Page 139 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

But Grayshell wouldn’t retreat—not with home promised somewhere beyond this hell. Which meant I had no choice. Right?

“That’s where you’re wrong, Mags. There’s always a choice…”

A sickening squelch, the thud and roll of Ansel’s head.

I dry-heaved, jamming my eyes shut and finding myself absurdly grateful there was nothing left to vomit. I’d spent days purging—my stomach, my strength, the memories tangled behind both.

When I lifted my face, a blur of color beckoned through the debris. I rubbed an aching palm over my eyes, opened them again, and found still more… chaos.

Another hallucination. Had to be. Still, as I stared into the blur with my pulse hammering in my ears, the outline of a great warrior seemed to emerge—glimmering, one hand extended as if he could pull me forward.

I could’ve sworn I saw his smile.

I jammed my eyes shut as the wind strengthened and forced myself to breathe—in for four, hold for five, out for six. I prayed through every count. For clarity. Direction. A helping hand in this impossible task. On the third exhale, I opened my eyes. The mirage was gone. So was the warrior.

Some deeply irrational part of me deflated with his absence. Sorrow washed through me as I stared at the place that familiar frame had occupied.

Then Aren appeared—sun-kissed and beautiful, lowering into a crouch before me with approval in his eyes. Trust in your hands, Mags. Own your power. Hold steady, mea bona puella.

I had a godsdamned vow to keep. And if this bizarre tangle of hallucinations meant anything, apparently a lesson left to learn in the hell I’d chosen.

I surrendered to the very real possibility that I was about to craft my own death. One last breath—the monster roaring back at me—and I jammed my eyes shut, tucked my chin, raised my arms over my face, and shifted into shadow.

The scream of the wind died with my shield.

The world… silenced. Stilled around me. My eyes flew wide in disbelief. With one fortifying breath, I carved my way through filth and shadow.

TWENTY-SIX

GHOSTS

BLYTHE

134 days…

Thunder rattled the windows, rain hammering them in a relentless barrage as I lifted my voice. The tune was haunting and ancient—words I remembered and didn’t, in a language I knew but couldn’t understand.

Still.

The baby kept crying. “Shhh, lilla vän, you’re okay,” I breathed, bouncing her in my arms as I shifted from one foot to the other. “I’ve got you.”

Still, she screamed, sobbing until no air filled her lungs. When I pulled her from my shoulder, her face was mottled red, tiny black lashes nearly swallowed by cheeks scrunched tight. Eyes squeezed shut. Fists clenched just as hard.

Still, I sang, even as tears started pouring down my own cheeks.

We swayed in a slow rotation as the storm raged beyond our window. Beautiful, this little one. So precious in her helplessness. So vulnerable in a world that would break her anyway.

“Shhhhhhhh,” I hushed until my lungs were empty. “Quiet, lilla vän. It’s okay.”

Still, she cried, her little face crumpled and inconsolable.

Still, I sang, even as I wept with her. For her. For all of us.

“Hush, little baby, don’t say a word,” I sang, trying something new as I whisked us both onto the oversized leather couch. I cradled her along my forearms and rocked her back and forth.

At last, she dragged in shuddering, desperate breaths. Those sweet little hiccups broke my heart as she fought to pry apart her lashes. The most beautiful dark eyes found me—rich brown, like earth after rain.

His eyes.