Page 259 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

“In here?”

“I think so.” Because it was perfect. The crimson tapestries, the paintings, the towering shelves—even the mantle was intact. Hating that discussing him was necessary, I breathed, “‘Bellamy’ valued knowledge—strategy—above all else. I see where he got it.”

Nodding, Aren said, “The conversations Ally relayed were much the same.”

“And you still think she can be trusted?”

Aren ran his fingers over the leather-bound spines. When I turned to study him, a line had formed between his eyes. “I have to believe.” He met my hard stare with one of his own, but no amount of analysis could hide the torment beneath it. “I have to trust that if she kept something so vital from us, it was done with intention.”

Because—at least according to her livid mate—Ally had sacrificed herself so that I could bring Aren home.

Chosen the one thread where he still came back to us.

The one where he had a chance at both victory and peace.

She’d paid the price for us to have a story.

“Tell me again, what he said about Elizabeth.”

“I’ve told you everything I remember.”

“I know. Just… humor me. Sometimes the mind plays tricks. Maybe I’m missing something.”

I did. For what had to be the dozenth time, I told him about Bellamy’s anger when Barry spoke of Rhiannon. About the beloved princess so powerful they forged her a diadem to wield it, and her well-adored daughter. Only this time, Aren cut in. “They weren’t even titled yet.”

“What?”

“Look, my memories might be distant at best, but… I don’t think principessa was coined until a few centuries later.”

My head was spinning, the room along with it. “So, what would they have been called?”

“It was all very… formal—names were given in relation to parentage. For women, their status in marriage.”

“So, Lady Balaskas?”

“Before that, Lady Hadriana.” His brow furrowed, eyes growing distant a beat before he wet his lips. When Aren spoke next, his voice was tight. “Daughter of the King.”

The harsh breath that left him, the brutal swipe of his palm over his mouth as he turned from the shelf and paced toward the nearest wingback chair—there was a story there I wasn’t privy to.

“Aren?”

“Lana is right.” His hands landed on the wingback of the chair, knuckles nearly white where he squeezed it. “How long has she known? Since Chicago? Florida? How long did my second lie to me?”

“I don’t know,” I breathed, wanting to close the distance, wrap my arms around him, lay my head against his back. Instead, I let my fingers drift over the spines until one seemed to call to me, pulling the tome free and clutching it to my chest just to keep my hands busy.

“Why wouldn’t she tell me? Is this why she faltered? Why he’s alive?”

“Maybe.” I shook my head, hating the way he bowed beneath it, shoulders slumped. “Could you blame her if it was?”

“Yes,” he said curtly.

“If he’s her brother?” I asked, trying to hide my horror as my fingers traced rough parchment and slick leather.

“Not for not killing him,” he clarified, glancing my way without releasing the chair, as though it alone kept him upright. “For not trusting that any one of us would take that burden on for her. For not understanding that none of us would’ve asked it of her in the first place.” His eyes went glossy as he shook his head. “I failed her. For her to hide something like this… I failed her, Mags.”

“She failed herself,” I breathed. “In not confiding in you, she failed herself.”

“The threads are balanced upon a blade,” he recited like a memorized prayer. “Perhaps she couldn’t?”