Page 5 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

His jagged roar would live inside me for the rest of my life.

“Where is she?” he’d bellowed as lightning cracked overhead. But the hollow terror in his eyes said he already knew. “Where is my wife?”

Freya and the witch sobbed out the truth, and the near-black clouds hadn’t parted since.

Fitting.

Drawing my cigarette back to my lips, I inhaled deeply, begging the plant to steady me when nothing else could.

Because, for the first time in recorded history, leaders from every major hierarchy in North America stood on one stretch of ground. Grayshell wasn’t alone in grieving its leaders—their bodies lay side by side atop pyres on the ships. One pyre stood taller than the rest.

This wasn’t our fight. It was global. I tried to focus on the fact that they’d offered their blades—one oath after another, laid at The Great Commander’s feet—but we all knew the real reason they’d come to this city.

The loss of a legend.

My throat tightened as I found her. Red hair was hard to miss.

Freya Porter.

My mate. Brilliant usurper of the Paladin crown.

Slayer of Reagan Stuart—my fucking mother.

She stood beside Lana, whose blonde hair was still stained with gore. Both their faces were vacant as they prayed over the blades secured against forever-still ribs and layered flowers along the pyres. Their soul group surrounded them, patting their backs and placing offerings with the dead.

Brody and Jax stood at the pyre beside them, stoic, foreheads bowed as they prayed over Alastair’s stiff corpse. Beside them, healers placed stones upon Saraya’s body.

Their head healer. Gone, just like the rest.

Some cried. Others wailed. But most of us were rendered silent, the losses too numerous to count. Too many to grieve. Too overwhelming to acknowledge while the war still demanded we fight.

The time for grief would come later.

At least, that’s what I told myself as I pulled my gaze from Grayshell’s crowded ship and turned it toward ours. Then Bellaton’s. Westerlund’s. Hazelharbor’s. Terramyst’s.

Twenty-six hierarchies stood their ground against the invaders.

Twenty-six ships now lined the coast, laden with the dead.

Dragging from my cigarette like it was the only thing I had left to cling to, I marched down the dock toward the Paladin ramp. Too tired for the shadows. Too tired to acknowledge the respectful nods and salutes from passersby with more than a dip of my chin. Pretty sure the fatigue had settled into my bones.

Still, I marched on. The steady thud of Carr’s footfalls in my wake somehow stole my attention from the water softly lapping against the hull.

We marched toward Jo and Cali. Dad. Toward the surviving members of the Guard. Toward the pyres lining the deck, so numerous they nearly overlapped.

Juno. Sidra. Too many to name.

It felt like I was dishonoring them by giving a shit about the body at their center. About the woman whose blood ran in my veins. Who called herself a mother when all she’d ever been was a ruthless queen. And yet…

I couldn’t help it.

Throat thick, I exhaled a cloud of smoke as I lowered my gaze.

Blonde hair. Pale skin. I could imagine the way her eyes would slice through me, even as I brushed a chilled hand over her lifeless brow. Freya had dressed her in her Paladin uniform, despite the dishonor she’d brought upon all who wore it when she broke the most sacred Accord by slaying a calling.

A small mercy.

One I wasn’t sure she deserved.