Page 347 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

Which meant when Grayshell attempted to summon him, Aren had been right. They couldn’t call on him because they didn’t wield his true name to begin with.

Which meant the promised children of the Bellpost line, the most powerful in history, were illegitimate. The favored twins were marred by their mother’s infidelity in a time when women had no autonomy—no usefulness outside of heirs and alliances.

Which was certainly something worth killing over for a mad king hellbent on keeping his subjects under his thumb.

And Rhiannon and Elizabeth had met a horrific end at the hands of mortals.

An impossible feat unless…

Slowly, my eyes lifted to Smith’s, his jaw hard and lips pressed tight. Swallowing the trepidation climbing up my throat, I breathed, “That’s why they died, the girls, that’s⁠—”

Barry’s hand clapped over my mouth so quickly I staggered back a step. “Treason. What you’re suggesting is treason.” He dipped his chin, eyes hard as he slowly pulled his palm from my mouth.

Click.

Nodding, I backed away, holding the scrubs up in front of my face as my heart dropped into my stomach.

Had Agamemnon known, somehow, what happened to Rhiannon and their sister? Had he found out and orchestrated the execution of a tyrant? Or had he truly been as unhinged as Grayshell said he was? Was it whim or retribution that brought him to his knees in front of Moros? And Adrastos…

Nope. I wasn’t even going to try to understand what led him to vow himself to a monster like his brother in the name of saving a murderer.

By the time I emerged from the bathroom, my sentinels stood silently outside the door. Wordlessly, the three of us fell into step with Barry at the lead, me in the center, and Smith taking up the rear.

We took the now-familiar path to the fighting ring in pregnant silence, boots shuffling over stone beneath the whir of my thoughts.

I felt him before I saw him—my eyes gravitating to the betrayer across the crowd, my mind drifting back to the first time I’d seen this hell with my wrists in chains. This was different. He wasn’t lazily sprawled in his chair anymore. He was fully vested, elbows braced on his knees. He met my eyes as the crowd burst into raucous cheers, a haunted understanding passing over him a beat before he jerked his chin at the ring.

His eyes, however, remained on me. I could still feel the weight of them as I turned toward the center⁠—

And lost every ounce of air in my lungs because there, blade in hand, ivory skin splattered in crimson and dressed in a mockery of Roman attire, stood Alvara.

SIXTY-NINE

STAUNCH OLD BITCH

AUGUST

Five months, two weeks, twenty-two hours since they took my wife…

“Are you sure about this?” Freya asked the following morning.

“We’re running out of time.” I glanced down to find her staring straight ahead through the willow branches swaying in the late-summer breeze.

“Might I caution you to approach this strategically?” Blaz offered beside us. The kid was pretty fucking solid, given the temperament of his mother.

“I’ve got it, thanks, though.”

Cyrus snorted derisively, the raven perched on his shoulder echoing the sound. “Famous last words.”

“It’s overdue.”

“I’m not arguing that,” Cyrus said, “simply the lack of preparation in dealing with Medusa.”

Unable to argue that, I led us through the flowing green foliage, raising my hands when guards on all sides leveled automatic rifles in our direction. At once, we dropped our hoods and the barrels lowered. A few returned to patrol; others tracked our progress through the overgrown grass brushing our knees. Two fell into step beside us—a man called Montague and one of Reyna’s flyers, whose name escaped me when my attention snagged on the blonde waiting on the porch.

Where Aren relied on alliances and Adrastos on manipulation, Reyna was a classic strategist. Sending Montague and Blaz was a sign of good faith, but our welcome hadn’t exactly been warm—a reminder that even allied in war, we operated on contingencies.

Her position on the steps above us was another.