Page 81 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

“Look at me,” he demanded.

Magnolia’s chest heaved, but she obeyed—not without first sweeping that glare around the table, daring the rest of us to challenge her.

The witch who imploded.

Detonated.

And now she stood in my war room looking seconds away from doing it again, with my best and brightest directly in her path.

“We’re on your side, Magnolia,” Cyrus said. “And I agree with you—we have no choice but to get the message to The Middle. But listen to me. There’s a reason nobody’s visited a neighboring hierarchy since the Ardensian War.”

“Ardensian?” The faint crease between her brows fractured her fury.

Cyrus nodded.

“Centuries ago, Rome’s most prolific pyros were wiped out in a brutal attack. Bellpost crossed the Middle and infiltrated the Ardensian sanctuary. Much like the slaughter at Solskivall, they came in the night, used the shadows to their advantage, and wiped the hierarchy from the map. In the Middle. Inside their sanctum.

“After Ardensia fell, the leaders of nearly every hierarchy convened in a summit of sorts—a gathering that, unsurprisingly, turned bloody. But at the heart of that meeting was one point of consensus: the Middle had to be protected. Nearly two thousand hierarchies sent representatives. More than half contributed to the enchantments that now prevent access to their neighboring realms.”

“There’s a reason Alvara assigned this mission to Aren,” I said pointedly. “I’m not certain there’s another soul alive who could navigate that much magic. He was the one person any of us would’ve bet on, and even then, the odds were never going to be favorable, Mags. We’ve all been trying to accept that those we sent in Ally’s stead might never come home.”

“But Ally said we had to do it. That means it can be done. That she saw us win.”

“She saw Aren win,” I corrected.

The room fell silent.

Heavy with contemplation—and with the genuine possibility that this unmatched healer was about to yeet herself directly into the afterlife.

I glanced toward my brother, who remained seated at the head of the table, his attention fixed on the pocket watch perpetually cradled in his palm these days.

Again and again, he ran his thumb across its shattered face as though Ally had engraved the answers there.

“August?”

His eyes slowly lifted toward mine.

“What say you?”

Those haunted emeralds returned to the pocket watch. His thumb carefully traced the shard of glass still clinging to its frame. He pressed the pad of his finger to its tip, as if testing how much pressure it would take to break the skin.

Then he shifted the watch in his palm and pressed the button that released the locking mechanism.

Flicked it open. Drew a steadying breath. Closed it.

Only then did he survey the table, moving from face to face.

“You’re all right,” he finally said, unspoken agony woven through the confidence in his voice. “The Middle was intentionally cursed to prevent us from crossing it. The journey will be unspeakably difficult, and only the best among us have a hope in hell of surviving it.”

Click.

His attention drifted back to the watch, his thumb smoothing over whatever he kept inside.

“But Ally said there’s a way.”

He wet his lips, and for one moment, I swore I could see the sword of Damocles hanging above his spine.

“My mate is very rarely wrong. If she believed the Commander would regain access to Grayshell, he will.”