Page 378 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

“She hasn’t been burning villages down—that’s been you wearing her skin.”

The corner of his mouth tipped up. “I’m an illusionist, not a shifter, princeling.”

Not a confirmation or a denial. Did this motherfucker have to make everything into a goddamn game? “All to lure us into a trap?”

“I was under the impression that you had some grand plan for this city beyond simply verifying rumor. Perhaps I overestimated you.”

So. In Adrastos-speak, that’s a yes? Alec asked mentally.

“It would seem, however, that such strategy would prove most effective, given your presence in this room. Noted.” Adrastos lowered his hands—and all three of us lifted our weapons, trained on his chest. “Relax,” he drawled. Voice lower, he warned, “We’re running out of time.”

“Your Master calling?” I spat.

“He’ll be yours soon if you don’t shut up. I come bearing a message—you’re running out of time.”

“You said that already,” Alec spat. Marcus remained conspicuously quiet, his eyes locked on Adrastos with icy determination.

“Not in this skirmish, simpleton. In the fates of the world. Weavers are incredibly valuable assets, are they not? Even greater liabilities when the wrong powers discover their willingness to burn.” With Jason in The Middle, he could only mean Blythe. “It seems my efforts won’t be adequate for long, and despite circumnavigating the worst of luck for centuries, I have reached the end of mine.”

“Spit it out, motherfucker.”

He sighed, as though this all bored him. “I thought you’d be interested to know your beloved cut down a man for sport in the arena, much like her sire.”

My trigger finger twitched, chest heaving as I tried to restrain the need to cut him down here and now. Make him suffer like she did. But he’d given us a distinct advantage, assuming, of course, he was really fucking standing there.

Marcus, are we staring down another illusion?

I don’t think so. He dropped the spellwork that surrounded Ally’s phantom.

Swallowing down the lump in my throat, I snapped, “You force her to fight, and report it like she’s at fault.”

“Not at fault. You are as well acquainted with her reality as I am. I thought it would be worth noting. As I said before, in exchange, I need something from you.” He straightened, eyeing Alec and Marcus, both poised to strike. “As for Dr. Briar, she breathes, but not for long. She stepped into the king’s crosshairs today and I see it ending one of two ways—with her in a grave, or catatonic on her back,” he gritted out, the sound of his molars grinding drawing a pinch between my brows. “Moros’ ambition wouldn’t allow him to waste prized breeding stock on the seed of a bastard. Should this hare-brained idea that could only be The Wraith’s come to fruition, waiting to execute your plans would lend my brother a distinct advantage.”

“Get her out yourself.”

A flash of annoyance glimmered in his dark eyes, his voice a barely restrained growl. “You say that as if it’s an option.”

“You’re standing here, aren’t you?”

“Either you are far less intelligent than Alvara gave you credit for, or simply so naïve you let words tumble from your mouth like a toddler.”

“In what world would the great and powerful Adrastos Balaskas not be able to spirit away a newborn witch if he wanted to?”

“The world in which Moros laid his claim.”

“And… what? You expect me to believe that you’re sincerely warning us? This was all your sick plan to begin with.”

“Your mate rejected my plan for a more benign overlord, or is your memory truly so short? As for my intentions, words can be interpreted a myriad of ways, I fear. How you choose to hear them is entirely up to your own bias. I am simply reporting the facts of our circumstances in case it makes you more amenable to my Master’s wishes.” The way he spat the words said enough. “Negotiating, if you will.”

“You and your fucking riddles help no one.”

“If I were sent here to render aid, there wouldn’t have been a need for such theatrics, now would there have, princeling?”

“And what now? You’re just going to let us go?” Marcus demanded, but it felt more like a test.

Adrastos huffed out a humorless laugh. “I fear I cannot do that. I am to deliver him—” a pointed dip of his chin in my direction, “—to the King. And as my ward is currently lying in my bed, severely injured, I’m feeling rather impatient to get it over with.” His weight shifted slightly, one side and then the other, as though weighing his words. “Even the best warriors are occasionally outmanned.” A dry smirk.

Translation: our escape required besting him in a way that satisfied the Blood Bond. “Are you done?”