Page 206 of Commanding Blood And Bonds

Bullshit. This whole thing was bullshit.

I shook my head, stepping backward, needing to get out of portal range. “Deal’s off.”

“Wait,” Cyrus breathed, lunging.

But I was faster. Until black ribbons of shadow whipped up my arms—not tight enough to harm, but more than enough to block escape.

“Let. Go,” I snarled. My borrowed shadows stirred, ready to counter⁠—

But he released me. Hands raised in that universal gesture of surrender.

“Moros Balaskas holds the diadem. At his personal estate.”

“No shit. You’ll need more than that.”

“It’s in his vault. Air-locked to prevent fire destruction. If you get trapped inside, you’re as good as dead.”

Well. That was notable. Not that I was about to say so.

Carrson shifted uneasily, his eyes scanning the perimeter like he fully expected me to spring a trap.

“Not. Good. Enough.”

“Oh, pump your brakes, Speed Racer,” Cyrus snapped, flicking his imaginary tail like a cat in full pissy glory. “I have more, but you’ve given me jack shit on your end.”

“You promised information. I promised an object. Not your involvement in retrieving it. You’ll get what you need to know—which is nothing—until the diadem is in my Commander’s hands.”

“What the fuck would Reyna Gwyne want with Rhiannon’s diadem?”

Carrson’s assessing gaze flicked back to me, but I smirked, swaggering a step back. My shadows curled up around me like lazy smoke.

“Like I said. She’s not my queen.”

Cyrus stepped forward again—like something in him couldn’t help it. “Then who is?”

“I serve no queen.”

My shadows surged, cloaking me in mist—until he lunged again.

“Freya, wait. Please.”

Carrson’s side-glance was sharp. He’d heard the desperation, too. And he didn’t like it.

I froze.

Cyrus stepped under a shaft of moonlight filtering through mossy branches. Breath fogged between us. Shadows curled around him, but he didn’t use them. Didn’t try to hold me. Just looked.

So.

I waited.

He swallowed. Loudly.

The key to besting any enemy was knowing where their armor cracked. I’d thrown a ruthless shot about his dead brother, and it had hit home.

“Your words were clear,” he said, voice level—but eyes pleading. “But I’m asking anyway. The crown. It last appeared around the end of your—Valora’s—timeline. A few years later, there were whispers of one final light wielder. That’s what the records in Ma’s archives say. Were the events coincidental? Or connected?”

The last Solskari death. I shook my head. “Regrettably, after my lifeline.”