Page 150 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

“Your mate was driven to ascend. Your loss became unbearable and drew forth her power. She is… immense, in both light and darkness. Guide her to the light.”

“Is she…”

“Alive and healing your vessel. She battles Death’s claim to you as we speak.”

He had to go back for her. He had to go back—for Magnolia, for his family, to protect them. If victory existed only in his presence, there was no choice. For all their flaws, for all the heartache, mortals and their world deserved beauty. Another chance.

The Being radiated joy as Aren solidified the decision he had always been destined to make. “I see you’ve made your choice, courageous soul. Brace yourself. Your return will be anything but pleasant.”

“What’s happened?”

“The seer has fallen to the shadows.”

“What?!” Aren solidified in an instant, as corporeal as he’d been on Earth, ready to wield the blades he swung so deftly.

“Alvara may return if she chooses to endure. She sacrificed herself in the stead of your victory.”

Jesus Christ, Ally. What did you do? The Warrior’s thoughts grew louder as his resolve did.

“What needed to be done,” the Being supplied. Aren rubbed at his now-solid face.

He remembered crushing her to his ribs after she’d decimated the war camp like a living nuke. Remembered her safe in his arms as he breathed those same words.

“Thought I lost you again,” he’d rumbled quietly.

Ally squeezed him back. “I know, Ar. I⁠—”

“Will always do what needs to be done.”

Aren straightened, popped his neck, and drew a long breath—as though preparing to dive into glacial, inky water—as he walked toward the doors.

Perhaps he wasn’t far off. What else could he expect from hurling himself back into an injured body amid the first wave of Hell’s invasion?

“Aren.”

He turned at once, dipping his chin toward the Being—the Being who was everywhere and everything. Perhaps he needn’t have turned at all, The Warrior thought.

“One Horseman is already slain. Claimed by his rival in your first duel. He rests now, no longer willing to be used as a weapon.”

Aren froze as realization dawned. “Agamemnon.” More statement than question. When confirmation came in silence, The Warrior asked, “He rests?”

“All Souls can fall victim to the predestined paths they selected before leaving this place. Not every lesson can be learned without failure. In his freedom, Agamemnon sought redemption, as all Souls do. So yes, prince of war, he rests at last.”

Aren stared for a long moment, turning the answer over. Before he could ask more, the Being continued.

“Your family must carve the other three into the afterlife to seize the depth of the shadow’s power. Cleave the twins apart. My children will forever remember your names.”

Aren nodded, though he wasn’t certain he understood. Beyond this place, beyond the Being, agony called him, wrapped around his throat like a noose. “Will I remember this? If I go back?”

“The pieces your soul deems essential.”

Drawing down another lungful of Love and incandescent joy, The Warrior became acutely aware of his body as aches and pains traced the border of his mortal existence back into being. He glanced between the two doors.

To the right: long-fought-for peace. Comfort. To the left: more pain. Pain he could already feel, as though a hand had closed around his windpipe. A dull ache spread beyond the sensation.

The Being watched as that inevitable resolution didn’t waver, even as fear entered that bright Soul. Watched, waiting, knowing Aren’s visit here was nearly spent.

A thought stopped The Warrior less than three strides from his choice.