Page 28 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

Clear. One word down the line.

We trekked through the crumbling structure, relieved we didn’t need to empty the building of bodies. I could still smell their deaths lingering on the furniture. Had August done it for us?

In silence, we settled on the rooftop to wait.

And wait.

And wait…

A knowing turned my attention to the road as men materialized hours later. Renown. Bellpost. One and the same, in my book.

We melded into the shadows, grateful for the lingering cloud cover, our eyes trained on the squadron popping into existence where we’d stood earlier.

Ten. Ten scouts surveyed the perimeter, but like me, their leader cocked his head, thick neck straining as he scowled.

“Odd, don’t you think?”

“The bastard was right.”

In the last three months, we’d tracked a pattern among groups of Moros’ men. Orders came from three people: ‘the king,’ ‘the bastard,’ or ‘the prince.’

Most often, the men serving ‘the prince’ were Bellpost in full—no Renown, no demons, tribal patterns reminiscent of Celtic swirls and knots adorning their skin. Men, easily mistaken for nomads, who came and went quickly with little collateral. No slaves claimed along the way. A little looting, but deaths were mercifully swift, humiliation minimal. In and out on single-minded missions.

The term ‘the bastard’ meant we were, very much, in imminent danger. These fuckers played with their prey until the bodies gave out.

Shelter, I ordered mind-to-mind. That was all any of them needed as we shifted into shadow, retreating within the building and tucking into corners. Only Cyrus and I took windows, cloaked in mist, straddling the line between the gray and the present.

If precedent meant anything, it was that Moros and his men would sniff out such a blatant trap. They’d deploy drones and shadows to test the border. But August knew that as much as I did. Confusion buried itself in my ribs as we watched.

They behaved as predicted. Shadows rolled out first, machines second. When the drones returned unscathed, the soldiers briefly conferred. A short disagreement. Then he was there.

Goosebumps prickled down my arms.

Towering. Broad-shouldered. Long black hair scooped into a bun, with no mask to be seen. No point in hiding now, I guessed.

Looking painfully bored, Adrastos motherfucking Balaskas strode toward the desecration line with all the authority of a royal—then halted.

I ducked behind the wall before those dark eyes could land on me. Carr rocked on his feet, knuckles white where he gripped the hilt of his blade. I gave a jerky shake of my head, and he dipped his chin in acknowledgement, even as bile rose in my throat.

Less than fifty yards away.

Our enemy stood less than fifty yards away, and my recon team was too goddamned small to do jack shit about it. I could summon more, but there was no plan. They’d be flying blind. And if the bastard had taught us anything, it was that flying blind was the worst possible strategy in this war.

We were tracking my brother’s movements. Not attacking the enemy.

Even if it made me want to scream.

Hushed voices went back and forth, then the darkness shifted. We reinforced our wards, waiting for the stillness that meant I could watch again. It didn’t come. Instead, the gray pulled taut.

That rumbling bass uttered one bored word. “Explosives.”

“Can we disarm them?” a male voice asked.

“Not unless we dismember him. Should the king insist on reclaiming the city, we’ll need to bring in machines to clear the bodies.”

“Why not the shadows?”

“You underestimate the young Commander if you believe he hasn’t considered our element of choice and accounted for it.”