Page 36 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

CYRUS

July 21, 6:09 p.m.

The metronome of the clock ticked down without a whisper of mercy. We were well beyond twenty-four hours now, and there hadn’t been a messenger in at least three. The words printed across the book in my lap had blurred into outlines, and my head was pounding by the time Carr finally strode through the door.

“Nothin’?” he demanded by way of greeting.

I shook my head, sliding the tome from my lap onto the neighboring table. Resting my forehead in my palms, I leaned over my knees and sighed.

What a time to bring a baby into the world.

Aphaea Carter—the goddamned goddess of fertility—was more than a day into labor, trying to bring a new soul Earthside. As some of the few people Freya trusted, my cousin, my sister, and Jo had been rotating watch outside the surviving Hazelharbor door within the high priestess’s safe house.

The witches would ensure the Grayshellian had everything she needed.

But the baby…

What a nightmare to love something so vulnerable more than the breath inside your own lungs.

There wasn’t a city unscathed by bloodshed. No country exempt from the hell we were all enduring. Nowhere to run, shy of The Middle.

And here we were. Guarding a portal so the best healers in the world could attend a birth. Well… and keeping tabs on our young queen as she bid farewell to the Grayshell party—Lana and Brody at its head—as they attempted what no soul had yet survived: crossing the Middle on foot.

Alvara had said reclaiming Grayshell was key. And while the entire goddamned plan had gone awry, the delegation’s leaders agreed that checking as many of the Seer’s boxes as possible offered our best chance at a resolution we could live with.

“You look like shit,” Carr noted generously.

“Thanks.”

“Move.”

“What crawled up your boxers?” I grumbled, rising from the armchair Nathara had placed beside the door for us.

“Nothin’.”

“Sure sounds like nothin’,” I deadpanned.

“Just tired, Cy. Really fuckin’ tired.”

Fuck, weren’t we all? No amount of training could’ve prepared any of us for this shit.

“Go rest. I’m fine. I’ll keep watch.”

“Piss off.”

“You piss off. I’m fine. I might’ve finally found something.”

His unimpressed brows rose with mild curiosity. “Actually found something, or are you still going on about the Roman?”

The Roman.

To my unending surprise, our cousins across the pond—Pinebarrow, Caraway, and Seasmith—had all pledged allegiance to the cause once blood began spilling.

With that allegiance came access to their archives on Bellpost proper and its collision with the Northern—now nomadic—Necromancers. While the Northern Paladins in the Appalachian Mountains maintained their neutrality, they, too, had granted us access to their libraries. Their king, Cadoc, had likely offered help to proclaim their innocence from the rivers running red rather than out of any genuine loyalty. Despite our repeated petitions, he’d refused to join the fight.

At least their libraries gave me new texts. New journals. New records to devour with the thirst of a dying man.

Twice, journals predating Rhiannon mentioned ‘the Roman.’