Page 395 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

“Moros ordered us to seal the wounds in salt and charcoal.”

Right. To mark me. Remind me of my place. Those lashes would be immortalized, dark scars across my skin, sealed beneath my own healing magic.

Fucking prick.

“That would be the kindest thing anyone has called him in some time.”

“Get out of my head,” I growled as I hobbled toward his ensuite, and he steadily shifted along with me.

“Put up your goddamn shields so I can.”

“I can’t find them.”

“Pee first.”

“Because that will help?”

“You never know. Hard to think through discomfort.”

“I can’t believe I’m discussing my urinary problems with you.”

“I can’t believe you give a shit.”

“Forgive me,” I bit out as he flicked on the lights to the adjoining lavatory. “I’m not used to having a grown man help me to the bathroom.” I tried to pull free, to unwind from his hold, but my knees buckled again.

“For Christ’s sake,” he growled, all but lunging to keep me upright. “Stop being so goddamn proud.”

“That’s rich, coming from you,” I snapped as my cheeks heated, despite adamantly avoiding his eyes. “This is humiliating.”

“Only you can decide that. If you think I haven’t done the same for grown men after they nearly lost their entrails, you’d be wrong.”

“Warriors.”

“No matter.”

“Godsdammit,” I muttered as he unceremoniously plopped me into the marble-ensconced water closet, forcing me to face him. To his credit, he didn’t seem to be enjoying himself.

“Am I staying or leaving?” he demanded roughly.

“Leaving,” I insisted.

“Don’t drown in the toilet bowl.”

“Don’t fall off your balcony.”

Still shaking his head, he backed out of the cramped space. My muscles screamed as I slipped off what appeared to be Adrastos’ sweatpants—rolled at the waist to stay on my hips—and lowered myself onto the toilet. If it were anyone else, I’d feel like an imbecile for not begging him to stay. Not admitting how badly I needed his help. Instead, I just buried my face in my hands and wept.

A throat clearing told me he hadn’t actually left the bathroom entirely—just backed out enough to grant me the illusion of privacy. Mortification was a bitter cocktail, my face suddenly on fire.

“I meant it. What I said. Years before Moros and I… came to our arrangement, I’d grown accustomed to being who I was expected to be—doing what was expected of that person.” I nearly challenged him—the timing, the place, but thought better of it, snapping my mouth closed as he added, “An atheling, and yet a spare. There were so many brothers before me that I was raised to watch their backs. To be who they needed me to be. To do the unsavory things nobody likes thinking about, but that are necessary to maintain power. And I was good at it. Good enough that Koa bumped me up the ranks, gave me a small… what would you call it—a retinue, if you will. I learned early on that if I could play the role, walk and talk like a king, that people would believe it. And then with Moros… well… little beats the incentive of autonomy.”

It was only then that it occurred to me that he might not know—who he was or what he wanted, after literal centuries of servitude.

I finished my business, making sure I was decent before hobbling out to the sink, unwilling to meet his eyes.

“Better?”

“Some.” Even in my periphery, I could see him nod softly. “And now?” I pressed.