Page 459 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

And my mind took one look at the agony of that shredded rope in my chest and thought the ice would serve us better. No one was coming to save me this time.

Distantly, I heard my knees slam into marble.

Felt my head ripped back. Hair torn out at the roots.

Distantly, I knew my lungs were wheezing, sides screaming—broken ribs then?—as a bloodied man with white hair stepped into view.

As eyes made entirely of onyx met mine. As demonic veins spiderwebbed away from them, my magic guttering out.

Struggling to control my eyes, I fought to lift them. Only to wish I hadn’t.

Because Moros was smiling.

He held a crown between his paper-white hands. So black it looked like a void, save for the glimmering stars across it.

“Ms. Briar, you look well,” he purred in a way that sent bile up my throat. “I was promised a Solskari bride—a womb to secure my bloodline.” He prowled forward, that smile turning sharper. I fought against the hands that held me, thrashing as he got closer with that… thing. My magic reeled, screaming in my chest with every step.

The king paid no attention to the rattle of the walls or windows; his sole focus was me on my knees. “No wonder my bastard brother tried to keep you for himself.” He hinged at the waist, close enough for his breath to dance across my face, but not close enough for me to strike. “I will happily accept you as a replacement. A… condolence prize, if you will, for your whore of a mother breaking our agreement. Anastasia Thornquist,” he purred, that smile turning positively wicked. “The last princess of Solskivall.”

NINETY-FOUR

SOMETHING WE CAN AGREE ON

CYRUS

“Cyrus, help me!!” August’s agonized bellow was enough to fucking gut me. Metal screeched from behind me, but I was kneeling beside the prince of many names.

Paris. Lonan. Bellamy. Adrastos. For each mask he wore, he donned a moniker like armor.

Paris, the prince who brought the war behind the walls, leading to the fall of a city. The lover, not a fighter, who loosed the arrow that at last slew the unkillable.

Lonan, the little blackbird, the little warrior. Rhiannon said The Raven would bring the end of a great evil. I might have gold fucking wings, but Lonan—Adrastos—was a raven.

The Raven.

The reason Ally said we couldn’t win without him.

The farrier of a great treasure.

Bellamy; a good friend. Blackwell; from the black water. The black water of Bellpost. A good friend of Bellpost. The man who tore demons apart with his bare hands to keep them from reaching Blythe and Magnolia. The one who sent me toward The Wraith because it was fucking destiny at play. The one who confessed, haggard, that his bonded was in jeopardy if he couldn’t get his hands on that obsidian goddamn crown.

Adrastos, the son who never was. The prized battle strategist, Rhiannon’s most beloved son, wiped from their records. Erased as though he’d never been despite a people that prized loyalty above all else.

The bastard son of Arlo goddamn Amadeus, father of Ardensia, whom I assumed was Rhiannon’s rightful mate.

The Prince and the Bastard, depending on who you talked to within two factions of a once-powerful hierarchy, divided over the rules of succession.

Rules that ordained magic pass from the strongest wielder to the next. Not next of kin.

Montague flew past me, the sound of rushing water hitting my ears before the chill bit into my ankles, my calves.

What the fuck?

I glanced back—they were prying the cell door open with their bare goddamn hands, water pouring through the widening gap.

“Did it work?” Freya panted, appearing beside me, eyes sharp with intention. “Did his heart stop?”

I canted my head. We were about to fucking find out.