Page 138 of Commanding Blood And Bonds

One hundred thousand and eight potential futures, to be exact.

Only 3,240 probable realities where this realm still contained life beyond microorganisms. Where some sliver of what we called humanity survived. I used that word loosely—those lives existed in servitude, enslaved by a so-called “greater race.” Demons posing as royalty, free to conquer, brand, rape, and bend survivors to their will. It was suffering no creature deserved.

Only 119 threads where humans survived and sovereign Souls still drew breath—but not here. In those, we were banished to The Middle, forced to seal the portals for good, praying humanity could survive without us.

Fifty-seven where we still walked between realms.

That idea alone made my stomach turn. Souls weren’t energy meant to be contained. We weren’t made for cages.

Three.

Three slender threads where the world was made anew and humanity lived in a state still worth enduring—though even then, it came with rebuilding.

And one—one thread of genuine victory.

One where the Horsemen were stopped before their rise.

One where united hierarchies flew a single banner and brought a great power to heel.

There were consistencies, of course, in the 119 threads the Western Delegation deemed “acceptable” outcomes of the war. Fewer still tied the final three together. But in every one of those…all the pieces of the prophecy knelt to August.

Only, there was a hole in the vision. A glaring blank space, like a missing puzzle piece. A seventh part. Adrastos had withheld something—and I was more furious with myself for being surprised than at the bastard for keeping secrets.

Of course, that twisted fuck hadn’t given me all the pieces.

Of course there was a mystery piece on the damn board. And now I’d have to beat it out of him—or find it myself.

Aren always led at August’s side. Always at the helm of the conflict. Always steering us through.

Two souls with opposing gifts—death in one, life in the other—sealed the portals in the final inning. Their appearances differed as starkly as their magic, save for haunting blue eyes: one aqua, one husky blue. Where one went, the other followed. Even through the darkest threads.

It had taken combing through hundreds of outcomes before I realized I was watching two of Hazelharbor’s beloved healers. Not random witches. One of them was bound to the Commander.

I couldn’t bear to entertain Aren’s innumerable threads. Too many ended in heartache. The bile rose in my throat just thinking about them. I’d already purged my stomach for ten straight minutes this morning.

In every victorious thread, we had both a spell book and a crown—tools to contain and channel an immense power.

In only one did my coven survive intact.

But there were losses we could survive and those we couldn’t. Even if it was the last thing I did, I had to ensure Freya, Aren, and Fae survived long enough to finish this…beside him.

That goddamn, cock-sucking, arrogant fucking shifting shadow bird.

In none of the “acceptable” threads could Adrastos die before we sealed the gates. Not one. Losing him meant losing everything.

And despite all the atrocities he’d committed, I wouldn’t get the justice I craved. Couldn’t tear his heart from its cage. The knowledge left a scream boiling in my chest.

There was nothing just about that monster surviving while my family was torn apart.

I sensed August before I heard him—the warmth of him brushing the periphery of my mind, like a lover’s hand across my thoughts. A few moments later, the crunch of his boots broke the sheen of ice layered over the snow.

I opened my eyes to watch flakes dance across the blackness. Without a word, he slipped his fingers into mine and turned his face skyward to join me.

Seconds passed. Or hours.

Then, softly, he cleared his throat. “What are you keeping tucked against your vest, love?”

Of course he’d noticed.