Page 247 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

I blinked, fighting to clear the illusion.

Only… August was scrambling for something, hands diving through crimson pooling in the clear water. It didn’t feel like an illusion.

Without ceremony, August raised a shaking hand. Fire bloomed—then died.

Then he moved. Rocketed upright. Drove his shoulder into the mad king’s chest and forced him back—back and back and⁠—

“August!” I bellowed. I wasn’t the only one. I’d know her terror anywhere, in any dimension. It slammed through me as August shoved Moros over the falls—and the king dragged him with him.

I ran. Dove over the edge. My wings unfurled as agony ignited down my back.

And we were falling. Falling as I tucked my wings in tight, trying to gain on them.

They grappled as they fell—August’s thumbs buried in Moros’ eyes, what looked like a syringe jammed into the asshole’s neck. Swords gone. Both men bellowing.

Glacial wind battered my skin, eyes watering as the first streaks of sunlight broke across the horizon.

Come on, motherfucker, I urged as Poe’s cry cut through the air. Stay out of this!

Pull back, he retorted.

Pull up, Cyrus! Freya. An order from my queen. Ma moitié. But I couldn’t. Not with August plummeting and Moros locked around him.

Couldn’t because those were rocks below us.

Couldn’t because she followed him through centuries. From one life to the next.

Couldn’t because my fucking mother had cleaved them apart, and Freya didn’t make it this far just to lose him now.

Abort, abort, abort! Freya screamed down the line. Cyrusabortnowgoddammit!

I didn’t pull up.

Blythe

“Go fish.”

I narrowed my eyes, catching my lower lip between my teeth to keep from smirking across the infirmary table at Cora, who batted her lashes innocently.

She’d brought friends today—two girls around her age and a boy a few years older. He watched me with the most intrigue, already sharp as a tack, studying his opponents. What must it be like, growing up with warriors instead of witches?

His eyes were still on me now before he smirked into his lap.

“Bullshit,” I muttered, grinning when Cora gaped at me, indignant.

“Have I ever lied to you?”

“In the last sixty seconds? I think so.”

The boy—Fletcher—snickered, dropping his eyes to his hand as Cora shot him an accusatory look. He only quirked a brow, and for a moment I wasn’t looking at him at all. That smirk belonged to a different brunette. I blinked and jerked my attention back to Cora as she pointedly showed her cards to the girl beside her, who nodded in confirmation.

Chuckling, I drew from the pile and slid it into the back of my hand.

“Blythe?” A familiar gentle smile followed the feminine voice. Mhairi was about my height, chestnut hair in a simple braid, pale blue eyes fixed on me. “Sorry to interrupt, but you’ve got a patient on the lower level.”

On the lower level. It took all my self-restraint not to roll my eyes. What a polished little euphemism for ‘the king’s been torturing our prisoners again and you’re needed in the dungeon.’

I forced a smile and nodded curtly. She took the hint and vanished just as quickly. The preteens all whined at once—except Fletcher, whose disconcerting stare hardened on my face as though hunting for cracks.