Page 83 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

THE MIDDLE

MAGNOLIA

Wards rippled across my skin as I stepped beyond the golden shimmer of Hazelharbor’s border the following evening.

Wicked fingers of unforgiving wind scraped over my face as my boots halted along the demarcation line. The Middle’s usual balmy embrace had transformed into oppressive heat—the kind that robbed you of breath and left you blinking against the sting.

I found myself relieved that August and Freya had sent me a…

Friend?

We’d timed our departure for sunset, when our power reserves would be the only limit on how far we could travel. Still, the opalescent luminescence of the healers’ enchantments gave way to blinding light, no doubt intensified by its reflection off the seemingly endless expanse of white.

Sky.

Sand.

The distant curves of dunes along the horizon.

All of it bleached as bone.

My escort approached on silent feet and stopped beside me, glowering at the sun from beneath a raised hand.

Portia Durand was a no-nonsense sentinel to Cyrus Stuart. Her box braids had been swept into a tight knot, and her dark brown skin already glistened with sweat. With a sigh suggesting she was equally irritated but not remotely surprised, she lowered her hand and leveled me with an incredulous stare.

“This was Aren’s plan?”

I nodded. “Adrastos claimed it was the most survivable route.”

“Is that supposed to be encouraging?”

A laugh barked out of me.

My favorite trait among the Paladins was their devotion to candor. No wonder Freya fit in so well.

I couldn’t help thinking Lana would’ve thrived beneath the Paladin banner, too.

Lana.

Guilt soured my tongue as I thought of the assassin.

She’d accurately laid the blame for Santa Bloom—and everything that came after—at my feet.

After all, the ripple of my cowardice had robbed us of Ally’s chosen thread. That reality hung heavily around my neck, a noose the widow needed only to tighten to render me willingly lifeless.

You’re pathetic.

The words still rang through my skull, a gong echoing long after Lana had delivered the blow on that staircase—after I’d broken Aren’s heart.

She’d been right.

Alana Callahan was out there somewhere. It was our responsibility to ensure she returned to Freya instead of following her mate into the After.

I owed her that much.

I wrung my hands and stared into the promised tomb of an endless wasteland. This was only the first trial separating us from our quarry—and every bit the misery required to deter souls from attempting exactly what we must.

Madness, this plan.