Page 132 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

My throat tightened as I looked between them. I fought to clear it. “Can… can we help you flee instead?”

“There is nowhere in this realm or any other that I can send her that Moros will not find,” the prince said matter-of-factly. “We do this now—before a heartbeat begins and he can sense it—or she will be his property until he rips the babe from her womb and discards her like trash. To flee is also a death sentence. He would tear the realms apart if he knew an heir had been stolen from him. The last mother to flee his wrath ended up hanging from a queen’s front gate.”

I refused to look at him. Refused to acknowledge the words tilting the world out from under me. Instead, I focused on Fiona. On controlling my breathing. On the plea in her eyes and the frantic beat of her heart beneath my palm.

“You—” I stopped, trying to tiptoe the line between healer—between doctor and patient—and hostage. My eyes cut to Adrastos, his chest still bare, tattoos glistening in the low light. “You could claim to be the sire?”

He was already shaking his head before I finished. “You know as well as I do these things can be scented. And while we share a mother⁠—”

“Your scents are your own,” I finished, understanding. Moros reeked of demon-sickened blood, death, suffering. Adrastos smelled like bergamot, pine, and embers—remarkably untainted despite his loyalties. Somehow, knowing his compliance was his own made it worse. But he was right.

“It is my only option,” Fiona breathed. “The alternatives bring us both death. It’s bad enough to know his touch,” her voice broke, something inside me along with it. “I will not die his breeding mare.”

“Please, Blythe. I see no threads with better outcomes. For either of them.”

I jammed my eyes closed at the plea in his voice. A million emotions tangled in my gut as I opened them again and met Fiona’s green eyes, glassy with desperation.

With one last look between them, the weight of my vows bowing my shoulders, I gave a jerky nod.

TWENTY-FOUR

THE WAY OF WAR

CYRUS

August 1, 8:27PM

Luminark Manor was hosting the Northern American Delegation Commanders for the week. Naturally, Reyna shoved through the front doors first, head high and armor gleaming. She marched past me without so much as a greeting and beelined for Freya, who stood at the head of the council table with both hands braced around a sprawling map.

My blood-aunt had made a sport of undermining August whenever possible, including—but sure as hell not limited to—being first to every goddamn meeting.

Her son huffed an amused breath in her wake, still shaking his head when we hugged. I stepped back to find Blaz grinning down at me and narrowed my eyes.

“Don’t look so smug,” I said flatly.

“What? Ascension feels good,” he taunted, slapping my back as we turned to follow.

“Yeah, well. Ya’ look good too, cuz.”

“That might well be your first compliment.”

“Keep talkin’ and it’ll be the last.”

His chuckle warmed some cold corner of my heart, even as the little fucker looped an arm around my shoulders like he needed to emphasize he’d outgrown me. No one had been more relieved when the little shit finally came into his power than Reyna, but I’d wager I was a close fucking second. Nothing like war to shove a young sprite through ascension.

At least now he stood a chance in this massacre.

“Your Pa get any clarification on the Manhattan vision?”

“No.” I shook my head. Not that I’d checked on Pa much. He mostly kept to himself these days, and I couldn’t exactly blame him. “Doesn’t make a helluva lotta sense for them to burn their own stronghold.”

“He’ll figure it out.”

“If history tells us anything, he’ll figure it out at the last possible fucking moment. But hey—what do I know? I’m just a new soul.”

“Better late than never, as Ma always says.” I vaguely registered the chimes outside beginning to clink as we followed the girls into the war room, but Blaz was already talking a million miles a minute without even bothering with a segue. “So, here’s the thing—there is no verbatim mention of the Roman in any of our archives. However, repeated accounts on the island and even in Ireland tell of a golden-haired warrior—a crest of the sun, lion emblems, unrivaled speed behind a blade. And get this—before Rhiannon’s engagement, her father assigned her a yellow-haired guard. Coincidence?”

“You realize all three of us match that description?” Carr drawled, appearing out of thin fucking air beside us.