Page 406 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

The essay in question was just as on the nose: Of Revenge.

Short. To the point. Only one segment was highlighted. One sentence underlined.

“Certainly, in taking Revenge, A Man is but even with his Enemy; But in passing it over, he is Superiour: For it is a Prince’s part to Pardon.”

Beside it, Cyrus scrawled the words: Man must resist his very nature not to enact justice when wronged, but to pardon that betrayal is to rise above mortality. To rise above the instinct to bite when injured. I know few capable of it. Perhaps that alone is why so many turned to Yeshua. Why Aren did. Does. I envy his capacity for forgiveness.

You’re no monster, ma moitié. You’re simply human. I despise that I ever allowed you to question that. Grief blinds acutely. I hate my weakness; that I grieved for her. But moreover, I hate that I gave myself a reason to grieve for you, while you’re still breathing and free.

I’ve watched your brother mourn a woman still living. A ghost that still breathes, haunting every aspect of his existence. Don’t let that be me.

I felt the shadows shift before Cyrus cleared his throat where he now leaned against a bookshelf. “What’cha readin’, cher?” Smiling tightly, I held up the book. He mirrored the expression, eyes cautious as he prowled forward. “So. You found it.”

“I did.”

“And?”

“Your notes are infuriatingly academic.”

His lips twitched, and he glanced toward the paperback in my hands. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”

“Analysis is easier than feeling what the characters emote.”

“It is,” he agreed without hesitating. “I’m trying.”

My voice fled—a mouse before a cat—and all I could do was nod.

“I’m sorry about Ansel, Freya. Truly. I hate this for you.”

I nodded, even as a lump formed in my throat. My eyes scanned back over the essay he’d led me to, the inferno of conflict in my heart staring back at me from between Dantès and Bacon. I took a long pull of rum, numb to the way it burned before admitting, “Dantès was the first character I saw myself in.”

“You read that before ascension.” Statement. Not question. Of course, that book was so tattered it left little room for doubt. It was the kind of abuse only possible over a prolonged period.

“Didn’t understand why I was so drawn to him. I had a good life—a good family. But I felt his righteous anger—his need for vengeance for his suffering on a visceral level. It scared me, if I’m honest. Because August and I agreed on most things, but not that.”

“I think his stance has changed,” Cyrus observed. I shrugged.

“The suffering of another is a very different motivator.”

“Everyone is capable of that level of anger. I’ve done worse for less.”

“At the orders of another.”

Flatly, he countered, “Evil isn’t born of enjoyment, but of complacency.”

“Maybe,” I allowed, shrugging, though I couldn’t fathom growing up the way he did and not playing the part. “I thought I was doing the right thing. Thought if she’d turn her blade on me, she’d certainly stab my friends in the back—if any of them were still breathing. When I got back, there were very few.”

“And now?”

“I don’t think it’s a coincidence that Gio’s mom was killed. All but Orion, your dad, and Juno were picked off one by one. But… if I had it to do again, I would’ve stayed with Ansel.” His name on my lips tasted like accelerant, chest burning with his absence. Or maybe that was the long pull of rum.

“I don’t think I like that option.”

I snorted, not bothering to hide my disbelief, even as I traced his expression and found sincerity concealed behind that careful mask. “And why’s that?” I sniffed.

“I wouldn’t know… about you. About the bond.” He reached for the bottle. I passed it over, watching his throat work as he swallowed. “Reagan would’ve bent a knee to Adrastos, and we would’ve met on opposite sides of a blade. I’d be alone in the end.”

I shrugged, watching him for a tell. He shifted his weight, clearly uncomfortable with that reality or the conversation we were having. But that same certainty stared back at me.