Page 244 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

So. The bitch was worth coming back for after all.

FORTY-EIGHT

GONE FISHING

CYRUS

We punched through Teiran’s designated jump point with the subtlety of a battering ram, the first, third, and seventh falconries pouring into the melee. With over one hundred Wings on the ground, I took to the sky with our ravens.

Easily the smallest skirmish August had called us into, I assessed as the others charged.

Freya was still nowhere to be seen—shield up, blocking us out. Especially concerning with Carrson here.

The quaint streets butted against a sheer drop to the river below, a massive waterfall at the mouth of town, now teeming with fleeing mortals.

Scenic for the Welcome to Linnmyst sign.

Less ideal for tracking fights breaking off the main strip.

But if the basilisk showed up… well, it had potential.

August is hit, Carr barked down the line. I repeat, August is hit. Moros inbound. I’m going in.

Wait for me, I ordered, panic surging through my system as I followed his energy and banked hard right.

Nope, he grunted, pain rippling through his mind.

Fuck me.

My eyes snapped to the decimated stage—scorch marks across its surface, a gaping chasm around it.

Naked female at the center, thrashing against captors.

Grayshellian armor feet away.

And my fucking cousin wrestling a goddamn pistol out of Moros’ grip.

I tucked my wings tight and dove, praying I wasn’t too late. Praying together we could take him down. Praying the Commander would get back on his feet.

That, at least, looked likely. August shifted onto his hands and knees as a warrior appeared beside him.

But that was the last I saw.

Moros released the pistol only to summon a blade in his other hand—and drive it into Carr’s side.

A bellow of fury tore up my throat. The bastard’s eyes widened a beat before I slammed into him.

My wings vanished on impact, the momentum of the dive sending us both toppling across shattered wood and asphalt. I skidded to a halt and found my feet with the slide.

Pressure threatened to crush my skull.

Even with my shield.

Fuck, even with August feet away.

Carr was standing—worse for wear, but upright.

Another wave of pressure crushed through my head—jaw screaming, scalp tingling.