Page 21 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

Despite the shadows whispering in her ears, altering the air she breathed and the chemistry of her body, her lip curled like a beast preparing to snarl. Her eyes flashed with whatever piece of her inferno still burned deep within her soul.

Beneath the sterile reek of antiseptic, he tasted the first spike of rage in the air—and beneath it, decades of essence. Fear. Pain. Sweat. The copper shadow of bitten tongues and the salt of tears long since absorbed into the padding.

He drew a deep breath and carved a practiced smile across his face. The one that disarmed most people.

“I’m Dr. Williams, and I’m here to help you.”

Her throat bobbed, and Moros fought to keep his lips from curling.

She rocked back on her heels, chains clinking as she wrapped her arms around her knees and buried her face against them.

“That’s not my name.”

Had he been human—had his senses been any less acute—he wouldn’t have heard her whispered words.

Some subjects were more stubborn than others. They didn’t understand that this was a mercy. That he’d freed them from the shackles of their lives. From the expectations society heaped upon them. Once they submitted to their new reality, freedom waited on the other side.

There was liberation in submission.

In letting his hands reach inside and take the controls for them.

“As you’ve said.” Moros made a note on his clipboard as she flinched away, expecting pain. “Just noting continued identity confusion, Elizabeth. This is a typical resistance response. Nothing unexpected, but if you continue rejecting your name, I’ll have to find a new protocol.”

The chains clinked as his magic dug into her neocortex and tightened its grip. Her face crumpled, her eyes squeezing shut as a groan pried its way from her chest. She shook her head and Moros canted his in response, easing up as her throat bobbed, a flicker of confusion surfacing in her rich emerald eyes.

She buried her face against her knees again, slowing her breath.

“You’re safe, Elizabeth. You’re in capable hands, and I believe we can restore your memories with a little repetition.”

He nodded gently and crouched beside her, noting a peculiar stain on the bone-colored padding between them. Something likely to linger even after magic and bleach.

A curse, perhaps.

Refocusing on the mind caught within his gift’s talons, Moros asked, “So, how are you feeling today, Elizabeth?”

She shook her head violently, almost more to herself than in protest.

A good sign, if ever there was one.

The king jotted another note on his clipboard, pleased when her eyes flicked toward the movement.

She didn’t answer, but Moros was convinced she’d come to see the new world.

His world.

She would understand when she finally let go. Serving him would drastically reduce the world’s instability. Together, they could bring the mortals to heel, where they belonged—kneeling at the feet of a greater race. A greater being.

She would see.

He would make her see.

One session at a time.

The scent of iron tainted the air, and Moros swore under his breath.

He lunged forward, his clipboard landing soundlessly on the mats as he yanked her upright by her cuffs and slammed her against the wall. He scowled at the bleeding imprint of her canines in her arm.

She smirked at him where he pinned her to the mat, then slowly—tauntingly—dragged her tongue over the blood coating her lips.