Page 94 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

The scorpions stopped at the base of the dune as though they’d struck an invisible wall. Precisely where the harsh blade of sunrise cut through the shadows.

A ward, I realized.

Not that it helped as numbness crept through my bones, across my face, and down my spine.

Not that it helped when Portia collapsed ahead of me. Or when I crawled after her over the serrated edges of shattered bones.

Get up, daughter of darkness, Death warned. Get up.

A pleading note threaded his voice as my blistered hand reached Portia and

rolled her onto her back, revealing brutal crimson welts across her face and neck.

My arms gave out. I collapsed, and a sharp edge sliced across my cheek, promising a new scar.

But I was too numb to move.

Dammit, Heiress.

Death knelt before me, his face concealed within the depths of his hood. One pale hand reached toward my cheek.

I was still staring into that dark void, searching for the being hidden within, when the world tilted——and darkness claimed me.

PART 2

SKY

SIXTEEN

THE LIGHTNING ALWAYS COMES BEFORE THEY DO

RYKER

The lightning always came before they did.

Or at least, so the stories went.

Ryker Ashborne was seventeen when the portals opened. His father lasted just over four months in the resistance before the conqueror’s men apprehended the ragtag brigade he’d cobbled together.

Kneel.

Mortals would submit to that order to save themselves.

Ten of the thirty did—they were, allegedly, to live. If slavery could be called living. In submission to the king, the ten survivors of Watchhouse Twenty would serve the monster who called himself a god.

They’d do it without their freedom or their tongues—the fleshy stubs discarded in the plaza beside the blood-splattered execution posts. Never again able to speak against corruption.

But not Ford Ashborne.

Ashborne, who’d survived four tours with SEAL Team Three—the sailor whose men would’ve followed him into hell, and ultimately did—refused to so much as lower his head, hatred and defiance alight in his eyes.

Ryker watched from the crowd the nephilim warriors had corralled into the plaza as his father’s clothes were stripped from his back. Watched as half-breed men nearly twice his size dragged him to the post.

As hard as Ford fought, the invaders were stronger. Faster. Their bones seemed unbreakable; the SEAL’s combat training barely drew blood.

He had to do something—anything—to help free him. But soldiers were everywhere. Fire danced with satanic, sentient shadows, forming a wall around the crowd and caging them in.

His mother and two little sisters were at home. Praying. Waiting for him to return and tell them what came of their father.