Page 43 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

“Nice, Ken.”

“I’m sure the sentiment is mutual.”

“You look… tired,” I admitted.

“See? Same, same.”

Something about her unapologetic response was the greatest comfort I could’ve asked for. Our witches were scattered like leaves in a hurricane; tossed every direction imaginable, per Nat and Aren’s strategy.

Necessary. But…

Fuck.

Facing the atrocities of the past few months would’ve been brutal regardless. Facing them while separated from nearly everyone we knew and loved…

More nights than not left my lungs without air, my mind without reason, and my hands itching to return to work. To do something instead of sitting helplessly.

The brief reunion with my coven mates for Fae’s birth had been a desperate reminder that I was not, in fact, alone in this.

But now we were four days into our return to the base, where Kenna was my lone, solid touchstone. The one dependable presence I had within the sleek walls of Aren’s worst-case scenario.

The one where Ally fell into the wrong hands—the woman who knew everything.

All of Grayshell’s safe houses? Compromised.

Accounts? Ally would know if we accessed them.

Weapons caches? Aside from those within bunkers guarded by secret keepers, she knew about them too.

Their greatest asset had become the most horrific vulnerability in the blink of an eye and the slice of a sword.

Our greatest vulnerability.

Grayshell had scrambled to raid its own supplies before she could surrender anything worthwhile.

A knock at the door had me turning, mustering the closest thing to a smile I could manage when I found a weary-looking Jax attempting the same.

“Ajax, what can I do for you?”

“Few bumps and bruises. Nothing too serious,” he said, even as the tang of blood reached me.

Shaking my head, I waved him forward. Kenna made a beeline for the sink to wash her hands as the sound of boots ricocheted along the hallway walls.

“What’d you get yourself into this time?” I asked, aiming for levity and missing the mark.

“Followed King Calloway into Dallas tonight.”

When my eyes snapped to his, he nodded reassuringly. I was growing accustomed to the curt reports warriors seemed so fond of. Bare-bones factual bullet points and nothing more. They never elaborated.

“He’s fine, Mags,” he said. “Promise.”

“I’d feel a whole lot better if he came in for an exam.”

Much like his mate—and her sire before that—August carried the weight of the world across his broad shoulders, as though the sword of Damocles hung over his head.

He didn’t seem inclined to share the burden, either. Family fucking trait, I guessed. At least Freya checked in a few times a week. Let us fuss over her and spill the tea beyond six-word status reports.

Clearing my throat, I added, “I need to get eyes on him.”