Page 60 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

“I know.”

“Which means he now wields her Magic Bond.”

“I know,” I repeated. “I also knew Fae would get her to safety. Now we can regroup together.”

“That’s not all.”

We crested the hill and came to a halt before a dilapidated shack that looked one stiff breeze away from collapse.

Fear wrapped a noose around my throat as realization struck me square in the chest.

“So… this is it?”

Alec cleared his throat, the sound tight. “Welcome to Watchtower.”

Watchtower.

Grayshell had used the term for its surveillance teams for years. It was only fitting they’d given the same moniker to the last communication hub we had.

I surveyed the dilapidated shack guarding the entrance. The remnants of July heat radiated from the packed dirt beneath our boots.

I’d refused to come here.

Refused to hunker down in a bunker with every other soul I’d damn if the enemy followed me.

If I was honest, I’d stayed away partly because of the delusion that I would find my wife. That Ally would need to come home. That she would be whole and in my arms, and when we finally reunited, I didn’t want to carry another secret I had to guard.

I’d told myself I was keeping all of them safe by not knowing how to get here.

Grinding my molars, I followed Alec through the entrance rituals, past the guards stationed inside, and down into what could only be described as a concrete monolith.

On Aren’s orders, Ansel and Lana had built us a labyrinth large enough to house a small city.

We marched past countless guards and down a seemingly endless hallway, the buzz of fluorescent lights and the scuff of rubber soles against concrete the only sounds. Each soldier dipped their chin—first to Alec, then, wide-eyed, to me.

After a small eternity, a cacophony assaulted ears that had grown accustomed to echoing silence.

My jaw fell open. My eyes stung and my chest constricted as I stared at what they’d hidden behind the best illusion I’d ever seen.

“Goddamn,” I muttered.

It was a mess hall of sorts, but… massive.

Acres of tables stretched across the room. Alec promptly sulked into the rows without another word.

The walls were loaded with weapons, the sight strangely at odds with the heavenly aroma wafting from Grayshell’s kitchens. Hundreds of people milled between tables, reuniting joyfully. Many were bruised. Others were actively bleeding.

But every one of them possessed at least a modicum of something I hadn’t felt in months.

Hope.

As if what had just happened would be tallied in the victory column.

As if Moros hadn’t slunk back into his goddamned hellhole.

I turned left and took slow steps into the familiar chatter, spotting billiard tables, dartboards, and even a poker game underway in the back corner. I moved deeper into the room, my mind racing as I studied the faces around me. Some were familiar, but many weren’t.

Flags lined the opposite wall, hanging from the ceiling with a hierarchy’s sigil emblazoned across each one. Beneath them stretched a long table with twenty-six chairs—one for each allied Commander.