Page 352 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

That mentality had earned her the title of ‘butcher queen’ for executing those pompous pricks for hoarding food, along with a great deal of mortal loyalty. The price was that we were only six months into this war, and Marlana was burning crops faster than we could replace them, leaving dust where grain should be.

Based on Blaz’s reports, Bellaton was in the same condition.

Worse yet, winter was coming. Shy of sacrificing our pyros to warm the gardens, I wasn’t sure the earth wielders could manipulate enough thermal energy to grow through the cold season—certainly not in the north. We had every geomancer in the resistance reporting to the Carters, following Aphaea into the pits of ash to revitalize the earth, and still the blight moved faster. Multiple spots of decay appeared every goddamn day, ravenously devouring the ground while Fae pushed herself to the edge of burnout somewhere else.

At this rate, we’d depend on Aren’s safe houses before Christmas. The Old General had built hydroponic gardens in every single bunker—I wagered those alone would get our allies through the cold season.

With a sigh, I wrapped my shadows around a sack of maize, another strand around a bag of ground coffee, and headed out into the gardens. The sun didn’t yet have the audacity to rise, so I pulled in a relatively cool breath, summer’s damp heat muted while darkness held. I saluted the guards as they closed the doors behind me and wandered to the chicken coops, gathering eggs for the morning before heading inside.

I preferred breakfast duty over dinner, frankly. Quiet. It gave me room to fucking think. Breathe. Try to work through the latest fucked-up interpretation of events my dreams left emblazoned on my eyelids: Freya. Always dead Freya. Each rendition more gruesome than the last.

By the time I got to the kitchen, I’d finally slowed my heart rate. I summoned the industrial-sized pots, filling them with water magic as I moved for the coffee makers while my shadows poured the maize into the mill.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

The pots slammed onto the stove with a thunderous clatter, and the mill screeched to a halt, sending maize scattering across the floor before my shadows jerked the bag upright. I whirled, carafe in hand.

Heart hammering, I growled, “Fuck, Freya. Make a noise.”

“I did,” she purred, lips quirking as she sauntered into the kitchen wearing only—fuck me—one of my old hoodies, exposing a mile of creamy-toned legs. Her short hair was bed-tousled, leaving her looking freshly fucked in a way that did nothing to aid my resolve. As I roved over her—scanning for bruises, obviously—need ate through my common sense. Because I could remember exactly what those powerful muscles felt like squeezing my face, the way she trembled when I tasted her. The feel of those expert fingers tangled in my hair as she held me against her.

Irritation sluiced through me, partially because I’d made her a vow, and who had time to fuck with a war raging, but mostly because it had become a personal mission to have coffee brewed before she stirred for the last four weeks, and she was fucking up the routine.

“What are you wearing?”

“Did you hit your head, poor wil’ baby?” she teased, shifting around the island and hopping up on the counter. “Don’t recognize your own clothes?”

“Smartass,” I muttered as I turned back to the coffee maker, returning the carafe and pressing the start button.

“So,” she pressed. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“Nope. You?”

She nonchalantly pulled a warped paperback from the hoodie pocket, slapping it on the island. “For shit.”

Brow arched, I eyed the book on the counter, its spine so cracked I couldn’t see the title—not that I needed it to recognize it. “Yeah.”

“You worried about this mission with Reyna?”

“Sure.”

No. The mission would be executed once Vesper returned, and we’d either win or die. There wasn’t a whole fuck of a lot to worry about. We all knew the risks involved with standing ten toes down in this. What worried me was that these incessant dreams were a warning. I wasn’t a seer like my father, but… there were always omens. Dreams chief among them.

Morpheus, Caer Ibormeith, Oneiroi, Mamu, even Yahweh; it seemed every known pantheon—every account of mythology—had a being or two that punched through the veil when the mind found rest. Either they were telling me what I already knew—that death would be welcome if I lost this feral, brilliant creature—or warning me that a threat was coming for her.

Her snort had me turning back to her unbothered expression as she tucked her legs into a crisscross on the counter, giving me a prime view of bare inner thighs. My palms buzzed with the need to run over all that porcelain skin. Feel the warmth of her, confirmation she was here and not at my feet with a dagger through her heart. Settling for staring her down would have to be good enough.

“Very convincing.”

I smirked, shrugged, then admitted, “Same old, same old.” Slowly, I leaned over and swiped the book, lips quirking as I examined the title page of Machiavelli’s The Prince, where she’d scratched out my cynically correct and added a neat little bitter, misguided, depressing A.F. and in need of a good lay.

Freya flicked her tousled bangs out of her face, eyes tracking as I slipped the compact book into the pocket of my sweats, lingering for a beat too long. Her voice was breathy as she sighed, “Yeah.”

“Ansel?”

She smiled tightly, nodding just as stiffly.

“I’m sorry.”