Page 62 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

“Fed and breathing, so better than I deserve.”

Several people laughed at her joking tone, but I locked onto those aqua irises. A painful shadow slid between us as understanding settled in.

We both held ourselves responsible.

Had from the beginning of this mess.

When we parted, she lifted one tan hand and touched my split brow. White light glowed softly beneath her palm, a tingling warmth caressing my skin.

People began shuffling around, at least pretending to return to their previous activities. But Magnolia held my attention, fear riddling my insides.

She was smaller than she’d been the last time I saw her.

Leaner.

Her feminine curves had given way to taut muscle, drawing tension between my brows as I examined her. No signs of injury. Sleep deprivation written in the subtle lines and shadows beneath her eyes. Her power reserves felt decent.

“You taking care of yourself?”

She offered me a weak, entirely unconvincing smile. “Doing my best.”

I narrowed my eyes.

She rolled hers and popped one defiant hip.

Aren would flip his lid if he saw her wasting away, her soft edges turning hard. We could survive on next to nothing, but the thought that she might be punishing herself by withholding basic needs sent bile climbing into my throat.

A gentle smile tilted her full lips. Pain echoed in her eyes as she shook her head.

“What?”

She wet her lips, forcing the words out. “You’re just like him.”

I released a harsh breath, my shoulders slumping as my expression softened.

“I’ll take that as the highest compliment, Heiress.”

“Good,” she said huskily. “It was intended that way.”

She pressed her palm against my sternum as healers so often did, then scowled like Freya’s field medic had. White healing light flowed into me as she casually continued the conversation, as though setting all my broken pieces right required no effort at all.

“They’d be proud of you, you know. If they were here.”

“Slaughtering and bloodletting?” I scoffed. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

She laughed softly, the sound as hollow as I felt. “She was called the Angel of Death, after all.”

“Is,” I corrected. “She is the Angel of Death.”

That tight smile lifted her cheeks again, but her eyes remained dark.

“Yeah. You’re right. I’m sorry, August. I⁠—”

“Mags,” I scolded.

The pet name brought her up short.

“You’re fine. I’m talking to myself more than I’m talking to you.”