Page 413 of Commanding Blood And Bonds

Adrastos let the woman drop. With a wet squelch and a hoarse cry, she slid off his blade, crumpling at his feet. “Is it wise to strut so smugly as the bearer of such a spectacular failure?”

“Failure?” Adrastos scoffed, nudging her away with his boot as if sweeping filth from an alley. A low groan left her lips as her face tilted to the side. Another gasp rippled through the chamber. Even bloodied and broken, Alvara of Grayshell was unmistakable.

But she hardly looked like a legend now—her eyes fluttered, unfocused, her limbs slack as blood soaked the floor beneath her. And Adrastos, the arrogant shit, was still smiling. “I fear you’re just as short-sighted as Agamemnon,” he said, voice thick with promise. “Your lack of vision will be your undoing.”

Gasps followed. Nervous eyes bounced between the brothers, watching—waiting—for another blow.

He would deserve it, Moros thought. Adrastos’ defiance, his endless provocations, had earned a blade to the gut a hundred times over. But would it hold up with the people? Unlikely.

Adrastos stepped forward, unbuckling his sheaths and tossing the weapons aside. A nearby soldier rushed to catch them before they hit the floor, reverent hands lifting the bands over his shoulder like sacred relics.

It had always been this way. Even when they were children, the people had scrambled to honor the twins.

Still, their loyalty bewildered him. Moros thought of Adrastos, strung up by Grayshellian Commanders only hours ago. Of the feral female they'd dragged in, thrashing against her captors.

His gaze narrowed as his brother offered a hand to a kneeling soldier and clapped him once on the back. Then another. And another.

“You don’t expect me to believe this was your intended outcome,” the king drawled, gesturing to the still-bleeding gash along Adrastos’ side.

“You don’t expect me to believe she wouldn’t go down swinging,” Adrastos returned smoothly, brow raised. He bowed low—just enough to maintain formalities, and no more. “Your Majesty, I bided my time, studied the prophecy, weighed every risk. I returned with my life and a victory.”

He paced slowly, voice gaining volume as he turned to the room. “We have drawn every last piece onto the board. All but one. But given the babe in her womb, I don’t foresee the fertility Goddess surfacing on any battlefield soon. She’ll be buried under Grayshellian wards, I imagine.”

He paused to pluck a mug from a soldier’s hand. “Once the child comes screaming from her cunt, we’ll have the leverage we need to bring her to heel without protest.” He raised the cup. “To a kingdom on its knees.” A crooked smile tugged the corner of his mouth as he turned back to Moros. “Congratulations, my king, on a victory hard-earned.”

Then, louder—commanding, reveling, relentless: “Rise, brothers and sisters. Celebrate! Grayshell will fall by sunrise, and her allies within the year.”

Chaos ignited.

Cheers broke like waves as the crowd surged toward their bastard prince. Hands outstretched, voices raised—some shouting praise, others begging for answers, still more clamoring to touch his bloodied hands. Healers rushed forward, guiding him to his seat on the dais as though escorting a holy man. Scrapes and bruises vanished beneath their magic, unable to bear the sight of him wounded.

It made Moros vaguely ill.

And yet, Adrastos absorbed their hysteria with all the usual grace—stroking the cheek of a fawning girl, clasping hands with men who wept at his feet. He’d always humored their worship. Always knew exactly how far to lean into myth.

Behind the king, a song broke out.

The people cried thanks for the return of their lost prince. All the while, Adrastos’ gaze kept flicking back to his own, defiant and sharp.

Yet again, the bastard had outmaneuvered him. This was what he did. His insolence was forgiven again and again—because somehow, his unorthodox strategies worked. And the half-dead seer of the North was, begrudgingly, living proof of that.

“I must admit, when Bartholomew brought us word of your capture, I feared the worst,” the king said, accepting a towel and scrubbing the blood from his hands. “How did you convince them not to gut you?”

“The demagoguery of an opportunist never fails to pacify fools.” Adrastos’ roguish grin widened, scraping across Moros’ fraying nerves. “And as we both know, arrogance always breeds fools.”

With a creak, the massive hall doors groaned open, and an abrasive chill swept through the chamber. Candle flames danced violently in their sconces. Adrastos didn’t turn, but Moros caught the slight tick in his jaw as a feral scream rang off the cathedral ceiling.

The witch was still fighting.

For a healer, she had a curious willingness to break her own body.

Moros turned to watch the petite blonde being dragged—literally kicking and screaming—through the parting crowd. Her face was swollen and bloodied, her arms slick with crimson from wounds likely self-inflicted during her resistance.

Then her eyes—electric blue—found Adrastos. They flew wide with recognition.

“Bell!” she cried, voice hoarse and ragged. His gaze flicked to her slowly, a sneer curling his lips. Her chin trembled. Eyes darted from Adrastos to Moros, then to the gathered host.

“Bell?” she whispered again, more desperate now. Even with Adrastos seated in his throne, she crawled forward when thrown at his feet, one hand reaching out. “Bell!”