Page 353 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

“Not your fault,” she breathed. It was only the warmth of her exhale across my chest that made me aware I’d stepped in far too close.

I arched a brow, turning for the grain mill just for something to fucking do. Because it was. Not directly, obviously, as I didn’t swing the blade, but he’d taken it for me.

The irony wasn’t fucking lost on either of us.

I didn’t turn as her energy shifted behind me. The mill’s growl swallowed any noise she made. But then her heat was beside me, the fabric of my stolen hoodie brushing my bare arm a beat before her pinkie grazed mine.

“Quite the pair, you and I.”

“The universe does have a sense of humor,” I agreed as she wrapped our fingers together. I tightened my hold in response, glancing down at her and finding a million unsaid things in those hazel-ringed jades. Things neither of us had words for, even if we’d wanted to trade them. Quite the pair, indeed.

Exhaustion marred her cinnamon-speckled skin, and I fought back the need to brush my lips over each line until they melted. She held my gaze, a silent hope settling between us. This wasn’t the first time she’d fucked up my attempts to bring breakfast to her room, and, at least based on how vivid my own nightmares still were, it likely wouldn’t be the last. Oddly, this was part of the routine: her ruining my efforts and then somehow making them better just by existing.

Stolen moments of quiet, coffee gurgling and water boiling, where it was just the two of us. A breath in the morning where I could imagine what a normal life with this tempting creature would’ve looked like. We would’ve stolen from the corrupt, built a network of spies better than even my mother’s, and bickered over breakfast about who was dealing with the day’s politicking we loathed equally before an inevitable interruption called us away.

It was about at that stage of my realization that the screaming started.

Freya sucked down a pained breath, her eyes slipping closed as she braced for impact.

Like the asshole I was, I snorted, because maybe life wouldn’t have been so different after all.

August

The shrill screech of an alarm pried me from sleep, and Paladin had triggered it.

I was up and armored fast enough for my head to spin, popping one of the potions Jo’d concocted before bolting through the pain and out of the bunker. I jumped, not bothering to sense ahead, as hell was inevitable and our guards were plentiful. I didn’t even inventory the warriors coming with me, wordlessly at my back.

Luminark manor was still stirring to life, but agonized cries trailed through the open front doors. Paladin guards stood stiff-jawed and ready for trouble, but they just nodded as we passed.

Grimacing in pain, I bolted down the hallway, cursing Moros with every agonized step.

Paladin’s hospital wing was wide open, a gaggle of healers rushing from one side of the room to the other. But my eyes were on Freya, barking commands, canines drawn, eyes softly glowing, bent over a bed with her slight frame swallowed by a hoodie.

Blood stained her hands.

“Look at me, look at me,” Cyrus’ demand cut through the room as I stepped inside. People wailed the familiar laments of torment while healers gave monotone orders, moving in a rush through shadow and matter. Seven beds were surrounded.

When I stepped up beside Freya, horror rooted me to the spot.

Blaz Gwyne was lying in the bed in front of us.

The flesh was seared clean off his hands. His arms. The side of his neck was a livid blistered purple that climbed in spindles up his jaw.

Cyrus’ bloody hands were set on his chest where the uniform had melted into his skin, the other hand threaded through his hair, forcing Blaz’s eyes onto Cyrus’ face.

“We’ve got you. Do you hear me?”

“What the fuck happened?” I demanded, stepping back to let the healers do as healers did. Blaz shook his head, raising a trembling hand to halt the nearest one.

“A trap. It’s her,” he rasped, the words a rattle between his ribs. “Alvara. They broke her.”

The world slowed and accelerated all at once.

Dragging in a ragged breath, he gasped, “She’s not in there. Moros…”

Blaz’s eyes rolled back as his words were crushed out of existence.

“No!” Cyrus barked, jerking his head up toward Jo, whose wide eyes were less than encouraging. The energy around us shifted, and I looked to the doorway just in time to see Nat, Kenna, and two more Hazelharborians glide into the room, looking murderous.