Page 13 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

So briefly that he might’ve been scratching an itch, Prince Adrastos Balaskas lifted his hand and brushed it lazily over his lips, his index finger extended as though to silence me.

So quickly, I would’ve missed it if I’d blinked.

He palmed his jaw with the next movement, but his eyes never left mine.

My stomach clenched with the same uncomfortable blend of unease and familiarity I’d felt that day on the sidewalk.

I hadn’t known then. Hadn’t placed it.

But seeing him now, sprawled across a broken throne made of bones, taking up so much space that the room itself seemed starved of oxygen, I wondered how I’d ever missed the monster in our midst.

THREE

THE HODDSENDI

BLYTHE

Four days…

Bartholomew simply led me from one kind of hell to another. Instead of waking beside a half-dead Grayshellian legend, I never slept at all. Instead, I stood crammed between the shoulders of battered men and women with very little magic left in my veins to offer them.

They corralled us into a simple room—damask-patterned gold wallpaper, dark navy carpet, no furnishings. Large enough to hold a small wedding. No one had designed it as a holding cell.

Still, every few hours, as magic trickled back into my bloodstream, I wove between hollow-eyed faces to heal the worst injuries. By the time the early gray of a rainy dawn beckoned, the man I knew as ‘Smith’ had taken over the guard post in the hall, bringing tools for shoddy stitches and a bandaging kit. Without a word, those dark eyes met mine, and he placed both boxes in my hands.

A gift or a demand? Unclear.

Regardless, sitting still made my chest feel seconds from exploding, so I worked. One by one, I stitched wounds that would’ve already sealed if these souls still had their magic.

“You’re the Hazelharbor girl, aren’t you?” asked a towering, shirtless man with very little left of his shredded pants as I stitched a deep laceration across the front of his shoulder.

My magic was exhausted—reserved now for only life-threatening injuries.

Despite the filth, his carved physique and tolerance for my prodding spoke of years of unending training. This was a honed warrior, without a doubt. I looked around, scanning for others with his build. They might be my only hope of getting the hell out of here. Perhaps we could run far enough to replenish our magic and jump for help, then bring them back to free Ally.

I gave him a curt nod before asking, “Grayshell?”

A wry smile curved his bruised face even as he shook his head. He was trying—trying to lend me some sense of normalcy. Something I should likely do for the rest of them.

“I’ll take the compliment,” he said, wincing as I pushed the needle through his tender skin again. “Terramyst.”

My eyes widened. “You’re a shifter?” I blurted before I could think better of it.

“We all are.” He dipped his chin as I finished my work. “I’m Kennon.”

“Blythe,” I breathed.

He jerked his head toward the man standing beside him, half asleep against the wall. They shared the same shade of russet hair, both unruly in the siege’s aftermath. “My brother, Branoc. And that’s Odessa—O, for short.”

He motioned toward a stunning redhead resting on Branoc’s shoulder as though it were the only thing keeping her upright. I dipped my chin to each of them before glancing over my shoulder to assess our surroundings. To make sure we could speak freely.

“Anybody have magic?”

All three shook their heads, and I nodded, weighing our limited options.

“Does anyone know what in the hell a hoddsendi is?”

Branoc winced, opening one swollen eye to assess me, but Kennon answered. “In what context?”