Page 99 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

“He didn’t break,” I finally murmured. “Fucker wouldn’t give me shit.”

“Yet, August. Yet.”

“I’m running out of time.”

“Ally’s strong,” she whispered, but even I heard the uncertainty—the pain—in those two words.

Four and a half months. Those monsters had been breaking my mate apart for nearly four and a half fucking months. And no matter what I did, it wasn’t enough. Wasn’t enough to find her. Save her. No matter who I got my hands on, no matter where I applied pressure, I failed Alvara with every day she suffered.

“Nobody can be strong forever.”

“She’d never quit on us, so we cannot give up on her. Keep fighting, August.”

Keep fighting. Funny. Didn’t know I had a choice.

I pressed a kiss to her crown, gave her a nod I certainly didn’t feel, and then led the way back outside to clock this motherfucker upside the head.

Freya

Cadoc Hawthorne stood like a man certain of his place in the world—feet shoulder-width apart, hands lackadaisically tucked in his pockets, head cocked to one side as he studied our approaching formation. Ashy brown hair was cropped tight to his head, and his beard was trimmed with the precision of someone still living far too plush, in my opinion. Sword. Daggers. I even clocked a gun in the breast pocket of his jacket. Two men closer to our age flanked him, clearly family based solely on their looks and choice in beard care.

Ciaran and Cyrus strode ahead of August, Cyrus’ hand extended in greeting. The Northern king took it with a dip of his chin.

“Cadoc.”

“Cyrus.”

He released Cyrus’ hand and offered his to the senior Stuart. “Ciaran. You look well—given the circumstances.”

“You—”

Ciaran’s response was cut short when August stepped forward, his voice unnervingly calm. “You mean the circumstance of Moros fucking Balaskas whipping a man down to the bone in the center of your city—unchecked and without response?”

Cadoc’s eyes widened, flicking between the Stuarts and my brother. “August Porter, I assume?”

“The Great Commander,” I said sweetly, stepping forward as I shot a wary glance at August. I’d never seen him so on edge—his mental state eroding with every day we still came up without answers.

I extended my hand. “Freya Porter, at your service.”

A smile that dragged nails down my spine tugged Cadoc’s mouth up at one corner. I saw it then—the cunning king of the Northern assassins. “The grand usurper, in the flesh at last.”

“Is that what you’d call challenging a corrupt queen?” I smirked, eyeing the men at his sides and praying to all things holy my companions had the self-control not to stiffen.

“And yet here you stand—one united front. Gotta say, I’m not sure I’d be so hospitable.”

“Not the time, Hawthorne,” Ciaran said firmly. I didn’t turn to evaluate his face. “We’re here to discuss war. Personal matters can wait.”

The king canted his head again, razor-sharp eyes evaluating our entourage.

“Our apologies that you had to travel so far to respond to the call for aid,” the taller of his sentries said.

I flashed him a smile I prayed was convincing. “You have names, I presume?”

“My sons,” Cadoc provided, confirming my theory. He eyed me for a moment before sizing up Cyrus and August. Though both of his crotch fruit had that subtle glow of ascension, he gestured to the older of the two. “Atreus, and my youngest, Donomie.”

Atreus, his father’s doppelgänger—though even sharper in both jaw and gaze—extended his hand. His brother kept his hands firmly planted in his pockets, tipping his chin in greeting as I evaluated the man before me, then reciprocated the gesture.

“Now that introductions are out of the way, let us cut to business before we run into another horde, shall we?” August cut in. When I glanced at him, he looked two beats away from snarling.