Page 398 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

“And what reality is that?”

“The one where people are starving—enslaved to cruel men clever enough to grasp power.” He leaned back, crossing his ankle over his knee, palming at his jaw. “They play and love and fuck, and work, and pay their goddamn taxes to fund the crimes committed against them and their brothers and sisters, thereby complicit in their cruelty through their willful ignorance. They studiously file into the polls as they grasp for some semblance of sense that they might control even a facet of the world around them. They devour the illusion of choice, all the while oblivious to the fact that their choices were made long before they ever considered them. They’re living week to week, day to day, while those pulling the strings think in centuries—in generations. If you think the human elites built an empire of corruption without guidance, I have news for you, and you’re not going to like it.

“Each tragedy was a test, each injustice a trial which the powers that be have used to gather intelligence—who will resist, who will comply? Are those answers different if they change the pressure applied? For centuries, they gathered data for this moment. So that when they made a play for control so catastrophic there would be no return, they knew exactly where to apply leverage to wield human factions against each other—keep them fighting amongst themselves—so that power was easily acquired, and more easily paraded.” His hand rubbed irritably over his forehead before scraping through his dark hair. “So, no, Blythe, I do not have hope for a future worth living in. Moros has been planning this strike since the ninth century. If humanity was going to redeem itself, they would’ve done it before they were staring down the void.”

“And yet you seem displeased.”

“Look at my eyes, Blythe.”

I did. Warring emotions clashed in my chest as I took in the sincerity there.

“You may think you don’t know me, and for that I am sorry. But you have no idea how violently I wanted those weeks in Santa Bloom to be real. Forget this place—this goddamn family—from what you know of Bellamy, do you think I’m pleased with how this has turned out?”

No.

My gut answered before my mind could.

If any shadow of that caricature was real, no, he would not be. For all his grumblings and cursing, Bellamy…

“You saved people.”

“I’ve saved no one.”

“You killed the man that raped Mags.”

“And many like him.”

“And what would you call that?”

“Swift karmic retribution.”

A laugh barked out of me.

He shook his head, a mirthless smirk tugging at his lips. “I show monsters there are scarier things in the dark.”

“Why?”

“Because they deserve it—to die pissing themselves, fully aware of what they put their victims through.”

“A code I can get behind.”

“I assumed.”

“And now? What was your goal, Adrastos?”

There. Again. The slightest flinch, masked as he turned his head to glare at the window in the corner where he’d camped like a gargoyle.

“In my dreams, I see them led by a benevolent ruler.”

I hummed thoughtfully. “Should they not rule themselves?”

“How’s that worked out for them?” he asked flatly. “They need guidance—and not from a God that’s abandoned them for realms beyond—from a leader worth following because of character, not coercion.”

There were alternate threads, but Agamemnon cut them short. Agamemnon. The Battle of Grayshell. “August.”

“Prophecy would indicate your theory has legs.” I was about to press for more, greedy for more pieces to fit into this infuriating puzzle, but he cleared his throat. “The Great Commander is close, Blythe. He will lay siege to this manor within days.” Hope bloomed in my chest, but it faltered when he smiled tightly only to grimace. “Promise me something?”

“Excuse me?”