Page 142 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

“Ally?” I breathed, trying to school my voice into a doctor’s calm. Training couldn’t scrub the fear from it. She didn’t respond. I wanted to scream. To rage. “Ally, sweetie? Can you look at me?”

Her eyes focused with visible effort—first on the foreground, then the window. Finally, slowly, she turned her face toward me and blinked.

“Alvara?” I tried, my soul screaming at the lack of recognition on her face. She blinked again. Confusion flickered—then, briefly, something like recognition.

But then she opened her pale mouth. “That’s not my name.”

I stared, unable to process the atrocity breathing in front of me. “What?”

Her eyes drifted closed. Prying them open again seemed to take everything she had. She didn’t answer.

A legend.

This woman was a legend.

I’d seen her fight. Seen her play and joke and laugh and dance. In a matter of months, Moros had clawed away her reality with pain and satanic machinations. I whipped my head toward Barry. He looked ready to be sick.

But it was the figure behind him I locked onto.

Adrastos stood like a statue in the doorway, jaw set, arms crossed, eyes locked on Alvara and burning with a fury that made my breath stutter because what the fuck did he have to be angry about? He’d done this.

Orchestrated this.

I was supposed to be cowed.

Supposed to be docile.

Supposed to win their favor so that I might gain the right to move around the estate and find a way out.

But my soul was screaming. Screaming at the sickness consuming these walls. At the evil in this godsdamned family.

Monster, I snarled into his mind. He gave no outward sign he’d heard me, but his power shoved into my skull and locked my spine.

Help her, Blythe.

You help her, I spat, rising and staggering back from the phantom sitting in Ally’s place. You did this. You broke her.

I know. There’s so much you do not understand, and she needs you.

No. My hands covered my mouth as the last of my professionalism disintegrated. I couldn’t do this. Not anymore. I couldn’t. I will not.

You’ll cover up the promise of an heir, but you won’t heal a victim of unspeakable violence? Got it.

I flinched back, eyes snapping to his.

I vowed to do no harm. To help people. Heal them. This isn’t healing. Keeping her breathing only gives you more time to hurt her. If you intend to keep breaking her, do it yourself.

Your actions last night would get you killed if Moros knew.

You along with me. So fucking be it.

Heal—

No, I will not. You can kill me for all I care. She was the only thing keeping me alive, anyway.

She must live, witchling.

No.