Page 7 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

As a broken, inhuman sound cracked between rolls of thunder, I drew a breath and found the strength to move through the shadows to her side.

Silent tears rolled down Freya’s cheeks, her pale hand shaking as she brushed the sticky hair from Lana’s face. But her mother had broken entirely. Somewhere between covering their heroes’ final ferries with gifts and turning her back on her coven as they left, she’d shattered—her sobs otherworldly. Haunting.

This was what love felt like, I decided.

Like tiptoeing along the edge of pain so unbearable it threatened to destroy you. The vulnerability of handing half your soul to someone, only to wreath their colorless corpse with keepsakes, was a special kind of hell I had no interest in experiencing. Not as she cried out in an agonized song, more animal than human. Not as tears cut jagged paths down her fair skin, or as the sky rumbled with the promise of more retribution.

Swallowing hard, I knelt between them, bowing my head against Freya’s and allowing myself one final moment of weakness. One moment to memorize her scent and the idea of what we’d almost had .

Then I rose, hauling Freya with me even as her knees threatened to buckle. Sobs tore from her, and she buried her face in my chest, tiny hands clutching the fabric.

Carr, I called down the line.

Coming, he vowed, appearing a moment later.

But my cousin wouldn’t have time to pay his respects. A throat cleared behind us, followed by heavy footfalls.

We turned to see The Great Commander. The prophesied King Calloway. August’s throat bobbed, his eyes only for Lana as he lowered himself to one knee.

I didn’t stay. Didn’t listen to whatever words of condolence or retribution he promised. I couldn’t bear to.

So we shifted through mist and shadow to rejoin our people on the shore, turning as lightning severed the horizon.

Whatever Commander Porter whispered into her ear, Lana collapsed against him. He hinged forward and scooped her into his arms like a doll long forgotten in the rain.

Once he reached the shore, he settled her on her feet, looped her arm around her sister’s shoulders, and accepted his longbow from Alec.

Stone-faced, he ordered, “Draw.”

Arrows were nocked on all sides. A soul-fed line of fire ignited between us and the water as a sorrowful song—more heartbreak than music—rang out, winding between the hierarchies.

Voices joined.

So did the ravens.

But it was all I could do to remain on my own two goddamned feet, clinging to Freya as she steadied herself against me.

Nobody moved. Not a single bowstring thrummed out of turn.

All souls waited.

All breaths held.

Nothing but the melodic anguish of the funeral song.

Only when her keening cut off did August’s amplified voice echo from the city walls.

“Ignite.”

Blossoms of flame bloomed as far as the eye could see—right up to where the beach collided with the city. I squeezed Freya’s shoulders, and with a muffled sob, she straightened, turning to watch as Alec and August both dipped their arrows.

“Aim,” he ordered hollowly.

A thousand bows creaked in unison, a haunting symphony beneath the dusk-shadowed sky aglow with our losses. I stroked my rough palm over her hair.

“Until we meet again.” Militant. Clinical. The Great Commander’s sharp words dripped with the same emptiness carving my chest open. A low murmur of voices cracked the air behind him. Prayers. Salutes. Farewells. The odd cry before a bereaved soul could smother it.

“Loose!”