Page 84 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

But it was his plan.

Alvara’s plan.

And the only chance we had of catching the Grayshell party.

“I trust Aren’s strategy,” I declared, stepping forward on feet far more certain than my mind.

“So we plunge into the uncharted,” Portia decided, keeping pace while eyeing the sweltering sun where it kissed the horizon.

“Seven Sisters save us.”

A lump lodged in my throat as I glanced back toward home.

Hazelharbor.

The distant, spindly towers of the library. The infirmary. Nat’s wing.

Even from beyond the wards, the hierarchy was unspeakably beautiful—all stone and shimmering gold.

Something deep within me ached in protest.

Nat was going to kill me for this. Only six other souls knew the details of our plan, and my High Priestess wasn’t one of them.

None of them could risk being here to see us off without inviting suspicion.

So there I stood.

Staring.

Chest tight. Throat tighter. One fist squeezing the strap of Ally’s bag.

Home.

I drank in the silhouette of home… or the place that used to be.

Without my consent, home had transformed from a place into a person.

A man whose blood still stained my hands every time I closed my eyes.

A heart I’d broken with my cowardice.

A home I’d shattered when fear wrapped around my throat and squeezed.

I’d made Aren a godsdamned promise to look after our people.

No matter what.

The sooner Grayshell reunited, the better our chances of defeating the Balaskases. The faster his warriors brought down those psychopaths, the sooner I could free my sister from the hell they’d thrust her into.

I would not allow Blythe to slip through our fingers, too.

That left us with only one option.

Through any hellfire, we had to reach the convoy within four days—assuming Adrastos’ intelligence was accurate.

Some corner of my soul knew it was.

“How long have you served the Stuarts?”