Page 327 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

Fingers pointed. Voices rose. Tensions climbed higher still.

Because four weeks ago, the lightning god vanished. Without him, his acolytes were fighting an uphill battle. Mortals were dying at an alarming rate. The demon’s blight was destroying the land at unprecedented speed, despite the best efforts of the ethereal fertility goddess so often seen rallying the celestials with earth magic to combat it. She was always at the center of a squad of Grayshellians, but she was still just one woman.

One female against a dark magic so heavy it suffocated the crops.

The people were starving. Rations were so low that Ford had to pass a decree making cannibalism of the dead punishable by death. Public executions had become so monotonous that Ryker could barely keep his eyes open through them, retreating instead into memories of before the war.

And leadership was crumbling under the weight of it all.

“He’s dead!”

“He’s abandoned us!”

“Even the gods know it’s a lost cause. We’d be wise to do the same.”

“And go where, fuckwit? The demons are everywhere.”

“If you’d just held your post a little longer, we wouldn’t even be here, you coward.”

“I’m a coward? You’re one to talk, you piece of shit!”

“I made an executive decision to retreat and minimize losses. What would you have us do? Stay until we’re all dead!?”

Ryker watched the rebels tear each other apart from within, spittle flying as fast as accusations. Just as humans had for centuries before the ultimate fall. So blinded by fear and anger, they mistook allies for enemies and well-meaning bystanders for agitators.

He glanced at his father, where Ford sat with his sun-weathered arms crossed over his chest. Hard sapphire eyes stared right back. At last, the leader of Watch House Twenty shook his head, jerked his chin toward the turbulent gathering, and looked away.

Later.

They’d analyze together later.

For now, Ryker was supposed to watch. Observe.

But the bickering cut off when the conference room door flew open and three familiar soldiers prowled in wearing full tac suits. “Ford!” the front runner barked, slicing through the din and silencing the room. Everyone turned. “The norms are going after the truants!”

“What?” Ford demanded, his voice like granite. Ryker didn’t have to look to know his father was on his feet just as quickly as he was.

Truants.

A decree had come down that any and all mortals under eighteen found outside Celestial schools between seven and five on weekdays were liable to be taken into Balaskas custody.

The world was now divided into three classifications:

The celestials—a blanket term for the nephilim and demon invaders.

The gifted—those full-blooded souls in possession of sizable magic.

And the norms—humans.

The first week after the lightning wielder vanished, conflict broke out within the resistance. They took it as an omen. Some proclaimed his demise at the bottom of the waterfall he’d plunged over to kill the king. Others promised a glorious return.

The second week sowed the seeds of division—more norms choosing to kneel and pray that submission meant safety behind Balaskas lines.

The third solidified those factions. The king had returned, but the god hadn’t, and more norms were now fighting their own kind beside celestial forces. While the gods did their best not to harm them, in life or death, they had little choice.

By the fourth… well, if the celestials could turn on humans so easily, what was to say they wouldn’t turn their backs on the rebels when the war looked lost?

If the norms were going after truants, one faction enforcing the king’s laws was out in the streets scooping up children who likely didn’t have parents left to feed them or make sure they were in classrooms.