, his chocolate eyes found mine across the din. Every morning, at least one woman was draped across his lap.

This morning, there were two.

Two sniveling sycophants groveled for scraps of his attention, fawning over the betrayer like he was some prize to be won. Judging by the wry smile on his lips as he held my gaze, he reveled in every second of it.

The irrational urge to smash my tray over their heads before kicking the chair out from under him slammed through me.