Page 116 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

Confusion and awe warred in my chest. “Then how can he read?”

“Only two true omniscients have been recorded—two souls whose power supersedes their magic. Both reside in these walls at present.”

Ally.

So, that’s how they’d weakened her in the first place—how they’d broken her walls so Moros could plant his hooks inside her.

“Why are you telling me this?”

A small shrug.

But the crack of flesh on flesh jerked my gaze back just in time to see the two men stumble apart, Adrastos nearly losing his footing before spinning to regain it.

The movement revealed harsh crisscross ridges of puckered skin across his back, barely hidden under all that ink. My breath caught.

I’d only ever seen scars like that in history books—books about the slave trade, and the heinous wounds inflicted at the whipping post.

Mags said he was covered in scars, but this…

His opponent was moving—too fast to be natural, a gleam of victory sparking in his dark eyes beneath the foggy light shining from a glass dome far above.

Dark like Moros. Dark like the demon-infected.

For a moment, I was in that desert. Hunted. Terrified. Jaycee’s blood soaking my hands.

For a moment, Magnolia’s sobs ached in my chest.

Before I could think better of it, my mouth was open, a cry tearing free. “Bell, right!”

Reality slammed through me as boos and jeers rippled through the crowd.

Bellamy whirled, one arm jerking out to catch the wrist of the man’s blade hand. His other hand closed around his throat, halting him. The first twisted, forcing the man’s wrist back at an unnatural angle until his fingers opened and the knife thudded to the sand below them.

With a roar, he drove the man backward until his back collided with the cage in a thunderous clatter that rippled up the bars. The crowd went wild—screaming for blood, screaming for him to finish it, many slamming their own blades against the bars until the space became a cacophony.

With trembling hands, Adrastos lifted his opponent’s massive frame until his feet dangled just over the dirt.

And then he paused and turned his face, glaring above me with so much anger I felt myself slipping. Slipping back to that desert. That alleyway. I took two shaky steps toward the bars, looking over my shoulder and up to where Moros sat on a gilded throne two levels above us.

His expression was unreadable. Bored, even as the crowd screamed their bloodlust.

With a hint of a smirk, the self-imposed king raised a fist. The cheers became deafening. And like an emperor of old, he turned his hand, thumb down. As the onlookers roared with victory, I spun back and darkness fell over the face I’d long ago memorized.

Anger. Bitterness. Unveiled hatred.

In the next moment, he dropped his opponent to his feet, hands moving with unparalleled speed.

The man dropped like a sack of grain.

The spectators lost it—roaring in victory until the bellows warped, shifted, transformed into one word: Adrastos.

The name went up like a chant as my hand hovered over my mouth, my feet backing away from the callous, unnecessary end of a life. For sport. He’d just executed one of his own. For sport.

And they thrived on it.

Was this what had come of Branoc? Kennon? They’d been destined for the fighting pits, hadn’t they?

My back bumped into a hard body, and I turned to find Bartholomew, his chocolate eyes solemn. “Come along.”